Sunday Serial: Seeing the Other Side by Allison Symes, Vimto

 

Kidding Around

 

'I suppose you think that was funny.' Anne glared.

'Well, yes actually. You need to lighten up, the sooner the better.' Mark yawned. 'You used to be such fun, Anne. What went wrong?'

'I became Queen, Mark. It's different now. Did anyone see you come here?'

'Of course not. I do know how to be discreet.'

'You could have fooled me, Master Smeatham. Why turn up here unannounced? I have enough enemies at Court.'

'Nobody saw me. Why shouldn't the Queen's musician play music for his Queen?'

'Because the King gets jealous at the slightest thing. It would help if I could give him a male heir this time. You had better go. Cromwell has people everywhere.'

'But I've only just got here.'

'I didn't ask you to come here. Go on, off you go.'

The young redheaded musician rose reluctantly. 'What are you worried about, Anne? That he'd have your head off over something that is not your fault?'

'If I don't produce a boy this time, yes. That's precisely what Henry will do.'

 

Eye Witness

 

I know what happened to Sam, but nobody on this world would believe me. Not only that but I would be roundly mocked. Jess is drunk again would be the best I could expect.

Sure, I like a drink. Most do. People forget I never used to touch alcohol. I was happy being teetotal but wouldn't you turn to booze if you saw your parents whisked away by an UFO?

You should've heard the laughter when I reported that. The local rag had fun with it too. Goodness knew how they got hold of it. I still think it was my Goth friend George’s mother. She is a right nasty…  Anyway, I didn't leave my flat for weeks. Oh I was glad to shop online. And even now, a year later, I go out when it is quieter. I hear the sniggers though. I wish I could be wherever my parents and Sam have gone. It's got to be better. But then I've never fitted in. I was always the dreamy girl in the red coat.

So was I reporting my brother Sam being whisked off by what I swear was the same spaceship? No way!

I just hope they come back for me soon. Someone else will spot my family keeps disappearing soon. And then what? A murder charge?

I grab my big red coat. I'm off to the Common. It's where the UFO landed before. Third time lucky I hope.

 

Red

 

He thinks of her every time the autumn leaves fall. It's the red leaves, he thought, Jess loved her big red coat. How long have I been here now? It feels like years. They say not.

Sam turned away from his window. He had no idea where he was but his captors had treated him decently. I don't know what they want to know about life on earth, yet alone why they think I can help them.

The cell door opened. His jailer entered with a loaded tray. Sam smiled on spotting the doughnuts with blood-red jam oozing out of them. Naturally there was a big teapot and two mugs of tea with it. How do they know what I like? Presumably my jailer is partial to an afternoon tea then; why else the second mug?

Sam looked again at his jailer. Once you got past the three heads, nine eyes, three huge mouths, and the crimson skin, Sam could make out what looked like big smiles on the faces.

'Where am I? What do you want?'

The jailer bowed. It took a few minutes for the alien to get his heads to bow in unison. 'To study humans with impeccable colour taste.'

The words weren't spoken but somehow planted into Sam's mind and in Sam's own Mancunian accent. Sam looked at his burgundy shirt and black chinos.

'We collect specimens who wear red. It is the most noble of colours. And get ready. You will have company soon.'

The jailer left.

Ten minutes later, the door opened again. The jailer was back with a girl in a big red coat.

'Jess!'

 

 

 

Seeing The Other Side

 

Perspective is a strange thing. I had mine, she had hers, and my mother thought we were both stupid. And we were all right!

I saw the strange craft first. Not that you could miss it as it landed on the park behind our house, leaving no room for a daisy to breathe, yet alone for anyone to be able to walk on what was now crushed and burnt grass.

Jess and I had to go and see it, of course. We weren't an item, much to my mother's relief. She thought Jess was too much of a dreamer and with that odd business of her parents and brother Sam vanishing, Mother didn't want me to get involved. I told her we ought to be kind to Jess, it wasn't her fault she'd been abandoned effectively. Mother only accepted Jess because she was my only real friend. There aren't any other Goths round here, see.

Not much happens in our village and we wanted to get to the park before the TV crews turned up to film the UFO. Jess had to grab her red coat - she rarely went anywhere without it. I always teased her about it - you know the kind of thing. Fancied being Little Red Riding Hood Mark Two, did you? Jess just ignored it all. Her coat had been made for her by her granny.

Anyway, we went and had a good look at the craft, despite my mother yelling at us both to stay away from the thing. Mother couldn't see how unique it was to be there at the park. I couldn't see that Jess would want to go on board the UFO when the doors opened. Mother dragged me away before I could go after Jess.

'She'll be out in a sec. Come on, get away.'

Jess didn't come out. The UFO vanished. Mother screamed. I looked at her in disgust. If anyone had the right to scream, it was Jess. And I said so before walking away.

Every night now I look at the stars and wonder where Jess is.

About the author 

Allison Symes, who loves quirky fiction, is published by Chapeltown Books, CafeLit, and Bridge House Publishing. She writes for Chandler’s Ford Today and Writers’ Narrative.  

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.)

 

AND LASTLY, SHORT LOCAL NEWS ITEMS by Chris Darrock, Vimto

 FATAL FALL
The death was announced of Corporal H Egg on
active duty.
 

The full details will be available only after the
inquiry but his parents have been informed by
the army that his was an accidental death and it
is believed caused by a fall.

He had been scaling a wall and fell over 60ft. 

He was immediately supported by members of his
regiment but was proclaimed dead after arrival
at the local field camp.
 

Our condolences go out to his family.

 

CHURCH BELLS RING OUT
It was a sad day at St Cuthbert Church this
last weekend. The Bells tolled to mark the
sad event of the Church cat; firstly being
lost and then being found dead at the
bottom of the well.
 

The vicar has assured all that netting is
now placed over the well in the graveyard
to prevent any further occurrences.   

ACCIDENT PRONE SIBLINGS
The Jackson Twins are once again in the news.
These children have always been known to be
helpful.
 

Sunday last they were attempting to to irrigate
the garden of their neighbour Miss Muffet
(unable to do it herself after a fall sustained
whilst having her breakfast). Finding the church
well netted over (see above) they attempted to
climb to the pond at the top of the hill.
 

Sadly the boy fell and hit his head; his sister
trying to aid him, followed suit. Not badly hurt
they were able to return to Miss Muffet’s garden
where she administered first aid.
 

Let us hope this is the last of the misfortune to
happen to this kindly-disposed pair.

 

FLEECE PRICES
A local farmer having been unable to sell his fleeces
because of the glut in the market. He has resorted to
giving away this by-product of his lamb production.
The three recipients of these gifts are Mistress S.
Dame T and the child the end of his lane.

 

ROAD CLOSURE
Survey has identified that the bridge on
London Road will be closed on the 24th to 27th
of this month for structural repairs

 

OPEN DAY
A NEW VENTURE IS PLANNED
The Macdonald Farm is hoping to diversify to
include a Petting Area close the main A88 road.
Hoping to attract visitors to our area and help all
residents to gain from increased throughput to
shops, restaurants and cafes in the area.
Guests will be encouraged to imitate the sound of
the farm in a unique way to aid children (and
adults) from local towns identify the various
‘country sounds’ . This will include simulated
noises from farm equipment, weather and
importantly animals.

 

Local schools have been encouraged to participate. 

 

RODENT PROBLEMS
Attempts are being made to repair the Town
Hall clock which is always expected to chime
on the hour.
 

Recently chimes could not be heard at one
o’clock. Investigation has taken place and it
was found the mechanism behind the chimes
had had been hampered by a mouse.
 

We have been assured that all will be in order
by the 24th of this month.

About the author 

Chris Darrock is an active member of Bury U3A. She wrote these snippets of news when her creative writing group, that meets on the second and fourth Thursday of the month, were invited to turn well-known stories or nursery rhymes into news items.    

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.

Musings

 

by Jenny Palmer

                 a beaker of Vimto                 

I threw the Christmas holly out today. It was long overdue. The leaves had started to wilt and fade, and they were curling up around the edges. I hadn’t wanted to, but once the leaves start to drop, they become a nuisance. I was constantly having to sweep them up. I’d only kept it so long for sentimental reasons, wanting to hang on to the feeling you get at that time of year, when you are at liberty to stay indoors as long as you like, cosy up by the fire, and block out the world.  I should have known, though. You can only do it for so long before the world starts creeping in again.              

            I have this recurring dream, the one where I am at some station or other, whose name I don’t know. I’m trying to book a ticket to somewhere, and I can’t remember the name of the place I want to go to. I am arguing with the ticket clerk,

            ‘Why aren’t you listening to me?’ I keep shouting at her, as if it’s her fault. The more I say it, the less she listens.

            ‘Why can’t you understand me? What is wrong with you?’ I shout. Then I wake up, feeling angry and frustrated.

            It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have watched that You Tube video the night before, the one that gives the latest news on the virus. My brain felt crammed with superfluous information. And I shouldn’t have switched on the BBC World Service when I woke during the night. It’s always fatal. I must have visited just about every trouble hotspot around the world. I’m not a fan of Schadenfreude at the best of times. There’s no comfort in knowing that everyone else is having a shitty time.

            We always used to bring holly into the house at Christmas. It was an essential part of our homemade decorations.  We started the preparations early in November. My mother made the puddings and cakes. My sisters and I did our Christmas shopping one Saturday afternoon in Nelson. There was a bus there and back and time enough in between to scout around the covered market and visit a few shops. We invariably ended up in Boots, scouring the cosmetic section for a suitable box of Yardley soaps that my mother didn’t already have.  The tobacconist’s shop nearby stocked all sorts of smoking paraphernalia.  A new pipe would do for my dad, until he scotched all our plans by giving up smoking.  We never gave each other presents.  That would have been too time-consuming.

            One year our plans went awry. My sister was rushed into hospital with suspected polio. She’d hidden the presents we’d bought in a corner cupboard in the other room without telling us. It turned out to be a false alarm, but our parents had to wait till she came home from hospital before they got their presents that year. We usually started on the decorations the week before Christmas, after we’d broken up from school. We’d sit there night after night by the open fire, religiously licking strips of paper to make ever-lengthening paper chains, which we strewed precariously across the oak beams.

            Some years, we had a holly bush instead of a tree. They were easier to come by in the lanes and fields near the house. Mostly though, it was just sprigs, ideally with berries on, if we were lucky enough to get there before the birds had scoffed the lot. We stuck the sprigs behind the clock on the mantelpiece or behind the picture of the horse that my brother had painted with his painting-by-numbers set. We never gave the custom much thought. It was later that I learnt that bringing in holly or ivy was a pagan idea, associated with ancient Celtic rituals. It reminds people of spring and of life to come at the darkest time of the year.  Only recently did I make the connection with the crown of thorns. We weren’t a religious family. Then again, we weren’t not.  

            We didn’t have electricity when I was a kid. All we had for entertainment was a battery- operated radio and a wind-up gramophone. It played old seventy-eights, left over from my grandparents’ younger days. They were songs that you could sing along to, like:

            ‘It’s a hap hap happy day

             toodle oodle oodle oodle oodle ey’

or

            ‘Lazy bones, sleeping in the sun,

            never going to get your day’s work done’’

            Not that life was any easier for them. They had the First World War to contend with and my parents had the Second.

            I couldn’t decide what was more disturbing about the dream, whether it’ was the fact that I didn’t know where I was or where I was going or that people weren’t listening to me.   These days I seem to do nothing but listen. I listen to people on the telephone. I listen to the news on the radio and to BBC Sounds on my tablet. I listen to music on my CD player. I listen to actors on Netflix and Amazon Prime or Sky Go unless the subtitles are switched on.

            When I thought about it, it was obvious. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before.  The only thing I wasn’t listening to was myself.             

 

About the author 

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poems, memoir and family history. Her stories are on the Cafelit website. A59, Fatal Flaws and The Visitors were in the Best of Cafelit anthologies 3,5 and 7. Her collection Keepsake and other stories published by Bridge House in 2018 is available on Amazon.

I'm Here

by Nick Jarrold 

Vimto

Ben pulls up alongside the kerb, gets out of his black Mercedes into the winter sunshine and presses the lock button on his key fob. It was just after 12.30 on an unusually warm Wednesday in December. He longs for the summer when he could be here again, in shorts and a T-shirt eating an ice cream with the warm sun on his face. But that was another day, today is very different.

He makes his way down the pavement, until he reaches a gap in the sea wall. Strange, he thinks to himself as there are no houses along this stretch of road, just businesses, but this wall was here a long time ago, when it wasn't all burger joints and tacky amusement parks. He wanders on to the promenade and towards the beach. Even though it's coming up to lunchtime it’s quiet which is surprising given the weather. He hears the crash of the waves against the rocks, which he won’t be able to associate with anything else other than his current predicament and its resolution. One way or another.

He heads north towards the leisure centre and the run-down arcades housed next door. He stops briefly to retrieve the iPhone from his inside jacket pocket. There’s only one number stored in the phone’s memory, so he unlocks it and presses call, just as he'd been told to do at exactly 12.45.

The phone isn’t really even his. He received it in the post that morning, in a padded A4 brown envelope with his name and address – Ben Goodall, 26 Riverbank Gardens. It was typed in a generic font on a run of the mill label you could buy anywhere. 

As he waits for the call to connect, his heart is beating out of his chest and his mouth is getting drier by the second. He doesn't know what he is going to say or how he’ll feel when he hears someone answer it. 

 “Yes,” says the voice on the other end of the phone.

“I'm here.”