The Singer by Richard Hough, iced latte

 It was karaoke night at the Blue Moon. He still loved to sing despite being eighty-seven. He was born to sing and even though his best days were behind him, he felt he was still pretty good.

 

He had retired a rich man when he was only forty-two. He remembered it well as it wasn’t long after the Queen’s silver jubilee.

 

On the day the announcement had been made, John Burrows walked away from his hectic life, boarded a plane bound for Argentina and was gone forever. He’d spent time travelling and just living a normal life away from all the big cities and bright lights.

 

He travelled through the US and spent a summer season working at the California Legoland.

 

On one notable occasion, he’d managed to get a job as an extra on the film, Home Alone. He was clearly visible on screen when the family were at the airport. Of course, he didn’t need the money, he was just having fun and trying new, everyday things.

 

He briefly worked in a supermarket but his favourite job was in a fish and chip shop. He’d worked there for free meals.

 

That had come to an abrupt end when that woman from England had recognised him. She literally made a complete song and dance about it. He recalled the first time he’d heard her record on the radio.

 

On his eighty-second birthday he went to Memphis again and paid a visit to Graceland. It was a wonderful house.

 

Now he was at the Blue Moon waiting to be called to the mic.

 

“Next up is John Burrows.”

 

There was a polite ripple of applause from the more civilised section of the small audience. There were also a few wolf whistles and disparaging remarks from a few lads who’d had too much to drink. John Burrows didn’t care he just wanted to sing and he wanted the whole world to hear him again.

 

The music began and the words flashed up on the screen. A little ball bobbed along the top of the lyrics in time with the music. He didn’t need the words, he just drew the microphone to his mouth, curled his top lip and sang an old, familiar song

 

The one about a hotel and heartbreak .

 

 As he sang, the room fell silent – they all knew for certain, Elvis wasn’t dead, he’d just taken a break.

 

About the auhtor 

 

Richard writes a lot of dark humour, occasionally contributing to CafeLit featuring in three anthologies. Richard writes poetry which might have Shakespeare turning in his grave. Growing older is not something he would recommend. Richard will feature in two autumn anthologies and will have a book published in 2023. 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half to the project.

Cry Wolf

 

By Richard Hough

a strong honey mead and gingerbread man

The two men were huddled in one corner of the Green Dragon Inn. Despite being brothers, they looked nothing alike. Jacob, the elder of the two was tall, dark and had a face perhaps only a mother could love. His younger sibling, Wilhelm, was short and bulbous with the sort of features which would turn heads in any room.

Both men were dressed in fine, elegant suits which were clearly tailored fitting, as they did, so well.

The couple were in high spirits as they discussed their latest triumph on this sunny Thursday afternoon.

“Did you see that gormless Emperor standing there as naked as the day he was born admiring himself in the mirror?” guffawed Wilhelm.

“He couldn’t really admit he wasn’t able to see the clothes we’d “made” could he? He looked a complete ass either way” agreed Jacob.

“I didn’t think we could top our last job - the way we conned that stupid boy into parting with his cow for a bag of soya beans. He really thought they were magic!” laughed Wilhelm.

Their celebrations were interrupted by a conversation taking place at the next table.

“...he might be a bit unconventional but young Peter is a good lad at heart. Do you know he collects his gran’s pension every Thursday at three o’ clock and takes it to her along with a cake?” said the stranger.

Jacob had glanced at his wristwatch and was already heading for the door, closely followed by Wilhelm. The brothers had the sniff of easy money in their nostrils.

The stranger continued, watching the brothers as they disappeared from the inn.

“Of course they had a few problems while he was guarding the sheep. He kept raising the alarm. I think he just needed some attention. He’s calmed down since he’s taken to wearing red and calling himself Scarlet.”

The brothers had passed the cottage on their way to the inn. The sign on the gate told them it was “Grandma’s House.”

They’d had just enough time to tie up the old woman and for Wilhelm to put on her spare nightwear when they heard the gate swing open with a creak.

Jacob hid under the bed as his brother jumped beneath the bedclothes. Wilhelm was surprised when a young girl came skipping into the room expecting, as he was, a boy called Peter.

“Peter, is that you?” he asked in his best grandma voice.

“I’m called Scarlet now Grandma. I’ve brought...” His sentence remained unfinished as the Green Dragon ale interrupted him. It had been churning inside Wilhelm forming a large cloud of gas which chose this moment to seek a release point. Wilhelm let out an enormous, roaring belch.

The sensitive Scarlet panicked and ran from the room screaming “Help, help, a wolf has eaten Grandma!”

A local lumberjack happened to be passing. Unaware of Scarlet’s problem with seeing wolves everywhere, he ran into the cottage where he encountered a hirsute creature wearing a bonnet. Realising it was not a grandma and working with the information provided by Scarlet, the lumberjack removed the creature’s head with a single swipe of his axe.

The head rolled to where a terrified Jacob was concealed. The sight of his former brother looking even shorter than he recalled gave him a fatal shock.

After the facts had been reviewed by the local constabulary, Grandma was reported to have been unharmed. The lumberjack received the appropriate counselling and Peter is getting the help he needs to permanently become Scarlet. Most of the cast have gone on to live happily for quite some time.

 

About the author 

Richard has an unhealthy obsession with what Red Riding Hood was really up to when visiting Granny. This may stem from his youth when he almost lost a finger when visiting his own grandma. Richard prefers to write light-hearted pieces but will have a stab at anything. He has been featured in two Best of CafeLit anthologies and has also written two books for which he is seeking an imaginative publisher.

Leaving a Tip

By Richard Hough

cold coffee

A lady in her mid seventies, with thoughtful eyes, sits staring out of the window of the coffee shop. The loneliness in her heart is almost tangible as she reflects on an issue known only to her.

She is dressed in a hooded, beige overcoat which was only recently hanging on the rails of one of the better stores. Clearly feeling the cold of a blustery, February morning, she has the buttons done up to her neck around which is tied a blue and white scarf.

Black leather gloves conceal her hands which I imagine to be smooth to match her face, the only exposed skin on view. Loose fitting trousers match her gloves in colour though her tan shoes seem a little out of place.

Next to her chair is a concession to her age. The walking frame is triangular in shape with one side removed to enable access to the handles. There is a wheel on each on the three points.

Finishing off her small coffee, she reaches into her black handbag and pulls out what appears to be a pistol. When the waiter approaches to begin clearing the table, she raises the gun and fires it once at the cake cabinet. As the waiter dives to the floor the old lady mutters “bloody shoddy service!” and replaces the revolver into her bag.

She edges gingerly forwards from her seat and manoeuvres herself into the walking frame, unable to fully straighten her back. With a huge effort, she shuffles out into the cold air and slowly disappears.

Redemption

by Richard Hough

hot chocolate with all the trimmings

Ruby had never forgiven herself for what happened on that August day and had finally found a way to make amends.

She reflected on the “accident” and how it had changed so many lives. Why did her Nan get so close to the cess pit in the first place?

“Come and have a look at this dear,” the old woman called out. Ruby couldn’t imagine what there was to see but Nan was always showing her things in the woods when they went out for walks. The old lady knew the names of all the flowers and birds and Ruby loved how Nan treated them all with respect.

Ruby was always a clumsy child. It was a bit of a family joke and somehow made her feel special. As she leaned over to see what Nan had spotted, she accidentally nudged the old lady who was only six stones wet through. Nan lost her balance quickly disappearing into the dark, disgusting sludge in the hole usually hidden under the metal guard. Frozen with terror, Ruby tried to scream for help but no sound came out.

 “Is everything alright?” The deep voice made her jump. It was one of the Wolf family who lived deeper in the woods. They often popped along to see Nan bringing her the occasional venison steak.

“F...f...fine, th...th..thank you,” she sniffed, tears running freely down her cheeks.

At that moment Ruby’s father arrived after a day working in the woods. He was part of the team which managed the large area of Forest trying to keep the balance of nature exactly as it should be.

“Hello Ruby what have you been up to?”

Ruby saw a chance to save herself and without further thought of consequences cried out

“Oh Daddy, please help, the wolf has eaten Nanny.”

“Now hold on. I’ve just arrived,” insisted the wolf, nonplussed.

The woodsman ran into the house but could find no trace of his elderly mother. Believing Ruby to be a truthful child, he picked up his axe and without further questions, took the second innocent life that day.

Now, twenty years later, Ruby stood outside the cage. The storm raged around her as she beckoned to the wolf. The family had been caged ever since the day of the “accident.”

“Torak,” she yelled “over here.”

“Who are you?” demanded the elderly wolf.

“My name is Ruby, I...knew your grandfather.”

“Wait a minute, I know who you are. You’re the reason my grandfather was killed and why we’re all in this prison.”

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea what would happen. I was young and scared and it all happened so quickly. I’ve come to let you out. I want to put things right.”

Ruby swung open the gate

“You’re free again.”

“I’ve waited a long time for revenge,” snarled Torak, uttering the last words Ruby would ever hear.

Having devoured the last of the woman, Torak headed into the Berkshire countryside, ignoring the herds of sheep he passed.

About the author

Richard Hough still has nowhere to call home though he has bought a new shed (not from the profits of writing - still negligible). He was one of the authors in CafeLit 7. Richard has also written a new book and is looking for a publisher who is equally as strange as him with a dark sense of humour - any suggestions welcome.

Lame Excuses

Richard Hough

a cup of tea with a drop of whisky (for purely medicinal purposes) and a slice of lemon cake.

“Hello, is anyone at home?”

Mike pushed the wooden door which was slightly ajar and shouted in greeting again, poking his head into the gap as he did so.

“Who is it, who’s there?”

Approaching from a room to the left was an elderly looking man with a pronounced stoop. Mike felt a brief pang of jealousy at the man’s rather splendid moustache. The man was also wearing an old fashioned pair of glasses. He peered over the top of these at the couple who were standing on the doorstep, the man already partly in the house.

“What do you want?” he demanded breathlessly.

“Oh hello, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Mike and this is my wife Dawn. We’re a little lost out here in the sticks and I’m afraid we’ve broken down. I can’t seem to get a signal on my mobile. I guess it’s all the trees. We couldn’t impose on you and use your phone could we?”

Bob looked Mike squarely in the eye as if in judgement.

“I’m in a hurry to get out, you’ll have to go somewhere else” he said gruffly and began to push the door to.

As he did so, his stern gaze moved from Mike to Dawn. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the crutches and the bulky cast on her left leg though she had been largely obscured by her husband. Gradually he raised his gaze to Dawn’s face. Her beautiful blue eyes seemed to be welling with tears and were pleading with him. Against his better judgement, he felt he had to help.

“You’d better come in but I’ve only got a couple of minutes before I need to be out of the house.”

The couple followed Bob into a dark hallway lined with oak panelling. Bob indicated the room from which he’d apparently exited when meeting the couple at the door.

“The phone’s in there but be quick!”

Despite Bob’s grumpiness, Mike smiled as he entered what turned out to be the lounge.

“Thanks ever so much, you’re an absolute life saver. I’ll just call a garage and we’ll get back to the car to wait. It should only take a minute.”

Bob attempted to stick close behind but instead of following the two men into the room, Dawn loitered a little in the hallway.

“Excuse me. I couldn’t be really cheeky and use your loo while Mike makes the call could I?”

Bob sighed and checked his watch ostentatiously.

“I suppose it will be alright. The bathroom’s up the stairs and first door on the right. There’s a stair lift you can use if you can’t manage the climb.”

“Thanks very much” said Dawn as she hauled herself towards the gloomy staircase.

“I’ll be as quick as I can.”

As soon as she was out of sight of the men, Dawn opened an invisible hinge on the cast and removed it from her leg. She scurried upstairs in total silence, grateful that none of the treads seemed to be loose and creaky. She rested the crutches against the wall on the landing and with a cursory glance down the stairs to ensure she wasn’t being observed, passed through the first doorway on the left. She assumed this was going to be the master bedroom, being at the front of the house.

She was not mistaken. Dawn had indeed entered a large room with a double bed in the middle of the far wall. She was surprised to see the room decorated with such modern taste especially given the age of the man downstairs. Hopefully Mike was keeping him fully occupied. Quickly making her way to the pine bedside cabinets Dawn began her work. She carefully opened each of the drawers so that she wouldn’t be heard.

“Damn!” she thought, “just a load of cheap costume jewellery. Still, we can’t leave empty handed. It’ll raise a few quid somewhere.”

She continued her search, methodically rifling through each drawer gathering what she felt might be saleable and putting it all in her large handbag.

Meanwhile having made a bogus call to a non-existent mechanic, Mike was struggling to engage Bob in conversation. He had to make sure Dawn had enough time to complete her search.

“It’s a nice place you have here. What are the neighbours like?”

“I guess they’re alright.”

“Still, I don’t suppose it matters too much, you’re not exactly living on top of each other.”

“I don’t really know them, I haven’t been here very long myself.”

Dawn continued to ransack the upstairs of the house, having now moved on to other rooms. Experience had taught her to move quickly.

“Dawn and I have been looking around a few houses in the area. When we’ve saved a decent deposit, we’d quite like to move out this way so we can start a family. The area we live in is a bit rough and the schools are really not very good.”

“Look, how long is your wife going to be? I have to go.”

“I’m sure she won’t be long. It’s been a bit difficult for her to do anything since she had her accident. She slipped down a wet fire escape when they were having a drill at her office. The doctor said she won’t really be right for several months. Perhaps I should check on her.”

Going to the foot of the stairs, Mike shouted.

“Are you alright love? It’s just that this gentleman has to go out. We’re holding him up.”

“Yes I’m fine. I’m just on my way.”

Bob, having checked his watch again, picked up the shopping bag which had been sitting by the armchair positioned nearest to the fireplace.

“I have to go, I’ll miss my bus! They don’t come through the village very often and I need to be somewhere else.”

“Normally I’d offer you a lift but I have no idea how long the mechanic will be. You know what these blokes are like. That’s assuming he can get us going again of course.”

“No, no it’s alright but I really have to go. Just shut the door behind you when you leave.”

Before Mike could make any further disingenuous protestations, Bob was scurrying out of the front door at a quicker pace than his appearance would suggest was possible.

Once Bob had gone, Mike sauntered up the stairs to join Dawn. She jumped slightly when he spoke.

“It’s alright you can take your time.”

“Oh my god, what have you done with the old man? You haven’t...?”

“Of course I bloody well haven’t. No, he’s just gone out. He more or less said to help ourselves to anything that takes our fancy and lock up when we leave!”

Dawn flashed her dazzling white teeth in a broad grin and returned to the task in hand.

“There’s not much of any real value. There’s probably not much cash either – I certainly haven’t found any. Still, we can do a thorough search now he’s gone. There might be something downstairs.”

Mike grinned too. Sometimes it was too easy. People in these poxy little villages still didn’t feel the need to lock their doors. Most of them remembered the Blitz when it was safer not to lock up. They were so damned trusting. The pickings weren’t so rich but the risks were much lower.

Bob made his way into the street and walked swiftly away from the house. He slipped off his glasses and put them in the bag. They clinked as they fell onto the collection of jewel encrusted gold and silver – bracelets, necklaces, earrings and a couple of very nice watches. That lot would bring in a tidy sum even after the fence had taken his share. Removing his reversible jacket, he turned it inside out and put it back on again.

He took a deep breath as he heard the distant sirens. It was a bit close for comfort and that couple turning up like that didn’t do much for his nerves. He really was getting a little too old for all this. These new fangled alarms are getting too complicated with their direct links to the police stations. It’s just a good job the house was out of town and the station is not well manned. Perhaps he should retire now he’d secured another nice little nest egg.

The sirens grew louder as they approached the house. He’d left just in time; nothing wrong with his sense of timing at least. Hopefully, that nice couple will be able to explain everything. Bob felt a bit guilty but they would be able to show the police their broken down car and the mechanic should be on his way. They might even get a lift from a helpful policeman.  He reflected hopefully on the inaccuracy of Mike and Dawn’s description of him as he straightened his back and tugged off the final part of his disguise, the moustache. This he tossed into a hedge to line some future bird’s nest and he began to whistle.

About the author

Richard Hough is a writer from nowhere in particular. He has a strange mind and has been published in more than twenty magazines. He is still hoping to make a breakthrough so he can afford to buy a new shed.

Forgetting

Richard Hough

a cup of strong tea  

George nudged open the lounge door with his foot and carefully entered the sun-drenched room. He crossed to where Vera was sitting and placed the two cups he was carrying onto the occasional table next to her. She smiled at him as she always did.

It was Vera’s smile that George had noticed when her slender form had entered his grocer’s shop forty years ago. Her vivid, red hair framed her beautiful face and her green eyes sparkled as she acknowledged his joke about calling the fire brigade.

Time had worked relentlessly upon her, replacing each red hair with one of grey. The sparkle had faded from her eyes and she no longer appreciated his humour although the smile remained as genuine as ever.

George reminisced about Vera as he reclined in his chair. He couldn’t quite remember when her hair had started to lose its flaming appearance. He wasn’t able to recall when she last laughed at one of his witticisms as she insisted on calling them. One thing of which he was sure was when her eyes stopped glistening. It was soon after those visits to the doctor’s.

Vera had had a couple of panic attacks six years previously because she had become confused by what she was doing or why she had entered a room. The doctor did some tests and after two or three more visits he diagnosed her illness. Vera wept as the prognosis was explained to them.

The feelings of panic had increased in frequency as Vera’s disease worsened. She became more fretful; her personality changed. She wandered the house at night unable to sleep. When Vera had been annoyed with George in the past, she sulked and stayed very quiet. It came as a nasty shock when Vera’s illness made her aggressive and violent. It was then her eyes lost their twinkle.

George couldn’t leave Vera on her own for too long as she became unsteady on her feet even falling a couple of times. On one occasion she banged her head on the side of their television. He winced slightly as he glanced at the scar on the side of her face.

Eventually George was himslef unable to go out unless a neighbour sat with Vera who had now taken to wandering into the street and forgetting where she lived. She no longer recognised danger but this problem soon went away when her legs wouldn’t support her at all. This was about the time she lost the power of speech, cutting George off from everyone except for the occasional chat to the doctor or supermarket cashier. A now placid Vera had become safe to leave for a few minutes at a time because she would only sit in the chair and stare ahead.

When Vera couldn’t use cutlery, George had to feed his beloved wife with puréed food and soup. Eventually, Vera forgot how to use the toilet and George had learned how to change nappies and he had to single-handedly undress, bathe and dress Vera whilst she slumped helplessly in his arms. She smiled at him but it wasn’t really Vera. The glorious, feisty young girl he once knew had long since died.

George recovered from his nightmares, rose from his seat and approached Vera.

‘It’s time for your pill dear!’ he said prising Vera’s smiling lips apart. Holding the cup to her mouth he made sure she swallowed before sliding back into his chair.

Watching Vera enter sleep for the last time, George whispered ‘goodbye my darling’ and sipped at his own drink, forcing himself to swallow.

FIN

A cup of strong tea

The Fool

Richard Hough

a cocktail 

A beautiful girl sits at an angle of forty five degrees from me. With clear, blue eyes and blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and stretching down her back, she is exactly the sort of woman I would have lusted over when I was her age – about thirty years ago. In fact there are similarities between her and my wife.

I stare as she chats confidently with the brunette friend sitting opposite her. I suddenly realize I’ve been gazing too long and I see that she has caught me. I am slow to turn away but I notice her own gaze has lingered too long or is that the wild imagination of a man entering (or indeed in the heart of) a mid-life crisis.

I’m sure I must redden slightly as I turn away desperately trying to pretend I was simply looking around the coffee shop and she just happened to be there.

Then the dance begins. In my vain attempts not to look at her I stare at improbable things – the backs of chairs, counting the screws which hold them together; the bark of the tree a few feet from the front door; the signs on the walls which I have read a thousand times before. It’s hopeless. I cannot resist the lure of this nemesis whose blue eyes are for swimming in. I chance another look, then another and a third. Each time, she is looking at me and on the final occasion, she smiles at me or perhaps it’s at something her companion has said. My heart is pounding, my head throbbing. I have to know. Am I a mad, old fool or is my life about to change forever? I surreptitiously slip off my wedding ring, storing it carefully in my pocket and haul myself from the chair which sighs with relief.

About the author 

Richard Hough has been writing since he had a joke published in his favourite boyhood comic, Sparky. He has self published one novel and is currrently working on a second in the spare time which eludes him almost completely. He has a wife, two sons and two cats choose to live with them for the time being.

The First

Richard Hough

espresso, extra shot 

I never knew her name though her face haunts me still. When I entered the waiting room at Winchester’s railway station, she was already there, sitting alone, staring into the past. The first thing I noticed about her was those beautiful, sapphire-blue eyes. Even in my student days, when Frankie was telling us to Relax and Band Aid was wondering if “they” knew it was Christmas, I was attracted by a woman’s eyes above any other physical feature; it was what initially drew me to my wife some ten years after this brief encounter.

Closing the door to keep out the fumes of passing diesel trains, I tried to avoid any awkwardness by greeting the stranger with a cheery “hello!”

A sad, wizened face turned towards me and I was immediately reminded of my boyhood neighbour who constantly complained about me and made my life a misery. How I hated that old hag. This traveller dourly returned my greeting.

“Goot evenink,” she murmured. It was then I saw something, deep within those eyes. Torment was present; heartache perhaps for a lost lover? No, that wasn’t it. It was pain of a much different kind.

Having been raised in Birmingham, I was used to meeting people from different ethnic

 backgrounds. Many were, for example, immigrants from India and Pakistan. My closest

boyhood friend was of Afro-Caribbean origin but I had never encountered anyone with an

 accent such as this stranger possessed. I seized upon the novelty to strike up a conversation 

which would have such a lasting impact on the rest of my life.

  

                  

After we had exchanged the usual pleasantries concerning the weather and interminable delays to the Sunday train timetables, I grew a little braver.

“Excuse me for being rude but I’m guessing you aren’t local. May I ask where you’re from?”

“I am Russian but I haf lived in Enkland for many years.”

Being inquisitive, I wanted to know more about her homeland.

“How olt are you?” she demanded, those sorrowful eyes looking into mine. I replied I was to remain a teenager for just a few weeks more.

She explained when she was my age she lived in abject poverty in Petrograd, the Russian capital at the time. Her father had gone off to fight Germany but the superior fire power of the German army had proved too much for her countrymen whose morale was already low. Many Russians were killed, her own father never returning from the war. Csar Nicholas II (she almost spat the name) lived in luxury whilst she and so many ordinary people went hungry. The people in the capital city of this huge country had virtually nothing to eat, even bread being in short supply. Their leader was weak; all he could do was to keep dissolving parliament, each time to little or no effect.

The winters were always cold and harsh and eventually people took to the streets in anger and frustration. As those steely eyes stared into mine, a tear formed. Her ageing, husky voice almost faltered as she explained why she had joined that awful revolution. She had seen so many terrible things in March 1917. Men did such awful things to each other, things which surely no deity could reasonably forgive. Worse followed until even soldiers eventually deserted their leader.

As a young, hungry woman who had lost her father and had younger siblings to help feed, this tormented soul had joined the forces of rebellion. The horrors she had only previously witnessed from afar, she became guilty of committing herself. Those same atrocities she had condemned before hunger had consumed her sense of morality. She forfeited her eternal soul to help replace one form of tyranny with another and it was the futility of this which distressed her most, a view she readily voiced.

Even now she was elderly she still could not forget the abhorrence of those times. They haunted her dreams but worse, they pursued her wherever she went. Her people, she said, sacrificed so much for nothing more than endless years of new horrors. She prayed daily her countrymen would once again be at liberty.

As the tears came more freely from those tired, angst-ridden eyes, this stranger whom I suddenly knew so well, implored me to enjoy my freedom and live without hatred. I knew I could help her end the nightmares.                                                  

I often relive every detail of that evening wondering if the woman, whose name I never asked, found peace when I closed her eyes for the last time. Since then I have supplied an end to many other stories but this is the one I remember most, my first.