Mocha Man and the Paisley Scarf by Liz Cox, a cup of take-away British Rail mocha coffee

 The woman who was sitting in the corner of the railway carriage with her eyes shut was attracting a good deal of attention. A welcome diversion after the six of us had been being cooped up in the carriage for hours of delays and go-slows. Now there were cows on the line. The woman was sobbing. I watched, fascinated, as the wet patch on her paisley scarf expanded. She was mewing like a small kitten.

            The two youngish blonde women opposite me whispered, glanced over at her, shuffled along the seat, and clutched their designer shopping bags. The elderly lady in the other corner smiled at her, but eliciting no response, shrugged her shoulders and opened her book. The harassed looking businessman sitting by me, after a cursory glance at the crying woman, fell asleep with his head on his chest. I kept watching her,

            She was clutching a bulging shopping bag with the legend ‘I Love My Dog More than People’ emblazoned across it. I thought this was a little rude, but if she felt like this who was I to deny her. Intrigued by the curious bulges in the sides of the yellow bag, I observed its contours from behind my newspaper. When she moved, a slight shaking noise, like pebbles, emanated from its depths. Would she be carrying pebbles in her shopping bag? It seemed unlikely, but why not? Were the contents making her weep? Perhaps she had broken something precious and was taking it to be mended?

            I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She wore scarlet boots and peeping out between her boot-top and her jeans’ hem I noticed delicate ankles clad in bright green stockings. Her skin was fresh, but her eyes were sad. She could have been twenty or fifty. She sneezed, and in unison the occupants of the carriage jumped, chorused ‘bless you’ and then looked away in embarrassment. Her scarf fell exposing rich brown hair with a soft grey streak which curled around her face. Grabbing the scarf, she wrapped it back around her head. She was no longer weeping, but a swift wipe with the scarf resulted in black smudges appearing around her eyes. I wondered where she would get off the train; would there be someone meeting her?

            When the coffee truck came round, I ordered a mocha and so did she.

            ‘Can I get that for you?’ I asked her. She shook her head.

            ‘That’s truly kind of you,’ she said in a voice made hoarse by crying. ‘But I prefer to buy my own.’

Liz lives in North Yorkshire, where she spends her time writing and gazing at the wonderful view of the Yorkshire Dales. She is a writer of short stories,and poetry. She is attempting to be a novelist and her first effort is nearing completion.

            ‘No problem,’ I said and took a sip from my cup.

            She glanced upwards, ‘It’s not often a man will order a mocha,’ she said, ‘they usually order espresso to look macho. Did you have cream on yours?’ I detected a slight lisp in her husky voice. As she prised the lid from her coffee cup, she stared at me through her puffy eyes; they were a strange greenish colour, pale, a bit like glass washed up on the beach.

            ‘No, no cream,’ I stuttered, patting my skinny stomach, ‘I must watch my waistline.’ I laughed but my laugh fell flat. She had completely ignored my quasi-joke. Now completely wrong-footed, I squeaked, ‘I have no need to prove I’m a man.’

She raised her eyebrows and turned towards the window.

The blonde women sniggered. Even the old lady had put down her book to watch my discomfort. I wiped my sweaty hands down the side of my trousers.

            We were approaching Birmingham, and I went to take my case down from the luggage rack. Not having a great deal of time to catch my connection, I pushed my way towards the crush at the door ready to alight as soon as the train stopped.

‘Hey, wait for me Mr Mocha Man.’ I turned in the direction of the voice. Miss Paisley Scarf was forcing her way towards me, the bulging shopping bag jostling the crowd, eliciting complaints from those it banged into. ‘Wait for me.’

I was going to miss my connection, but what could I do?

‘Watch where you’re going, mate,’ shouted a burly man, as he almost fell over my feet, when I stopped suddenly in the middle of the throng.

I couldn’t see Miss Paisley Scarf anymore, but I could hear the indignant voices of the people she pushed over as she approached me.

‘There you are,’ she said, ‘why didn’t you wait for me?’

‘I didn’t know I had to,’ I said in my defence, ‘I’m going to miss my train.’

‘But your train is my train,’ she said, completely disingenuous.

‘How do you know that?’ I retorted.

‘Just do,’ she replied emphatically. ‘Here, take my bag.’ She thrust the doggy shopping bag into my hand. I had no option but to take hold of it. Its contents rattled.

The hands of the station clock stuttered their way around the dial.

‘Well, I’ve got to rush now, the Edinburgh train will be leaving in five minutes, and I’ve got to find the platform.’ I strode across the concourse, with my diminutive friend running to keep up with me, her red boots pitter-pattering on the concrete. ‘Are you sure you want to go to Edinburgh?’

‘Quite sure,’ she said. ‘The train leaves from Platform 4 over the bridge.’ She rewound the lilac scarf around her hair and tucked the ends into her belt. I turned to stare at her.

I was struggling now, trying to pull my wheelie-case and stop her bag from injuring my shins. Whatever was in there was very heavy and sharp.    

‘Ouch,’ I cried out, as the bag contacted my leg, and a piece of sticking-out metal ripped a hole in my interview-suit trousers. I could see blood blurring the grey pinstripes. ‘What the heck have you got in that bag?’

The woman shrugged her shoulders, ‘Oh this and that, you know.’

‘No, I don’t know, and now I’m mortally wounded.’

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we’re going to miss our train. Stop whinging about a little scratch.’ She was running ahead of me now towards the platform her scarf blowing in the backdraught made by the approaching train.

I hobbled along. As the engine snorted and glided into its place, I was aware that people were beginning to stare at me and the trail of blood spots I left in my wake. Miss Paisley Scarf grabbed my arm and dragged me into the first available carriage. She left me no option but to follow her pulling my battered case behind me and swinging the tote bag through the door. She snatched the bag as if it contained the crown jewels and slid it onto the seat beside her. The whistle blew, and the train began to move. She was sitting there tapping her red toes and humming in time with the rhythm of The Little Engine that Could. I slumped down beside her, taking out my un-ironed handkerchief and attempting to erase the blood spot from my pants.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked her, as I pretended to look out of the window.

‘The same place as you,’ she replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. The red toes continued tapping.

‘But do you know where that is?’ I retorted.

‘It doesn’t matter Mr Mocha Man; I’ll know when we get there.’

‘Well, if we’re going to the same place, perhaps I should know your name,’ I replied.

‘I’ll tell you when we arrive, it really doesn’t make any difference.’

‘It does to me!’ I hit the window frame. My voice rose fifty decibels. ‘I’ve got an interview to go to and now my suit is ruined because of your sodding bag.’ I ran my hand over my freshly primped grey hair, leaving a rusty streak. ‘I’ve been out of work for months.’

‘Tut-tut, Mr Mocha Man, calm down and be a free spirit like me.’ She waved her hand airily. ‘Something always comes up. Look, I met you today. I saw you in my stars.’

I groaned. Not only had I ruined my only interview suit, but I had met a crazy lady who seemed determined to take over my life. She tightened the scarf around her head and began to doze. I prodded her on her shoulder.

‘What were you crying about earlier?’

She opened her pale eyes and squinted at me. ‘Nothing much really,’ she replied, ‘I thought it would be interesting. I was singing as well. Free entertainment.’ 

‘Oh,’ I replied, ‘that’s alright then!’ I leaned my head on my clenched fist and turned to look out of the window. ‘What’s in the bag?’

‘I told you, this and that.’ She closed her eyes again.

 

The train pulled into Waverley station with much grinding of metal. How was I going to get rid of her? Thinking she was still asleep, I picked up my bag and tip-toed along the corridor towards the door of the carriage. I still had time to spare before the interview and I might be able to rescue my trousers.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ The familiar husky voice was now more strident. ‘I told you I was going where you were going.’ The bag was bumping along against her thigh.

I groaned and quickened my step.

‘Look, I told you I had to go for an interview. I’m going to be late,’ I lied, ‘and you can’t come with me. Go away and leave me alone.’

‘Don’t be so mean,’ she cried, ‘you know we’re meant to be.’

I spun around to face her. ‘I know nothing of the sort,’ I said. ‘I only met you today and you’ve latched yourself onto me. I didn’t ask for this.’

‘Yes, you did,’ she purred, ‘you chose a mocha coffee, and I knew you were my destiny.’

‘That’s no reason to think I’m your destiny, whatever that means,’ I said. I glanced up at the station clock.

She sat herself down on a bench and dragged me after her. Unwinding the paisley scarf from her head, she spread it over the wood, then picked up her bag and turned its contents out on the slats. Amongst the items, there was a deck of Tarot cards, a gruesome rabbit’s foot shedding fur and a velvet purse which, from the bumps, contained what seemed to be pebbles. Now I knew where the rattling had come from. There was also a silver knife, heavily embellished and spotted with what I assumed was my blood.

‘There,’ she said, ‘we’re all set now.’

‘All set for what?’ I replied, shuffling to the far end of the seat, and leaning against the arm rest.

Ignoring me, she wiped the silver knife on her tartan coat and laid it back down on the scarf. She opened the velvet bag and arranged the contents around the knife. I squinted. They were rune stones. She threw the rabbit’s foot over her shoulder where it landed on a startled fellow passenger. She moved the stones around, making patterns.

‘There,’ she said, ‘see there – that’s a man and that’s a cup of coffee. Destiny!’

‘I don’t think they had cups of coffee, especially mocha, when the rune stones were devised, and just because there are two sticks at the bottom doesn’t mean it’s a man. You could have it upside down.’ I went to stand up, but she pulled me down again.

‘I don’t make mistakes.’ She glared at me; her soft sea-glass eyes now turned to flint. ‘Come on,’ she said gathering her belongings back into the bag. ‘We’re going to be late for this interview.’

What else could I do? I followed her red boots, as she strode along the busy pavement. She seemed to know where we were going, stopping abruptly in front of an imposing sandstone building. I opened my mouth to protest.

‘In you go,’ she said, ‘you’ve got this. I’ll wait for you.’

Being sceptical, I took my interview letter out of my inside jacket pocket and carefully unfolded it; we were in the right place. I scratched my head.

Swinging around, I found her comfortably ensconced on the imposing front steps examining her scarlet fingernails. She grinned. ’My name is Violet, what’s yours Mr Mocha Man?’

‘Raymond.’

‘That’s unfortunate, not what I expected Mr Mocha Man, but it’ll do. For now.

 

About the author

Liz lives in North Yorkshire, where she spends her time writing and gazing at the wonderful view of the Yorkshire Dales. She is a writer of short stories,and poetry. She is attempting to be a novelist and her first effort is nearing completion. 

 

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Ready for the Big Stage

 

By Ranjit Kulkarni

iced cafe mocha

 In his mind, he always believed that he could have been anything – a doctor, an engineer, a businessman, a stockbroker, or an artist. But he chose to be a detective. But success had eluded him, and he blamed the small town he lived in for it. “You deserve better,” he told the man in the mirror every morning when he woke up.

Therefore, when detective Badshah got a call from a diamond trader in the big city of Mumbai to solve the case of his stolen uncut diamonds, the small-town detective felt that his reputation and career had finally reached the tipping point. How else could one explain this unsolicited case dropping into his lap like this? He liked the new development. He liked the successful feeling he got in his excited heart from the new development even more.

He felt he had had enough of solving cow thefts and petty drunken brawls. How much more of one's life can someone as talented as him spend on fixing vandalism and minor shoplifting in his small hometown? But this case was something worth his time and talent.

A diamond thief in Mumbai must be a thief deserving respect in the community of thieves. Tracking him down would be something worth the time and talent of a detective of the pedigree of Badshah, he told the man in the mirror again. It would propel him into the higher orbit that he deserved. He gave a contented smile to the man in the mirror and set out.

He had never gone out of his small hometown for longer than a few days. This was going to be his first major trip outside. Travel was something he always wanted to do, and he felt it was apt that it was to the big city of Mumbai for work. He saw the flight ticket that the client had sent him. He flaunted it to everyone in his hometown. Everyone thought that detective Badshah, after toiling for years on local cases of low importance, had finally arrived on to the big stage. He prepared to leave for Mumbai.

It was a late evening flight. It was almost midnight by the time Badshah landed at Mumbai Airport. He wondered why his client sent him a ticket for a flight so late. Couldn't he have booked a flight at some other convenient time? Badshah thought of asking the client, but he didn't ask him. Beggars can't be choosers, he reminded himself. There was no need to get carried away. This is his first case on the big stage, and he shouldn't act over-smart, he felt. Thankfully, dinner was paid for in the flight and so when detective Badshah landed in Mumbai close to midnight, he didn't have to worry about dinner. Life in his hometown revolved around food and meals and he was glad that his client in Mumbai cared about it.

The client had booked a suite for him at a hotel already. He had said it should be easy to find it. But detective Badshah decided that he had done enough work for the day. Why bother so much about finding the hotel yourself? After all, this was a case of stolen diamonds. The fees should be good, he felt. He had not spoken about it with the client yet. But from the client's conversation, it looked like fees shouldn't be a big issue.

All he had to do now was to take a cab and pay the cabbie who shall drive him to his hotel. He can afford such small luxuries now, he told himself. After all, people on the big stage value their time and spend on the right things. He should learn to do it too.

Detective Badshah walked out of the airport and hailed a cab.

"Golden Orchid hotel," he told the cabbie.

The cabbie gave him a head-to-toe look. Detective Badshah had a purple bag. He wore sunglasses even at this hour. He had a cap with a big capital B on it, which the cabbie noted. Badshah also wore a gold chain in his neck that fell over his shirt. It was a good luck charm from his mother that protected him from all evil.

"500 rupees," the cabbie said.

Badshah sat in the cab. The cabbie waited for him to hand over his bag to be put in the trunk like his normal airport customers. But detective Badshah didn't notice that. He made himself comfortable with the big purple bag next to him on the back seat. The cabbie came back to his driver’s seat. He had a smirk on his face when he started to drive.

"First time in Mumbai, Sir?" he asked.

Badshah gave him a glare from above his sunglasses and, after a pause, replied, "No, I come here every month on work."

"Stay at Golden Orchid every time Sir?" he asked.

"Yes, most of the time. I love their suite," detective Badshah replied and turned his gaze outside the window. "The city of Mumbai never sleeps, eh?" he remarked after a while.

"Yes, Sir," the driver said and focused on his driving.

Detective Badshah enjoyed the sights and sounds of the city for the next twenty minutes.

"Sir, your hotel," the driver said.

"Oh it's here. That was quick. No traffic at night, eh?" detective Badshah remarked, and handed over a crisp five hundred rupee note to the cab driver.

"Yes Sir," the cabbie said and left.

The suite was the best hotel room that Badshah had seen. Not only had he never seen something so luxurious, but it was something that was even beyond his imagination. He jumped and danced on the bed, and switched on the air conditioner, and opened the minibar, and checked the food menu. In short, he had a whale of a time before going to sleep. He had indeed arrived on the big stage, he told himself looking at the suite.

In the morning, he had a wholesome breakfast that the diamond trader had booked along with the room. Then he clicked photographs of the hotel and his room on his phone and sent them to everyone at home. Then, he dug out the numbers of everyone he knew in his hometown and sent the photographs to them.

For the next thirty minutes, he called all of them to check if they had seen them. He told them how this case was the break he was waiting for and how it was going to leapfrog him into the big league. He had never been happier.

At nine thirty, when he was back in his room after breakfast, he got a call from his diamond trader client.

"I hope you had a good flight," the client said.

"Yes sir. It was a bit late, but you know, working at night is not uncommon in my profession," detective Badshah replied.

"Wonderful. Any problems finding the hotel?" the client enquired.

"Not at all. I am here to find the diamond thief. A hotel shouldn't cause problems, isn't it?" detective Badshah said with a swagger.

"Yes of course," the client smiled. "Shall we meet at 10.30 at the lobby?" he asked.

"Lobby? I am sorry?" detective Badshah enquired.

"The Lobby? It's on the ground level. Or let's meet at the coffee shop on mezzanine. 10.30 sharp," the client said.

"Alright.. oh .. ok," detective Badshah replied, wondering where is this mezzanine and why he has to meet at a coffee shop.

He quickly got ready. The room had become stuffy, so he decided to open the windows. He couldn't find any windows. So he went close to the curtains and found one behind them. He realised that the windows were closed and couldn't be opened. He pushed the curtains away to let some natural light come into his room. If not fresh air like his hometown, he felt the urge for some natural sunlight. He stood in front of the window.

Just as he turned back from the window, he noticed a structure with a board that said "Mumbai Airport Terminal 1" right in front of the hotel. He wondered whether it was the same airport that he came to last night. He thought it was. A frown of suspicion made its presence felt on his forehead.

He went to the coffee shop at 10.40. But no one turned up at the coffee shop till way past noon. He tried calling but couldn't reach the client. When he enquired with the coffee shop, they said someone had left him a message. He opened the paper chit that had the message. It said, in bold letters, "DON’T NEED A DETECTIVE WHOM A CABBIE CAN FOOL. GO BACK."

Detective Badshah bit his lips and made sure no one around him had seen either the message or his face after reading it. He quietly checked out of the hotel after paying all the bills. He glared at the airport as he stepped out but went to the railway station and took the first train back. The next day he told everyone in his hometown about his travel adventures and how he had cracked the case of the lost diamonds in the big city of Mumbai in less than a day, and how he was, finally, ready for the big stage.

About the author

anjit Kulkarni's work has appeared in Literary Yard, Indian Periodical, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Potato Soup Journal, Setu Journal, Ariel Chart, Active Muse and Kathmandu Tribune. More details about his work can be accessed at https://www.ranjitkulkarni.com 

Crackpot

by Denise Cooke

cafe mocha 

"Scaredy cat!”

“Shurrup!”

“Scaredy-Nerdy cat!”

Josh is most ANNOYING eleven year old in the whole world. Always playing tricks on me, waving that humunguous spider right up to my mouth or teasing me about my pigeon-toed running. Not to mention hiding my fave book and his yucky slime gunge ball in my bed and even farting in my face at times.

So I thumped him.

“OK, dare you! Mum’s nagging Dad to finish the pointing. So tea's deffo not till after five. First to Crackpot Hall? 1...2...3...GO!”

So we were off, racing down the steep footpath towards the River Swale, kicking stones, jumping puddles, the autumn leaves whirling down amber, red and gold confetti and Josh slashing the heads off the shrivelled cow parsley with a stick he'd snapped off a rowan bent by the wind. Brown bands of bracken were streaked across Kisdon Hill ahead. Toy sheep on the opposite fellside were huddled against grey stone walls, matching the gloomy clouds scudding by.

"If it rains I'm turning back.”

“Chicken!” Josh, wheeling round, grinning, made clucking noises. I couldn’t catch up to aim a sneaky thump so slumped out of breath against the stone stile. I love greeny white mottled lichen - pretty patterns to trace with my grubby finger.

“Josh! Hang on! Its not Fair!”

He was disappearing round the next bend of the Coast to Coast trail. The narrow track rose again sharply towards the remains of Crackpot Hall. Dad said it was abandoned in the 1800s when lead mining stopped. That must be ages and ages ago ‘cos the flagstones, huge stone chunks and old twisted iron bits of railings and machinery lay scattered around like huge Lego pieces.

“Hey Em, up here!”

Josh wobbling on top of a huge mound of what I think Dad calls a ‘spoilheap.’ It’s the earth and rubble and stuff that they dug out to make the tunnel - no, Dad says the 'level.'

Crossing the springy turf towards him, I nearly step on a dead rabbit. Its insides are a gluey snotgreen mess, white bones protruding, one eye socket a black hollow, one glassy eye fixed on me. URGHH!

Josh leaped down and scrutinized the corpse. " Its mixamastitis that causes that,” he pronounced solemnly. He picked up its velvety paw.

"Delicious. Shall we take it back for tea?”

“I don’t like this place - it makes me feel funny. Let’s go down to the waterfalls instead.”

“Nah, Mum made me promise not to go in. It’s dangerous after the storm.”

“ And we’ve been told not to explore round the shafts and hushes..so there!”

“Aw, c’mon. I’ve found the entrance. And I pinched Dad’s torch from the dresser. Five minutes, Em. Per...lease.”

So we were standing before a little brick-edged opening, almost hidden at ground level. I felt like I was in a Harry Potter film. Fern fronds waved at me around its arch and mounds of mossy cushions, sprouting tiny, yellowing stalks, made me want to squeeze them. They were dripping wet and spongy so I wiped my fingers on my jeans, closed my eyes tight and took a step inside.

The earthy, fetid smell made me want to gag. The torch was flickering and Josh did that old Halloween trick of shining it under his chin to make him look like something out of The Nightmare before Christmas.

“Give over! Can’t you make it brighter?”

The torch played its faint beam on the tunnel ceiling. Vaulted...faded brickwork, sandwiched together with crumbly mortar. Like a drunk firefly, the torchlight was jerking further away, forcing me to follow. Water was dripping through the cracks, reminding me of rancid, dead flowers in Mum’s best vase. Smelly slimy stuff. Next thing, the torch was revealing that we were standing in sluggish flowing water and - and was that a trick of my eyes? Or did I see something moving down there? Don’t rats seek water? And what’s that rat disease?

Clutching wildly at Josh's arm, I slipped and the torch flickered and was falling, falling.

“Idiot!”

He splashed around searching.

“You’re the idiot! Now you’ve wet my jeans!”

“You have, more likely!”

More splashing in the darkness, followed by his sharp intake of breath.

“Ow! I've just stubbed my toe! What the hell?...”

The atmosphere suddenly feels colder. My throat tightens and I gulp - a sour taste in my mouth..

“Something sharp. Feels hard- like metal. Two. A track? ”

“Dad’ll give you what for when he hears about the torch. I can’t see. Let’s just get out!”

Something soft brushes my cheek and skitters away down the tunnel. I want to scream and scream ( like in ‘Just William’) but can only splutter, my hoarse cough echoing around.

Bird? Bat? Or Dementor?

Then I'm hearing it.

Clicketty-click, cloppetty-clop...coming closer and closer...clicketty -clunk...

I'm sensing it, rather than seeing it. My eyes ache. A blurred outline of a pinched white face, a vision, a boy's face...rag clothes - pushing, panting - shoving something - piled high -rocks, black, glistening edges - acrid smell- clicketty - click - CRASH!

I feel the walls swaying, crumbling and falling in on me......

“Hey Em! You OK? It’s OK. Emily!”

I'm lying on the sodden grass looking up at the leaden sky. It hurts. A kestrel is circling overhead. With an eerie cry it swoops down on its prey.

 

About the author

Denise Cooke is a scriptwriter and fledgling novelist, who was an English and drama teacher in a previous life.
She has been writing fiction in a Leeds Writers' Group for the past year and is working on her debut novel. 

 

Footprints in the Snow

by James Bates

Cafe Mocha

Out for a winter's walk I came upon some footprints in the snow. Whose were they, I wondered? I paused for a moment, thinking, but came up with no answer, so I impulsively decided to follow them. As I walked, I began remembering how much I enjoyed this, walking outside like I was, not up and down those long hallways in the mall like I've been doing lately. You see, I've been having a little trouble remembering where I am over the past year so my wife has taken to driving me to Ridgedale where she and I walk with an oldsters group. It's been okay, and I like walking with Kath, but it's nothing to write home about. However, let me tell you, back in the day, back when my memory was clear, I used to do it a lot, this walking outside. I liked it then and I was liking it now, even though I didn't know where I was.

            Having the fresh invigorating air with the cold bite of winter on my cheeks not only felt wonderful, it made me feel young again. Out of the blue old time memories came flooding back: My younger brother Tim and I in our youth, walking in the winter woods outside of town with our field guides in out backpacks, teaching ourselves how to identify birds; Young Kath and I before we were married, shuffling along a snowy, moonlit trail in a wooded park in January, talking quietly, planning our future and stealing warm kisses behind a convenient oak tree; My daughter Janet and I strolling along a snowy river path near the college she attended as she told me of her dreams for her future; My grandson...

            Suddenly I heard Zak's voice calling, shaking me out of my reverie, "Grandpa, Grandpa, you need to come inside. Grandma Kath says it's time for dinner and great uncle Tim's starving." I looked over and saw him grinning. We all knew how much my brother liked to eat.

            "I'm coming," I said, pulling my mind back to the present and making my way through the snow to the back door of the home Kath and I have lived in for over fifty years. So that's where I was. Our backyard was a tiny open area, and the edges of the property were thick with evergreen trees; in a way it was kind of like being in a wooded clearing in northern Minnesota. I'd have to try to remember that.

            "What were you doing out there, Grandpa?" Zak asked as I came up to him, stomping snow from my boots. He was eleven and in middle school, and this winter he was busy with hockey, his friends and class work, in that order. I didn't see him as much as I used to, or liked to, for that matter.

            "Reminiscing," I told him. He didn't need to know I'd had absolutely no idea where I'd just been except lost in fond memories, reliving the past. I recovered valiantly and said, "Thinking about walks we used to take."

            "Like when you took me out that one winter night and showed me the constellations? I remember we saw Cassiopeia and Orion."

            "Yeah, exactly," I said, mentally shifting gears back to the present (rather smoothly, I thought.) "Back when you were young and just a kid, like four or five." I reached out to jokingly muss up his hair as he ducked away, laughing.

            I stepped into the back entryway, closed the door against the cold and began taking off my winter jacket, scarf, boots and hat. I used to babysit him one day a week before he started grade school. Those were good times back then, special times, especially now that he was getting older and busy with other activities. I glanced up and saw Zak looking past me to the backyard, quietly thinking. The house was filled with the aromatic scent of cinnamon, baked sweet potatoes and fresh apple pie. My mouth involuntarily started watering. I smiled to myself, thinking of my brother. No wonder he was starving.

            Zak interrupted my thoughts, "Hey, Grandpa, how about after we eat, you and I go outside and go for a walk? It's been a while."

            I was shocked almost to the point of speechlessness. It was the last thing I expected to hear from my busy grandson. I almost put on my jacket right then and there, grabbed him by the arm and went back outside. Instead, I reached for him and enveloped him in a big bear hug as he good-naturedly squirmed to get away. "That'd be wonderful, Zak, just perfect." Our meal couldn't be over soon enough, as far as I was concerned.

            Afterwards, as Zak and I got ready to go outside, snow flurries started falling ever so lightly. The sun was setting, painting the western horizon dusty mauve, and the soft glow of street lamps were illuminating the drifting snowflakes like floating specs of glitter. It was so pretty that we were spontaneously joined by my daughter Janet (Zak's mom) along with Kath. Even my brother Tim dragged himself out of his easy chair and made it outside. I couldn't recall the last time all of us had gone for a nice family stroll together along a snow covered street. It was way better than being at the mall. In fact, I wouldn't mind if we made a habit of it, all of us making time to get together and go walking. Winter, summer, spring or fall, it wouldn't matter. I'd like that a lot.

            But today was special, having us all together. And you know what? The whole time we were walking, I remembered where we were from beginning to end. In fact, I still do. It was unforgettable. 

About the author

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota and tries to go for a long walk everyday. His stories have appeared in CafeLit, The Writers' Cafe Magazine, A Million Ways, Cabinet of Heed and Paragraph Planet. You can also check out his blog to see more: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.