Sunday Serial: 280 x 70, 69 ,69, by Gill James , The Marketing Writer, americano

The writer stared at her blank screen. Heavens above! Why must she do this? She was a writer not a marketer, not a car salesman. Couldn't someone else do this?  She should be writing. 

"Remember the thousands of dollars," a more experienced writing friend had told her. "That is your ticket to giving up the day job soon. That will give you permission to spend your time writing."

She found a picture of bundles of bank notes and pasted it into the document she was working on.

Keep it simple, she persuaded herself. Tell them what they need to know: the title of the book, ISBN, number of pages, release date, what it's about (but a blurb, not a synopsis?), what she was willing to do, when she would be available for interview. Maybe a line or two about why she had the expertise to write this book?

She looked at her handiwork. Yes, it all fitted neatly on to one page of A4. This looked professional. Everything was very clear. What further questions could they ask? 

Yes, it all looked competent enough. But it lacked sparkle. Did that actually belong more in the covering email she should send with this perfect press release? Maybe. What should she say?

It came to her suddenly. She should say how this had really been her mother-in-law's story. How she had actually written it for her. How she'd had this wonderful primary resource in a bunch of young women's letters.

That was it. She went through her list, pasted her copy into the body of the emails and attached the press release.

She sat back and waited,

Ten minutes later the phone rang.    

About the author

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.    

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter   

 

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Forever Searching by David Lyons, americano

When my parents died, I searched for the memory of them in St. Ann’s Square, where each step I made disturbed the pigeons, lifting them high into the crisp bitter morning air. Faces with a miscellany of expressions abounded, with gaits and strides defying unison. Suede shoes and working boots, intermingled with red-soled ladies’ shoes and airs of hauteur usurped the standing places of humility, with attitudes of indifferent entitlement. We once had a tradition of walking its peacefulness on Christmas morning, where no soul or sound would disturb. Where serenity had for a short while reclaimed its almost obliterated heart, and gave it a temporary tranquillity far removed from the hustle and mayhem of just a few short hours previous.

Unsuccessful, I searched through onto a busy Deansgate, with its familiar architecture and flagstones. Since my last visit, a Banksy of a boy with a lollipop holding a balloon on a string watched the determined footsteps of commerce dash by dispassionately in blue pinstriped suits with eager determined faces.

I stopped by the little tweed shop on Market Street that still displayed things my parents loved. From a distance I imagined them chatting together as they walked peacefully into the smell of yarn. Left and right my eyes tried to prise the shoppers apart on Cross Street to see if they would appear through the crowds. But they didn’t. I searched until my eye’s lost focus. Enquiring faces stared at me, but I kept scanning for that break in their ranks to see if the faces I love would appear and say a thousand words with just one smile.

In Prestwich I imagined I would find them, walking up that steep leafy hill together on Sandy Lane, looking out of place on city streets. They were far removed in nature from the street wise city life that circumstances dictated they submit to, for a brief while. Later, I stood at the arched window of Acorn Antiques on Bury New Road, that was long overdue another coat of red paint, to see if I could see them inside, browsing just like they used to. Their treasured booty could vary from a pewter setter to an inkwell with so many unusual combinations in between, and the chosen item would be admired and moved about the house for days after, looking for “just that right place”. In my mind’s eye I could see Dad, in his cap and tweed jacket, and Mam in her big brown hat and long green coat. I was sure they would appear together from amongst the crowd and give me that smile that would melt my heart one more time, but that moment prized more than life itself never arrived to lighten my weary soul.

I thought certainly I will find them in Kinsale, where so many happy memories too beautiful to fade must still live in some perfect dimension of time, a place where nothing beautiful dies. So, I searched the narrow streets and coffee shops, eating cake and drinking americanos at familiar tables. On occasions I imagined I could smell Mam’s “Poison” perfume, and believed its cocooning fragrance may have been just around the next corner, but each time its presence, whether conjured up by longing or for real, was only momentary and vanished in the fresh sea air. The bench near The Blue Haven where we used to have our 99’s, that always melted dripping down to the pavement in white dots, was wet from rain, empty and unwelcoming. Boland’s wool shop with its dented brass doorknob that had greeted so many shoppers with its cool touch, surely, I imagined, they would be there. Mam looking for warm pullovers for Daniel and Jennifer, while Dad looked on, his hands filled with shopping bags, his fingers red from the strain of their strings, as he complained occasionally to deaf ears. The shiny timber floor in Boland’s was still as noisy to footsteps, as it gave off its intimate feeling of bygone antiquity. The uneven timber surface was worn by a century of those eager to peruse, but of all its splendour, it couldn’t offer me my one desire pearl.

I rambled on deflated of spirit to a deserted Garretstown beach, with its lonely cold waves and icy breeze that tore its way to my skin through my light jacket. So different now from those long heady summer days with our green deck chairs and cool box filled with ice cream and sandwiches. The sand that intimately knew those footsteps I loved, was smooth and cold now, its past memories erased by the unsympathetic tide. All was forlorn and empty here, except for the sound of the crashing waves and ireful gulls. I cast my treasured memories out onto the turbulent waters, hoping for a consoling reply, but they returned as bitter cold sea spray onto my face and mixed with tears to end my search in this place.

The evening fragrance of the Blush roses beneath the statue of Our Lady at the grotto in Ballinspittle was as ever beautiful. Even the old man with the seafarer’s complexion, who lovingly carried out the maintenance, was there with his little worn-out motorbike, but his kind eyes didn’t recognise me. My smiling hello was met with a friendly but distant reply. He would have remembered Dad and Mam though, and as always would have chatted with them for longer than I had preferred on most occasions. Sometimes he would cut a rose with the utmost reverence from beneath the statue for one of Mam’s intentions. He would delicately hold the rose out to Mam’s waiting hand, as though he were offering Our Lady’s grace and succour inside that one tiny bloom. She would then wrap the rose with equal devotion and carefully place it delicately in a box to post to her deserving cause.

The once favoured empty table and chairs by the window in The Speckled Door were unchanged and waited patiently. Its oak stained surface had endured many a hot plate attack since my last visit, and displayed the scars like a mark of culinary accomplishment. The cracked jardiniere with Renoir’s Dance At Bougival badly embossed on two sides still lived on the window ledge, and was as ever contemplating the best view of Cork. Fresh flowers for its adornment must have been that one task too many for the owner of The Speckled Door, as the dusty plastic red roses knew me all too well. That familiar smell of fresh fish cooking in the kitchen tantalised the four diners at the table by the crackling fireside. They were humourless short haired Americans, and ticked off an item from their bucket list as they passed around a single pint of Guinness between them. Their insipid facial expressions displayed no delight in the taste of Irishness as the glass churned its way round and round the table until its head went brown. The remembered sound of laughter flooded the little room that evening, but only I could hear its reminiscent melody.

Surely on Grafton Street I would find them – on an October day where the golden leaves finally let loose their grip, and nervously whirled around in circles, lost in the autumn breeze, in a new an unfamiliar world. Maybe in Marks and Spencer, Dad yet again carrying lots of bags and wearing his brown Peacock’s jodhpur boots with the long scratch on the toe that they acquired on the first day of wearing. “Let’s have a little coffee” Mam would always suggest, so it would be americanos with mushroom toasties and lemon cake. Maybe it was our luck but the brown leather sofas at the furthest end of the seating area were always empty, as though waiting for us as welcome friends. The brown leather sofas were still there, shabbier than I remembered, cracked and torn in places, after a lifetime of giving comfort to weary legs, but it seems time had taken its toll on all of us. I stared at the lemon cake, and coffee until it went white and cold, and leaving them behind, I said goodbye.

Dad and I would wait to one side by the tall glass front door, while Mam went back in for “just one last thing”. We would chat and laugh as we stood by waiting and watching the world race by. Nothing could hinder or change our perfect world then, except time, and time’s dilatory wheels did indeed grind fine, and carried out its bidding without care or concern to past sensibilities or dignities; with no recourse, fiercely ignoring the feelings of gentile lives lived. Plotting and manifesting endings so alien to past times spent. The door and that spot where we used to stand still looked the same, but the memories there are now hidden from the passing world and known only to me.

We only meet in dreams now, and we meet very often, but welcome as these nocturnal encounters are, they pale in comparison to my forever present real-life memories. I will keep searching though, and one day I will find them, walking together towards me through the crowd. Dad with his cap and tweed jacket, and Mam in her big brown hat and long green coat, and they will give me that smile that only God knows I long for more than anything in this world, and this time I will go with them, and we will no longer just meet in dreams.

About the author

 David Lyons' latest book "The Muse and other stories", a work of eighteen short stories and 85k words is currently hunting for a published. This will follow his previously published young adult novels "The Dream Voyagers" (2015) and "Land of Butterflies" (2023). He composes music, jazz and pop. 

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Between the Notes by Justin Aylward, a warmed over americano, for that bitter aftertaste, ideal for this story

          Caitlin stood at the bus stop holding the large cello case, wondering if her boyfriend,     understood anything she had just said.

It was a Friday in March, and classes were finishing up for the weekend. The other students hurried through the halls as though summer had already arrived.

Kaitlin didn’t want to be late for her arrangement, so avoided her friends after the last lecture of the day. She gripped the cello case as the wind tousled her red hair. The bus turned onto the narrow campus road and stopped. It was on time, which was rare, and free of passengers, which was rarer.

Kaitlin lugged the cello case down the passageway as the bus took off. She sat at the back and let the case rest between her knees. She looked out the window across the barren industrial estate to see numerous cement boulders and neglected bags of sand piled up high. These were supposed to be people’s homes, but you couldn’t even make a shelter out of the material in the state they were in.

Kaitlin turned away, unbuttoned her red woollen coat, and resisted the urge to check her phone.

It was her fifth session at the house, but she preferred to see them as mini concerts. They were the ideal form of practice, with a quiet audience and a generous fee. If anyone asked she said she was giving lessons, but when she mentioned it to Connor he had a different reaction. It was as though she spoke in a foreign language. He tried to humour her but couldn’t dispel the look of embarrassment in his eyes. She knew the more she said, the more awkward it would be.

‘I know it sounds odd, but it’s not what you think.’ She said.

Connor, with shaggy brown hair and a sleepy face, held Kaitlin close, but he couldn’t look at her. He wanted to say it was strange and that she probably shouldn’t do it, but in the least confrontational manner.

‘Is there anyone else there when you’re playing?’ He asked.

Kaitlin looked up and with a cheeky smile tried to reassure him, but she knew he already had the wrong idea.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘there’s a maid, and his daughter is there too.’

‘A maid?’ He repeated, ‘What is it, Downton Abbey?’

Kaitlin laughed, but the joking only emphasized the awkwardness that would accentuate her departure, and make it seem more like a betrayal than a temporary goodbye.

Connor pulled away as Kaitlin leaned in to kiss him. The wind blew her hair across his stubbly chin and tickled his mouth. He smiled but couldn’t bring himself to look at her directly.

Kaitlin knew that no amount of embellishment could mitigate the feeling of intimacy implicit in a one-to-one performance. What she thought of as a kind gesture, Connor imagined was a sexually charged engagement that reeked of perversity. If he had shown an interest in her music, she might have told him sooner, or it may not have come to this at all. The question had been on her mind since the first session weeks earlier. Before she knew how, she was posing it to him.

’If I went away, how long before you’d forget me?’ She asked.

Connor tried to look intrigued with a raised eyebrow but it seemed as though every utterance implied the opposite of what the words meant.

‘Why, where are you going?’ He asked.

‘Nowhere,’ she said, ‘I was just wondering. What do you think when you think of me?’

This was sounding like a breakup.

Connor pulled back, finally separating himself from Kaitlin’s embrace. A sigh escaped between his lips that grew more hurried as he sought a quick exit.

‘Is there a right answer to this question?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I feel like you’re setting a trap.’

They were only nineteen, and too young to be concerned about a distant future - Connor certainly wasn’t - but Kaitlin couldn’t help feel like there was nothing memorable between them that would solidify their relationship across time.

‘It’s not like that,’ she said, ‘I just…’

Connor picked up his bag and gripped her by the arms.

‘Listen, it doesn’t matter,’ he said, ‘I’m not angry or anything.’

‘I just thought you should know I’m not sneaking around.’

He zipped up his jacket and kissed her cheek before turning away.

‘I get it. We’ll talk later, I have to run.’ He said.

Before Kaitlin could call after him, he was disappearing among the other students exiting the canteen. He would probably spend the night playing XBOX and guzzling energy drinks. If that didn’t go too well, he would go out with friends.

It could be another two days before Kaitlin saw him again. Maybe she would be over it by then, she thought, or maybe he would. She looked at her phone. There were no messages or calls.

The bus left the motorway behind and ascended the bushy hills overlooking the bay.

Five minutes later, Kaitlin exited the bus and carried the cello case up the winding driveway, passed the yacht and blue outhouse. She looked up at the large brick façade and Viennese windows. There was something antiquated about the grounds that made her feel older. The house was like a secret buried amid the trees and surrounding verdure. Kaitlin wondered how long you had to work before affording a house like it.

Bree opened the front door and smiled, her short black hair and straight teeth as perfect as Kaitlin remembered. She could take a dozen guesses and still not know how old Bree was. Her flowery blouses and satin pants were equally modish and classical. Kaitlin presumed she was a stage actress before taking time out to nurse her father.

‘Come in,’ she said, ‘Dad’s just sitting by the fire.’

Kaitlin removed her coat and carried the case down the hall. The smell of smokeless coal and vegetable soup pervaded the house.

‘I’ll make some tea,’ Bree said,

‘Thank you,’ Kaitlin said.

She entered the reading room, stepping gently on the thick carpet as the fire crackled under the mantle. He sat facing the window in a furnished brown armchair, his rumpled body nestled in the threadbare fabric. She only saw the left side of his white face where the light shone through the window.

‘You’re back, ’ he said.

He didn’t speak at the end of the previous session, and Kaitlin assumed he was unimpressed. No sad pieces, was his only request. Kaitlin thought there were no other pieces you could play on the cello, as it produced a uniquely haunted sound. But he never complained. It was easy to appease an audience with Bach if you played properly, and Kaitlin never doubted herself.

‘Sorry I’m late, ’ she said.

The man did not respond, but sat silently facing the window.

Kaitlin lifted the cello from the case and walked to the hardwood chair a few metres behind him. From where she sat the sun appeared to set in front the man’s chair. She didn’t want to put him asleep but thought he wouldn’t need any help.

There was a notebook and pen on the small table beside the window apron, and ornamental picture frames on the bureau drawer. Kaitlin wanted to look more closely at the woman in the black and white photograph, but didn’t want to invade his space. Other frames showed pictures of children playing, seaside frolics, a wedding party.

He could have asked Bree to buy a radio or record player, but there must have been something about a live performance that stirred him. Kaitlin didn’t know and was afraid to ask. She would probably notice new things even on the one-hundredth session, if she lasted that long.

The man made a ruffling noise and cleared his throat. Kaitlin sat forward and noticed he was folding a piece of paper numerous ways.

She waited a moment before playing a few stray notes and gauging the feel of the bow in her hand. He would settle down once she began. Soon she was in the middle of Mendelssohn’s first sonata, eyes closed and the feeling of security spreading through her. Kaitlin thought it was an ambivalent piece, suggesting both joy and sadness. She imagined an aging woman finally reuniting with her lover only to realise the passion they shared has diminished. It wasn’t the same without piano accompaniment, and the pace was quicker, but still the man was restful.

A few minutes passed and Kaitlin forgot where she was. It was just her and the music. An hour could have passed, or two, she would not have known. It was only when thoughts crept into her mind that she lost concentration, but there was nothing stopping her now. It had been ten minutes since Bree promised to bring tea, but there was no sign of her.

After Mendelssohn, Kaitlin played Rachmaninoff’s sonata in G minor. It was contemplative, suggesting nostalgia and gentleness. She played quickly through the piano solos, and soon felt the music envelop her. She was never more aware of herself than when playing and yet the music allowed her to escape the present uncertainty of her life.

There was a mysterious quality to the cello that always appealed to Kaitlin. The first time she heard it, it was as though another piece of her had been added. Composers didn’t put their emotion into the music, she thought, but took emotions from it, and shared it with listeners. Communication seemed easier through the instrument.

Now there was another noise, not sudden, but subtle, rising up like a plume of smoke. It was the man, muttering to himself, testing out the words like soup on a spoon. Kaitlin continued playing, but her concentration was lost. She tried to hear what he was saying, but she didn’t want to cease playing and draw his attention.

The sun had now disappeared behind the chair and Kaitlin could only see the shadowy outline against the window. She had reached the section where the piano took over the main melody. There was a moment of silence when she heard the man speak louder.

‘That’s what happened,’ he said, ‘I’m sure of it.’

He was somewhere else, or in a different time.

Kaitlin wanted to stop. This was the first time she heard him speak during a session. Maybe he wanted something. It became clear as Kaitlin listened that his mind was elsewhere.

‘It was after we got back,’ he continued, ‘you said you would.’

Kaitlin sat quietly with the bow dangling between her fingers. The music had left her, but the echoes remained. She didn’t know what the man was talking about, but the insistence of his words rang true. It must have been his wife. Her photograph was on the bureau next to the chair.

Kaitlin thought about Connor. He was probably sitting in the library scrolling through his phone. She wanted to ask him again what he remembered when he thought about her. It was important that she occupy a piece of his mind before the feeling between them soured. He never listened to her play, and she didn’t know what else to do about him.

‘How could I forget?’ the man said, ‘We promised each other.’

In the four previous sessions, Kaitlin didn’t know what the man wanted from her playing, but now she had made him feel something vital. She wanted to know precisely what it was, and wondered if she inspired the same feeling in anyone else.

Bree knocked on the door, entering without a response.

‘Is everything okay?’ She asked.

Kaitlin turned fast, and with tears in her eyes tried to find the right words to explain, but there was nothing she could say. The music spoke for itself, and although it wasn’t hers, it gave some consolation.

About the author

Justin Aylward is a writer from Co. Dublin, Ireland. He has published short fiction, poetry, a novel, and film criticism for numerous online film outlets. He is currently writing a three-act play inspired by the current fuel crisis in Europe. 

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The Consequences of Ambition by Maria Kinnersley, an americano, fairly strong

No one could have foreseen the consequences of the well-intentioned but misguided actions of a science student, leading to one act which had the potential to change the world forever.

Sally was relieved to obtain temporary work during the summer break. She needed the money. Student loans didn’t cover all her needs. Some extra cash would be welcome. After three terms of studying biological science and biochemistry at a college near to her home in Liverscombe, she looked forward to putting her knowledge into practice.

Of course, she thought, I’m not naive enough to think I’ve got all the answers, but working in this biochemical research facility is going to give me Brownie points and experience. And who knows? I may be around when there is an exciting discovery. I might even find it myself.

The job she managed to obtain involved her working in a small laboratory researching methods of recycling plastics using bacteria.

‘These investigations have been going on for many years,’ said Professor Andrews to the starry-eyed girl, as he showed her around on her first day. ‘It’s just not commercially viable at present.’

‘Why is that?’ she asked.

‘The concentration of bacteria needs to be stronger,’ he answered. ‘On a small scale it works. We need to look to larger scale methods using more powerful organisms. And…’

‘Yes,’ she responded breathlessly.

‘Nothing you need to know at present. Your job won’t involve that kind of work. You’d need to be vetted and have had previous experience.’

She looked down to hide the disappointment, but he noted her action and smiled benignly.

‘All I was going to say was that we haven’t yet been successful in producing strains of organisms that are specific to types of plastic… the types we want to get rid of. Imagine what would happen if it weren’t.’

‘Oh,’ was all she could think of to say.

Every morning she was up early, bursting with energy and ready to get to work. At night, she would pour over research papers and take notes. If only, she thought, I could discover the right organism. They may take me on when I’ve done my time in college.

In truth, the job that she was doing there was menial. Others were conducting the trials. Her work involved preparing the chemicals and substrates for the different micro-organisms they were evaluating, all of which took place in a protected environment. Then when the results came through, she inputted the information on a computer database.

She tried to persuade herself that the work she was doing was valuable. In chats to her friends from college on WhatsApp, she boasted about the laboratory, making it sound as though she was heavily involved in the experimentation process. In truth, she found what she was doing boring and repetitive. One of the lab workers smiled when she expressed her frustrations.

‘We’ve all been there, Sally,’ he said. ‘It’s a necessary part of your learning process. Most science can be boring, but that’s how we get to know what works and what doesn’t.’

Her confidence was knocked but she hoped that one day her skills would be put to use in this work, resulting in good news for the world. The elimination of waste plastic.

‘And kudos for me,’ she whispered as she dozed in bed at the end of another mundane day.

Not long after, there came a day of great excitement. One of the professor’s assistants, an earnest looking lanky individual called Harold came running into the computer room where a moody Sally was slowly typing in data.

‘He’s done it,’ he yelled.

‘Done what?’ she asked.

Harold swallowed and looked at her. Then he spoke slowly as if explaining to a child.

‘The prof has sorted another piece of the puzzle,’ he explained. ‘We’re getting very close to finding out the answers.’

‘Does that mean you’ll be carrying out field studies soon?’

He smiled condescendingly. ‘I think we’re a little way off that. But…,’ He tapped his nose. ‘I’ll let you know when we do.’

I think I’m going to be friends with him, Sally thought. He could help me.

The summer came and went. Sally went back to college, but not before receiving a request from Professor Andrews to come back and help during her holidays.

‘We’re very pleased with your work,’ he said. ‘We can always find room for conscientious workers like you.’ Sally glowed with happiness.

When she returned to the laboratory, Harold was still working there, with his freckles and copper wavy hair. She cultivated their relationship. They regularly met for coffee and lunches at the canteen, where she ensured the conversation always veered round to the progress of the testing of the plastic eating bacteria.

Midway through her second summer, and after much badgering, Harold took her one lunchtime to the laboratory where the different strains of bacteria were stored. She stood at one of the tables, enthralled at the sight of banks of small labelled vials as the young technician kept watch for other staff coming in.

‘This is a secret between you and me,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone else. I could get into a lot of trouble.’

‘What are these?’ she asked pointing at the vials.

‘They’re the strains of bacteria we’re assessing now. Don’t touch,’ he whispered urgently as she reached forward. ‘You could contaminate them.’

Sally allowed herself to be ushered out of the room, but not before she had taken note of the size and shape of the vials.

A couple of weeks later, she persuaded Harold to let her visit again.

‘Promise me you won’t touch anything,’ he said.

With her fingers crossed behind her back, she nodded solemnly.

As she stood in the laboratory once more, thrilling to the scale of works taking place, Harold’s mobile rang. With a warning glance at her, he turned his back and took the call. Moments later, he turned back and looked suspiciously at her.

‘That was a strange call,’ he said. ‘The caller hung up when I answered.’

She returned his gaze with an innocent expression. Inside she was elated that her ruse had worked out. She was able to exchange the vial with one similar she had brought with her. Now she could conduct scientific work of her own.

That night, she waited until she got home before she removed the vial from her coat pocket. Bringing it to eye level, she examined the contents. It appeared innocuous. Well maybe it is, she thought. It might just be the preparation before the bacteria was impregnated.

‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ she muttered.

Reaching under her bed, she brought out a metal container with cut up plastic bottles. Carefully she removed the vial cover and shook out the contents over the material.

With a notebook beside her she took note of the time, then closed the tin, and replaced it.

‘I’ll check again in twenty-four hours,’ she murmured.

The following day, she could not stay still. She completed all her jobs in record time and was helping others, an act unheard of by the others working with her.

Harold popped in at lunch time.

‘Come for a bite to eat?’

Sally shook her head.

‘Not today, I’m not hungry.’

She studied the screen in front of her and did not see his disappointed expression.

Finally, she was able to go home. She ate her dinner with her parents, then quickly went to her room.

Cautiously she opened the container to find it empty.

‘Oh,’ she said, her tone neutral.

She shook the tin. There were no remnants of plastic visible at all and she sat on her bed deep in thought.

‘Well, it works,’ she muttered. ‘I thought there would be something left. Oh well.’

Sally upended the tin and gave it a tap. Unknown to her, in the slight breeze, microscopic bacterial spores drifted out of the open window.

About the author  

Maria started writing having left her job in local government due to ill health. Her stories have appeared in two anthologies. She has also published non-fiction articles, and she is currently working on a collection of short stories. Her home is in Devon. 

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