Voldt by Donna Gum, a hot toddy

Fifteen-year-old Josh and his grandmother walked together on the street's wet pavement in the dark of night. They didn't speak in the cool air, and their steps were soundless. A glass bottle slipped from Josh's grasp and broke on the hard concrete, shattering the night's silence. Josh gasped, turning to speak to his grandmother. Before he could do so, Josh felt Grandma grab him by the collar and pull him into the damp shadows of nearby trees. Josh couldn't see in the darkness, but he could smell the green leaves hanging about his face. Icy drops of water chilled his scalp and the back of his bare neck. He felt his grandmother's cold hand cover his mouth as she led him from tree to tree, distancing them from the broken glass.

 

"Be quiet," she whispered as she took the remaining bottles from his arms. Grandma froze, motionless. Josh followed suit as they heard the heavy steps of soldiers' boots running toward the shards of the medicine bottle on the pavement.

 

The Commander barked orders in his ugly language. Josh felt his muscles tense as a soldier picked up the label from the broken bottle while the soldiers searched for him and his grandmother. The soldier showed the bottle label to the Commander, who sneered at the label.

 

Josh's heart pounded as two soldiers headed towards him and his grandmother with flashlights. When the soldiers finished looking across the street, the lights would shine on Josh and his grandmother. The flashlights began to swing towards Josh, hitting the tree next to him. He set his jaw against the scream that pressed there. To Josh's relief, the Commander called off the search, satisfied with the label. Josh's knees shook as the soldiers walked away with their flashlights. He and Grandma stood silently until the Commander and his soldiers left the street.

 

He and his grandmother would have disappeared if the soldiers caught them. As it was, the soldiers now knew contraband medicines were being carried down this street, although no names were on the label. A different route would need to be chosen. Josh prayed the enemy wouldn't realize his grandmother made the medicines for injured resistance fighters.

 

"We must return home. We can't lead the soldiers to the fighters," said Grandma.

 

Watching the surroundings of each step, Josh couldn't relax despite collapsing on his bed as soon as they reached home undetected.

 

Soldiers lined everyone up the next day. Josh tried to look calm. The Commander used the label to cast suspicion on Josh and his grandmother, and a brusque soldier pulled them out of the line, but there was no proof. The Commander ordered his grandmother's home burned, destroying her precious supplies of herbs. Josh felt himself pale at the flames, destroying all his grandmother had. Grandma moved in with Josh and his Uncle Roscoe with no belongings while black smoke billowed into the sky. Josh swallowed his rage. If I say anything to the Commander, my grandmother will pay the price. He couldn't tear his eyes from the darkening sky while the sharp odor of burning wood filled the air. Josh heard the soldiers' laughter and, not wanting to show a reaction, turned to follow his uncle and grandmother home, his head bowed. They had no proof.

 

The following week, Josh wanted to cheer his elderly grandmother up. He used their native language to tell her a joke instead of the Voldt language. Speaking any language but Voldt was punishable by death. Someone reported Josh to the soldiers. They arrived at Roscoe's home for him, but Josh's grandmother stepped in front of them, smiling. They stopped a foot away from her. She stared into their eyes as she spoke in the native language to their faces. "Fools."

 

The soldiers dragged her away. They motioned for her to walk ahead of them to the gallows at the center of the town square.

 

I've got to stop them! It's my fault. Uncle Roscoe grasped his arm to prevent him from crying out. On her way to the gallows, his grandmother stopped and turned back to Josh with a smile and eyes bright with tears. A soldier prodded her with his rifle. She turned and walked calmly to the rough wooden gallows as a crowd gathered to watch. The tone of the crowd's murmuring reached Josh's ears. Upset, no one understood why the soldiers were executing her. She's an old woman.

 

"Set her free!" the crowd chanted until more soldiers came with guns.

 

Josh felt his shoulders hunch as the gallows clanged open. He turned his head away from her agony, closing his eyes, but not before he saw his grandmother's white and gray skirts kicking as she died.

 

Grief hit Josh hard. He'd lost both parents during the invasion. Now, he'd never see his grandmother again. He stumbled home to his room where he buried his face in his pillow. He screamed and raged, crying against the stuffing of his pillow where no one could hear him. Josh slept heavily afterward from the emotional strain. Roscoe thought it best to give Josh the time alone.

 

"It's just the two of us left now, Roscoe," said Josh a few days later.

 

"Yes, but don't lose heart. Your grandmother wouldn't have wanted that."

 

Josh knew she wouldn't want him to mourn, but he missed the time he'd spent with her helping her make the medicines.

 

Three days later, a message arrived from John, a messenger for grandma, who threw a wadded paper ball into Josh's yard as he peddled by on his bike. Josh saw the balled-up paper when he stepped out to feed Grandma's chickens. On his way back toward the house, Josh stooped to tie his shoe. He shoved the paper up his pant leg, stood, and reached for the door in one smooth motion. Inside, away from prying eyes, he flattened the paper.

 

In stark letters, the message read: The medicines are almost gone. Please bring more soon.

 

Why do they think we can make more medicine with Grandma gone? How did they know Grandma taught me? Did she tell them? It's as if Grandma prepared me to take her place.

 

Josh left to go to his grandmother's burned home. Perhaps herbs survived the fire in the basement. Whe he go there he found flames had burned the entire home. He could salvage no herbs. What good did knowing the ingredients for the medicine do if no herbs made it through the fire? Josh resisted the tears threatening to flood his eyes.

 

"Louise," said Roscoe's voice behind him. "She often provided herbs for your grandmother's remedies. She has everything you need for the medicines."

 

Josh felt a knot easing in his chest as he turned to see his uncle leaning on homemade crutches. I didn't know Louise supported the resistance. Maybe I can do it after all.

 

"Will she give the herbs to me?" asked Josh.

 

"New resistance fighters are always welcome," said his uncle. "Yes, your grandmother was a resistance fighter, as you will be if you follow in her footsteps. You were already aiding her in the deliveries."

 

I didn't know making the medicine made me a resistance fighter. Josh felt a chill. Those are the ones they torture where everyone can hear. My grandmother's death was quick compared to the others.

 

"Yes, you'll be a resistance fighter, and the risk will be great."

 

Josh looked at his crippled uncle. He remembered when soldiers shot Roscoe during a mission for the resistance. They'd explained his injury away to the authorities while his grandmother had nursed him back to health.

 

Josh felt determination rise within him. I'll make medicines and deliver them as Grandma intended. I'll ask John to learn from me and take my place if something happens to me someday.  

 

Two days later, Josh opened the herb packets from Louise, with John standing beside him

 

"Let's start," said Josh.

 

He crushed the first ingredients with the mortar and pestle as John watched and measured.

About the author  

Donna Gum enjoys writing flash fiction in the Appalachian Mountains. Her recent fiction was published in the inaugural issue of Borderline Tales, Placed 2nd in Magnets and Ladders Contest, CafeLit, Flash Phantoms, 10x10 Flash Fiction, Literary Yard, and Freedom Fiction Journal including upcoming publications. 

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Whether the Weather by Lynn Clement, a hot toddy

 

The wind is coming tonight, the flashwall stated in a flat tone.

Ellery assumed even AI was fed up with the same thing day after day. Last night it had been, the rain is coming tomorrow. And of course it came. The weather predictor was always correct. Everything was now always correct. Boredom was a fact of life.

The rain gauge attached to the food-room wall, measured 150ml – probably another 150 to go before the rain stopped.

Ellery hoped that the soak in the community space would drain. They hadn’t seen Noakes the drain-clearing droid for a while. They studied the community space monitor on the flashwall.

The little red boat was still in its mooring and its roof was intact.

They nodded at the weather monitor and selected - speed of the wind for tomorrow. One hundred, it said.

Mmm, thought Ellery, I’d better check the moorings.

Ellery hadn’t been outside for some time and decided to physically check the boat, rather than use the AI. They knew they wouldn’t meet anyone else. Most people stayed in their pods during the rains, operating buttons for their every need.

They stood inside the capsule wardrobe and selected rain. Suitable clothing was put on them. They slid down the outside chute labelled, ‘boat.’

Ellery hit the dockside with a bump. The floating pontoon was a lot higher than the computer setting realized. They would have to adjust that when back in their pod. The pontoon bobbled about in the already swollen moat. The rain pattered on the metal boards. Ellery slipped and slid towards the edge of the pontoon.

‘Hey, what are you doing?’ The voice came from the P.A. system built into the wall of the pod.

It was a masculine voice, definitely not AI. Ellery hadn’t heard one of them for a while. There weren’t many cis men around nowadays.

‘You - why are you out of your pod?’ the voice questioned in a demanding tone.

Ellery didn’t answer; they were too busy clinging on to the boat which they had now slammed up against.

‘I’m coming down, stay there,’ said the masculine voice.

Ellery thought, definitely not a robot, they’re not stupid enough to say ― ‘Stay there!’

A figure clad in yellow rainwear quickly approached Ellery.

He’s staying upright, Ellery thought. They felt their feminine hormones surging.

The man pulled Ellery up by their arms and held them in a bear hug. He walked towards the suckchute and waved his hand. The weather-guard swooshed open. Still holding Ellery in a bear hug, he stood inside the chute.

‘New sucker-boots,’ he said to Ellery, as they looked at his feet. ‘Maybe you need to get some.’

‘Do they do them in pink?’ Ellery asked looking for the man’s eyes.

‘A question you’ll have to ask your dresser,’ he said. Putting Ellery down, he held out his gloved hand.

‘Gormond,’ he said.

‘How delightfully old-fashioned of you,’ said Ellery taking his hand.

The chute sucked and threw Ellery forward towards the man’s chest. He smelled good. Musk and lavender mix. Their favourite.

‘Ellery,’ they said, ‘we’re pleased to meet you.

‘I’m the new pod-keeper,’ announced the man, removing his visored helmet. ‘The droid croaked it.’ He laughed, a throaty, attractive laugh.

Ellery smiled. This was a handsome man, they thought, straight nose, clear skin and piercing blue eyes. One of us could be tempted.

‘Do you do sex on a first meet?’ asked Ellery.

‘I do anything you want; I’m an android, employed by the B Pod Federation to keep its employees safe and happy ― oh ― and also clean the drains,’ he added, with a giggle.

Ellery smirked. Not a bad way to spend a wet day, she thought, hoping for a few more rainy days to come.

About the author  

Lynn is a regular writer for Cafelit. Her first flash fiction collection, The City of Stories is published by Chapeltown Books. See 5-star reviews - #amazonthecityofstorieslynnclement Lynn has stories in The Best of Cafelit 11 12 & 13. 

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At the Edge of the World

by Kim Martins 

a hot toddy

May 8, 1912

There it is again. Like a knock on a distant door from an unexpected visitor. It’s closer now. There’s a change in the air, a faint tingle of energy. I feel a dark presence. God help me it’s coming. Every night I’ve heard scratching sounds on the window, scribblings, raspings. I fear I am losing my mind. They told me not to winter-over, that the wretched loneliness would consume me, but I have the huskies for company, their loyalty knows no bounds. I’ve misplaced items: the silver hip flask you gave me, my compass. I cannot remember things; I am not sleeping well.

There! Louder this time. A metallic scraping at the hut door. It’s trying to get in. I cannot say for sure what lies beyond that door, but I must meet it. I pull the door open, and there is…

Nothing.

Nothing but a wind that tugs at me with its thieving hands. Nothing except the huskies wailing, hailing each other, straining at their leads and barking into darkness. Overhead, oh you should see it Marianne, the rhythmic ribbon of the southern lights. Like a serpent of fire - pulsing pinks, purples, golds.

May 9, 1912

I hear the noises again. In the half-light of dawn I think I see….

February 12, 1926

Eriksen’s team reached the hut as a blinding blizzard set in. It was abandoned but would give them protection for a few nights.

“Over here, sir. It looks like Pedersen’s diary.”

The men gathered round a roughly-hewn table, their oil lamp cast amber light across faded pages. A compass and a hip flask, etched with the initials A.P., lay next to the diary.

They felt a change in the air, a faint tingle of energy.

The men looked towards the hut door.

Mr Flange Bestows a Gift

by Kathy Sharp

 a hot toddy

Septimus Flange was a gentleman with a most singular means of locomotion. He did not so much walk as flow along the grimier side of the street. Moreover, young Mr Flange exhibited an equally singular expression of concentrated purpose on his pinched and narrow countenance.

Something had set him thinking of the late Mrs Flange. An unhappy woman, indeed, as Septimus had remarked to the rector at her funeral, who would have been a great deal more unhappy had she known the fate that awaited her beneath the wheels of a runaway cart. The pair had been thus parted after only half a year of marriage.

There were already several ladies fancying themselves suitable for the part of the second Mrs Flange. Not that Septimus matched any ideal of masculine beauty, but he did have the air of a man with prospects.  For all that, he was in no hurry at all to remarry. The querulous demands of his wife, while she lived, had come as some surprise to him. There was no denying, he thought, that women changed their tune mightily after the wedding, and he would take a great deal more care in any second choice.

‘Mr Flange, sir. Oh, Mr Flange!’                                               

Septimus’ thoughts were interrupted by a young person hurtling across the street towards him. He sidestepped smoothly and flowed on, a little faster, fearing the outburst to be a distraction and that he was about to fall prey to a footpad.

But the young person persisted. ‘Mr Flange, sir, do you not remember me? At Spriggot’s?’

Septimus turned, and cast a steely and cautious eye on his pursuer. He had, in fact, had dealings with Spriggot’s Emporium, and, on reflection, he recognised the young man as one of Mr Spriggot’s assistants. Or one of Mr Spriggot’s former assistants. Spriggot and his Emporium were now conspicuous by their absence from the mercantile scene. There had been that most unfortunate business with the Customs men, all still sub judice. So this young fellow was likely to be in search of a position. He was undoubtedly a low person, and rapidly falling lower, to judge by his shabby and down-at-heel appearance.

Nonetheless, Septimus eyed him keenly. A young fellow fallen on hard times and desperate for employment could be very useful. Very useful indeed.

And besides, it was Christmas, and the gift of employment to this young man, even with ulterior motives, would certainly count as Mr Flange’s contribution to Good Will to All Men. Or at least to this one.

‘I may have some work for you,’ said Septimus, loftily, ‘Do you have a name?’

‘Oh, yes, sir, God bless you, sir! My name is Dickens, Charlie Dickens.’

About the author

Whales and Strange Stars. Lovely historical novel set in the marshlands of 18^th century Kent. 

‘The sense of place is perfectly captured, and the writing just dances off the page. Highly recommended.’ myBook.to/WhalesAndStrangeStars