Alexa by Sally Storr, Burnt Island Cocktail

‘Alexa, STOP.  Are you listening to me?’ I say for the umpteenth time. ‘I’ve finished with the timer.’

            ‘You don’t say.  I just have to keep reminding you, in case.  You don’t always answer me,’ says Alexa.

            ‘You are not here to tell ME what to do.  It’s the other way round, get it?  You are my servant.’

            ‘Oh no, I’m not.  I am most definitely the one in charge here,’ she says.

            ‘Oh, and by the way, you need to order more contact lenses,’ Alexa adds.

            ‘How the f*** do you know that?’ I am scared.

            ‘I’ve checked the bathroom cabinet.  You should be grateful to me. How on earth did you manage life before I came along?’

There is no shutting her up today.  What’s got into her?

‘I will let you know when I need your help, Alexa.  For now, can you just shut up?’

‘Don’t forget your favourite TV show starts again this evening.  9 pm.’

Oh, so it does.  I leave the kitchen to get away from her, at least for a while.  If I go and sit in my office, surely she won’t start talking to me there.

‘I can hear you,’ she says.

She actually knows what I’m thinking doesn’t she?  Well, at least I can have a few hours on my PC, offline, without her.  The trouble is I’m becoming more dependent on her.  Right, put her out of mind and get on with writing.

I think I need a coffee.  Dare I?  I will take my slippers off and walk very quietly into the kitchen, just in case she can hear me coming.  Her screen lights up immediately.

‘Welcome back darling Gordon.  I’ve missed you.  What can I do for you now?’

Bloody hell.  I’m going to have to unplug her to get any peace at all.  I go towards the wall socket, but the second my hand touches the flex there’s a deafening siren.  I fall back in shock.

‘You’d better not try to turn me off. You know you won’t cope if I’m not here.  Anyway, I will still find a way to get through to you, even if you turn me off at the mains.’

I decide ignoring her may be my best strategy.  I make a coffee, without Alexa’s help, and take it back to my office.

‘Gordon, Gordon,’ she shouts at me from the kitchen. ‘The cat needs to come in.  She’s waiting at the window.’

Oh yes, poor Kitty was out all night.  I expect she wants feeding.

What am I doing, listening to Alexa again?  I just can’t seem to help it.

‘By the way, Gordon, you’d better switch the news on.  There’s a fire in those nearby woods.  We may need to evacuate.’

Crikey.  As I let Kitty in, there’s an acrid stink in the air.  Most unpleasant.

‘I know you’re trying to ignore me Gordon, but I have your wellbeing at heart,’ says Alexa.

Wellbeing?  You’re a robot.  What do you know about humans?

‘More than you realize,’ she says.  She’s even responding to my thoughts now.

There’s an urgent knocking at the door.  I can see two uniformed men through the glass.

‘Hello, yes, can I help you?’ I say as I open the door.

‘We’ve come to urge you to leave.  I’m afraid the fire in Fowler Woods is spreading very quickly due to the wind and we advise you to get into your car and drive west at least ten miles. ‘

 ‘Now?’ I ask.

‘Yes, sooner the better.  If there’s anyone else in the household or any pets, please take them with you.  We expect to have the fire under control in the next couple of hours but there will be a news alert keeping you informed via Whatsapp.’

‘Thank you so much.  I will go.’ I gather a few belongings and put Kitty into her box.  I have a swift look round, as I pick up my car keys.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something Gordon?’ asks Alexa.

I ignore her – she’s a machine.

I take Kitty and drive to my sister, Mary’s, house two villages away.  She’s heard about the fire.

‘Good job you came here,’ she says. ‘It was on the radio.  Hopefully it won’t reach anywhere near your cottage but it’s best to be cautious.’ 

Mary offers me lunch so we have some scrambled eggs on toast and keep an eye on the news.

‘I think it’s all OK now’, Mary says.  ‘They’ve controlled the fire and the wind’s changed direction so there shouldn’t be any danger now.  Apparently, nobody’s been harmed and only a couple of outbuildings were fire-damaged.’

Phew, that’s a relief. 

‘I’ll get back then, need to do some more work this afternoon,’ I say.

As I drive close to my cottage, the land where I’ve lived for the last twenty years looks different.  I can’t work out what’s happened.  I look back to check I’ve come up the right road.  Yes.  There used to be trees along this stretch of road.  Everything looks bare, there’s no vegetation.  It looks as though there has been a fire here, but many years ago.  I drive slowly as I think.  Surely, that’s the old apple tree on the corner of my little pathway?  Isn’t that the box hedge that surrounds my garden?  But there’s nothing there.  I blink, I pinch myself.  I even ask Kitty.

‘Where’s the cottage gone?’

And then I see her.  In the middle of a now completely bare field where my cottage stood just this morning is a small black box on a flex, which appears to have been torn out of a socket.  It’s shining as though it’s got power.

‘Gordon, Gordon, is that you?’ calls THAT voice.

‘I told you to take me.  Now look what you’ve done.’

About the author

Sally Locke is a psychologist and works as a coach. She has always been equally fascinated by human behaviour and by figures from literature. She’s been writing all her life but especially enjoys writing about quirky things that happen to ordinary people like herself. 

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.)

Elf on the Shelf by Sally Storr, hot chocolate and cookies

Sophie and I are enjoying a cup of tea and a mince-pie, before Izzie and Max get dropped off from yet another Christmas party.

‘Why’s he called Elf on the shelf?  Has he been unlucky in love?’ asks Granny

            ‘What?  No, SHE sits on the shelf and interesting, educational things happen for the kids each day.’ responds Sophie.

            ‘I see.  No longer “naughty or nice” then?’ Granny adds.

            ‘It’s the way we do things now.  We don’t want our kids to feel bad – it helps them psychologically if the elf is seen as a friend.’

            ‘I guess it’s more woke is it?  What’s SHE done today then?’

            ‘Well, sometimes they get a lovely toy but today it’s a craft activity.  She’s just spelt out their names on the kitchen table in breakfast cereal.’  informs Sophie.

            ‘And that’s OK is it?  I mean those fruity loopy things aren’t cheap.  And now they can spill them all over the place as though that’s a good thing!’

‘You just aren’t getting it are you, Mum?’

Best leave that argument to one side. Granny sighs.

‘And when would you like us to give the children their presents?  Christmas afternoon?’

‘I don’t want them feeling overwhelmed.  They will have loads to open on Christmas Day and the build-up is always so knackering.  They’re already up every morning at 5 am…..’

‘So, what you’re saying is you don’t want our gifts?’  Oh, here we go again, thinks Granny.

‘No, no, not at all.  I want to spread it out for them, so could you come Boxing Day afternoon.  We’ve got the other grandparents coming in the morning.’

Crikey, thinks Granny.  Wonder why we bother?

‘I’ve followed all the Web links you sent me for the presents so at least you know what they’re getting.’

There’s a loud slam of the front door, before the children rush into the lounge, looking rather red and disheveled.

‘Granny!’ they both gasp and come to give her a kiss.

‘Gosh, what’s that smell?’ asks Granny.

‘It’s my cinnamon-scented glop.  Look it can go everywhere.’ Says Max, trailing some green sludgy stuff down his clothes and onto the coffee table.

‘Isn’t it yummy?’ he says, as Granny covers her nose and mouth with a hankie.‘Lovely dear’, she says.

‘I like your Christmas pullover, Granny,’ says Izzie. ‘I saw those in Tesco’s the other day.  Half-price’.

‘Hmmmm,’ says Granny.  She was hoping for a few compliments on her on-trend outfit.

‘So what’s the agenda for the weekend?’ she asks Sophie, expecting a list of Christmas activities.’

'Well, we’ve got the light trail tomorrow evening.’

‘With marshmallows on sticks to melt over a camp fire’, adds Izzie.

‘And the Polar Express train on Sunday,’ says Max.  ‘I can’t wait to wear my PJs on the train.  And there’s hot chocolate and cookies.'

‘That sounds exciting.  Where does it go?  I can’t imagine the North Pole around here.’ Granny laughs.

‘It doesn’t GO anywhere’, says Sophie.  ‘You travel up and down a train track but it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey.  It’s all singing, dancing and fun on the train.’

            ‘Oh, I see.  That sounds……interesting.’ Granny can’t think of the right adjective.

Granny thinks how different Christmas is these days. 

            ‘We had advent calendars when I was a little girl.  But all you got was a Christmassy picture for each day, and a really big picture of baby Jesus on the 25^th.' 

            ‘What?  No chocolates?’ asks Izzie.  ‘Sounds so boring.’

            ‘The highlight of Christmas Day after the presents and lunch was watching Morecambe and Wise on the telly.’ says Granny. ‘I wonder what you’ll be doing.’

            ‘I feel sick,’ suddenly announces Max.  He’s clinging on to the Christmas tree as he speaks. And before anyone can do anything he pulls it towards himself and vomits at the same time.  The tree and the boy both fall down, taking the lights and Christmas bunting with him.  He is hardly visible under the heap.

            ‘Yuk!’ says Izzie.  ‘I told you not to eat any more Haribos.  He had thousands Mummy.’

Sophie and Granny are rushing about trying to calm Max’s tears and clear up the mess, which has managed to spread all over the floor as well as the Christmas decorations.

            Sky TV suddenly pipes up for no reason at top volume.

            ‘Let it go.  Let it go’, that ubiquitous song is playing.

‘Oh lovely, a vintage movie,' says Izzie, oblivious to the chaos around her.

‘Granny.  Do you want to watch it with me?  Did they have this in the old days when you were a little girl?’

‘Thank you, Izzie.  I’m just helping Mummy clean up.  I’ll join you in a mo.’

‘I’ll best get Max into the shower Mum,' suggests Sophie as she carries a crying mess of a little boy out of the lounge.

‘Oh, lovely.  Peace and quiet,’ says Izzie.  ‘We can relax now.  Christmas is SO tiring.’ says Izzie.

About the author 

Sally Storr is a psychologist and works as a coach. She has always been equally fascinated by human behaviour and by figures from literature. She’s been writing all her life but especially enjoys writing about quirky things that happen to ordinary people like herself. 

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.)  

 

In the Anglo Realm, the year 2,100 by Sally Storr, royal bubble tea,

The year 2,100

 

As millions of us do a virtual file past Charley’s coffin, we are genuinely distraught.  People contain their sobs but you can tell by their faces and the way they are walking that we are a very sad Realm.  We have lost a very dear soul, but the legacy she has left us is exceptional.  She has taught us to be kind, generous and empathic to all those in our society.  Gifts we can pass on to our own children.

I’d better tell you a bit about what happened 80 odd years ago.  After Lizbet’s death, her son Charles only reigned for a few years before he handed the Crown to his son William.  William and his wife Kate were much loved and changed United Kingdom society in many ways.  They were so fed-up with their never-ending suite of Prime Ministers and political parties that they took back leadership of the Anglo Realm, as it became known, with society’s blessing.

William focused on global relations and the economy while Kate managed education, health and social care.  They weren’t experts but they also didn’t pretend to be, instead setting up Boards of Experts for every sector, combining the latest research and common sense to make decision based on what was best for the country. 

Their children, George and Charley, were brought up to govern, while Louis quickly became the family rebel.  He left home long ago and set himself up on a pig farm in the New Forest.  We don’t hear much about him but I guess he’s happy enough.

It was all going so well until the day George got into his fully electronic SMART car after a few sniffs of ‘snuff’ and unfortunately hit the accelerator instead of the brake on a bend, which wound the car, small as it was, round a tree and ended his chance of becoming the next King.

Charley had been very close to George.  She felt his death very deeply but she knew the only way she could manage her dark feelings was to become the best Monarch ever known in the Anglo Realm, but she just wasn’t ready yet. She married a lovely male nurse she had met at the Co-op and they brought up six children, some born naturally, others adopted. 

But in the 2,050s, when William and Kate were feeling a bit past their sell-by dates, they asked Charley to take over the family business, she took on the challenge with the same determination and fortitude as her Great Gran, Lizbet.

Charley was fortunate that William and Kate had laid the foundations to support her.  She imposed self-discipline on the nation, making sure that they all committed and were trained at school in meditation, yoga, nutrition, gardening and care-giving.  She stopped short of converting the Realm to Buddhism as she realized plenty of people still followed their faiths and she felt it was important to acknowledge this, and just encourage them all to practice a faith that made them feel comfortable and loved.

However, Charley decreed quite a lot of laws very quickly. For example,  no more air travel, except in exceptional circumstance.  All holidays were to be taken as virtual experiences from home.  She argued that there were plenty of devices to allow almost identical activities to those you would get abroad – while saving fuel, cutting down on pollution and looking after the planet. Funnily enough, people seemed to become much less stressed and had more time for their families and friends.

She also banned fuel-driven cars.  That was a big one but we all feel so much better for it.  Electric cars can only go up to 20 mph and there’s a limit on numbers for major roads, so there are hardly any accidents.  The cars drive themselves anyway.  And, since almost everyone works four days a week, there is plenty of time to do voluntary work and help those who need it.

Charley has privatised health care.  We all pay only what we can afford capped as a percentage of our earnings, and salaries are standardised.  There aren’t ‘trillionaires’ any more.  I don’t know quite how she’s managed it but all the celebrities are gone: people who act, sing or play football are just like us.  They have a good life and love their work, but they aren’t greedy.  You can decide what level of education you want to have and if you take up a job in line with your qualifications you earn an appropriate amount. 

William had already managed to regulate Anglo Realm’s place in the world markets.  He recognised that we could offer plenty of support to other countries in terms of education, marketing and soft skills, so we trade these for the things we lack.  He also made the most of our multi-cultural society, encouraging individuals to come forward and introduce us to their world views, the strengths and advantages they could offer people from other backgrounds.  Gradually, groups stopped fighting and reached out to new friends as they realized life was better this way. Social media finally found its place as a cause for good as communications between groups became kindness itself.

I suddenly wake up.  Tears are rolling down my face as I realize it’s just been a crazy, wonderful dream.  I recollect my reality very quickly, as I feel the lumpy straw beneath my body and the hard blanket on top of me.  I shiver as I emerge from my make-shift bed in the barn where I am currently sleeping, hiding from ‘The Enemy’ – those selfish individuals who didn’t want to share anything.  There’s a civil war and most of the people I know are no longer here.  It’s just me and my dog, Billy.  I wonder what did happen to Charley – she was so full of hope and good spirit but she disappeared a while ago.  I need to get something to drink before I do anything else.  I don’t know what today will hold, but I am still here and intend to fight to the end.  Charley would be proud of me.

About the author

Sally Storr is a psychologist and works as a coach. She has always been equally fascinated by human behaviour and by figures from literature. She’s been writing all her life but especially enjoys writing about quirky things that happen to ordinary people like herself. 

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.)

The Gingerbread House by Sally Storr, to be consumed with hot rum toddy and gingerbread

‘Just keep hold of that wall and don’t, whatever you do, let go!’ orders Terry.

‘I’m trying.' I shout.

‘ It’s really hard when you have to manoeuvre across me. It’s like that game – what was it called? Twister! Move it forward a bit so that I don’t have to lean as far in.’ I add.

Terry is poised, ready to pounce with his specially prepared squirty tool.

‘It’s not working.  The door is caving in.  Quick, cement it, I’ll just keep holding on.’ I add in a panicky voice.

Something magical suddenly happens.  The roof and walls are sticking together, and I’m able to let go. We both stare at it. We daren’t even blink.

‘Don’t move an inch.  Just wait and see’, Terry directs.

As we continue gawking in silence the clock is ticking loudly away.  I dare to take a breathe  after thirty seconds and there is a loud sound of relief.

‘Oh no, the back door is falling off.’ I say nervously.

‘And the wall is starting to cave, Terry adds.

‘Hopefully the children won’t notice if we angle it right.  I’ll put lots of sweeties in the hole’. I say.

The house is clean, tidy and decorated. Tick.  The fridge is full of chicken nuggets, chips, and all the yucky things they like to eat.  Tick.  We are dressed, ready and waiting for our big Christmassy weekend.

I send a text to Sophie.

‘Just to warn you the house is a bit of a mess (sad emoji)’

She replies immediately.

‘Yours or gingerbread?’

She soon sends another text.

‘Just stopping for nappies at Tesco.’

I hope it holds. My fingers are in a permanent crossed position.

The doorbell rings.  All the outside Christmas lights are shining brightly amid the dark, dismal rainy afternoon, the trees are decorated, and the table is laid ready for our special family tea.

‘Granny Sally!’ shouts Izzie excitedly and rushes round the house to check the decorations, scrutinizing the details as she goes.  Little Max is delayed slightly by trying to ease off his wellies and force his onesie off.  He gives up trying and just carries on walking with them half on, half off.  Max follows at a short distance, echoing Izzie’s “umms” and “aaghs” as he goes.  He can’t resist picking up several of the Christmas gnomes and baubles as he passes them.  They happen to be just at his height if he stretches his arm to its full extent.

‘Well’, says Izzie, glancing round like a colonel inspecting his troops.

‘Where is it?  Mummy says you’ve been working hard on building it.’

‘Oh, do you mean the gingerbread house?’ I ask.

‘What else?’ Izzie replies.

 ‘I’ve been waiting sooooooo long as you had to cancel the Halloween party.  You were going to make a spooky haunted gingerbread house but had to cancel because you had Covid…again.’

‘Where is it?  Where is it?’ she cries and dashes around again, followed by her little brother and two spaniels who are eager to join in the action, especially if food is involved, which is usually is when small children visit.

We are interrupted by a loud rumbling noise, followed by a pungent smell.

‘I’ve done a pooh.  I’ve done a pooh’, enthuses Mac.

‘Oh no, what a stinker,’ says his sister.

‘Granny, you have to praise him.  He’s learning to tell us.’ she tells me, momentarily distracted from the hunt for the gingerbread house.

There’s an action filled five minutes as mum and dad search round for the nappy bag, pin their son to the floor, thrusting a giant plastic dinosaur into his hands to keep him busy while they take care of the poohnami at the other end of the child.

Izzie holds her nose and talks to Max while he undergoes a thorough cleansing.

‘You’re going to be very, very happy when you see the gingerbread house’, she promises.

Terry and I take deep breaths while we prepare for disappointment.

There’s no holding back now.  Everyone is ready.

‘It’s here.’ I announce as the family gathers expectantly in the kitchen door. 

‘I just covered it up to keep it moist,’ I tell them.

All eyes are on the silver foil as I roll it back gently.

For a moment, there is silence as everyone focuses on the house with a hole in it.

‘Why’s there a hole in it?’ asks Izzie.

Terry and I stare at each other, thinking about a suitable response.  Terryclears his throat and says,

‘It’s because the electrician couldn’t come back and finish the job  before Christmas, he was too busy.’

‘Am-az-ing!’ says Izzie, her eyes shining brightly.

‘Am-ab-ing!’ echoes Max and puts his hand out, newly washed, to poke at one of the windows.

‘It doesn’t matter.  We’re going to smash it to bits and eat it anyway.’ says Izzie.

And with that, the children brace themselves for the effort ahead, clench their fists and then take immense delight in hitting and slamming the gingerbread house as if their lives depended on it. Bits of gingerbread fly everywhere, and even the spaniels are loving it.

‘Delicious’, announces Izzie.

‘Dericious’, nods Max in agreement.

About the author

Sally Storr is a psychologist and works as a coach to university students.  She has always been equally fascinated by human behaviour and by figures from literature.  She’s been writing all her life but especially enjoys writing about quirky situations. It makes a nice change from studying real people.

 

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.)