Showing posts with label fizzy water. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fizzy water. Show all posts

Friday, 10 July 2026

vDrowing In Thin Air: No Name Edit byName: Lila-Josey J James,fizzy water

 

I’ve always wanted to jump from a great height. It’s less about the dying and more about feeling the Earth rush for once. As a child, I would lie in the car during Fall excursions to Skyline Drive. I’d steal glances out the rear window and watch red maple leaves tumble off the road. They’d sail hundreds of feet into the valley below.

“If you’re afraid, why do you stare?” My mother would ask.

“Even if planes don’t crash all that often,” I say, “It happened to Dad.”

“But this is a mountain.” She replied. 

She never understood.

Now, older, I am sublimating. I’m shocked at how high I’ve climbed, fear and all.

“James,” Tom says.

I ignore him. It’s hard to feel on the 77th floor. I sip my coffee and watch the sun set.

Tom tries again.

“The consultants.” He says.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I do,” I say. “I’m headed up there now.”

“I hear it’s even better from the eighty-seventh floor.” Tom relaxes.

“Regardless, I’m just proud of what we built.” I beam and mean it.

“Ah, the board would be lucky to have you.” Tom rests his dry right hand on my left shoulder.

“Building anything here is a damned miracle, kid,” Tom says.

My shoulders ripple up into my neck. A cold disgust runs down my spine.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of all the little people,” I laugh.

My phone interrupts.

“Well, that's me, old man,” I say.

Tom starts to smile. “Better get used to it.” He glances down at my hand.

His front right tooth is stained yellow.

I ride up to the hundredth floor. The building is swaying. As the doors open, an old feeling rises up. I see my boss standing in the corner. His head is resting on the glass. He’s staring straight down. I think of red maple leaves and my father as I join him.

With my head on the window, he begins to talk.

“Great plan, sport.” He says. “How’d they take it?”

“That’s what we pay consultants for,” I say.

I feel my stomach drop. He laughs.

“Have you seen the projections?” He asks.

“They all go up,” I say.

There’s a long moment of silence as we both stare 1500 feet down. From this vantage, you only see crowds. It’s too hard to make out a single person. I wonder if Tom is down there already.

“How’s your daughter, by the way?” I ask.

“Oh, fine, when’s the honeymoon?”

About the Author 

a-Josey is a trans witch living in Brooklyn. She enjoys tea parties, walks, and dogs.Lila’s recent work appears in Boudin, 6/26, and she has upcoming work in The Words Faire. Lila-Josey is a trans woman living in Brooklyn with her dog Estelle. She enjoys tea parties, getting into trouble for the right reason, and aimless walks. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Sunday, 17 November 2024

Sunday Serial: 280 x 70, 43 New Book, by Gill James, fizzy water

 

Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 280 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day. 

 

43. New Book

Gaynor opened the package as quickly as they could.  Why did they always have to make them so difficult to open? Then at last there it was. She'd seen the cover before but it looked better in the flesh. What a clever design.

She opened it randomly. She recognised the words. They were hers. Yet they seemed to have been written by women else now that they were single-spaced and a 8" by 5" book. It even smelt good.

The launch would be in ten days’ time. The local bookshop had ordered fifty copies. Her sister Suzy was baking a cake to look like the book. She was supplying some wine and other nibbles. She had a brand new frock and she'd invited over 200 people.  They'd never all get in. Someone would come, though, surely?

She sniffed the book once more and them put it down.  Now she had to work on social media. She knew she mustn't say "Buy my book, buy my book". She'd got to think of all of those ways of enticing people to read without explicitly saying that they must buy the book.  She had a few guest blog posts to do. That might start the ball rolling.

What if she got bad reviews, though? Or no reviews? Which was worse, bad reviews or no reviews, or even perhaps the thought that people were only posting good one because they were her friend?

Why had she done this?

Her phone rang. Sally. Gaynor's tummy flipped. She knew Sally had started reading the book the day before. The Kindle version had come out earlier.

She accepted the call.

"Fabulous," said Sally. "Absolutely yummy. Well done."    

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  

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.)

Saturday, 2 March 2024

Binning It by Linda Morse, fizzy water


 

My first act is to paint my toenails blue. 

I bought the nail polish at the motorway service station. The cheapest, sparkliest, most offensive electric-blue I could find. 

 

I walk in and close the door of my new flat .

Sit on the floor And apply it. 

It drips on the carpet. 

I swear, crudely. And I rub it in. 

 

I rub in the fact of electric-blue nail polish and swear because I know he would HATE it. 

That was me… yesterday. 

A whole, noisy day ago. 

I’m not exactly sure who I am today or why I’m living here. I’m one step behind. Still catching up. Still packing. 

Here, Life insists on being heard. 

People noise, road noise, bin noise 

Pantechnicons, police cars and pizza vans. Life refuses to be ignored. 

 Live it or lose it. 

 

OK 

* * * 

I knew who I was, last week. 

 Last week I was safe. 

Surrounded by fields and a garden 

With a compost heap. 

Worms turned my rubbish to sweet-smelling soil. 

Here there are no bugs, birds or beetles to deal with any of it. 

Just bins. 

Bins with brown lids. 

Bins with green lids. 

Bins with grey lids. 

And small mysterious bins that I have yet to understand. 

 

Bin Men. 

Mum called them ‘Bin Men’. 

Bin Men come on Bin Day. 

Bin Day there was Monday. 

Everything was binned last Monday. 

You went off with the litter of your life 

And left me to dispose of the debris of mine. 

Even the worms would be defeated by that. 

 

Still… That was last week. 

 

The Bin Men and the removal van were both last Monday. 

 

I can’t quite remember how it all happened. 

Perhaps I was simply dropped into the bin. 

I like to think it had an electric-blue lid. 

A recycling bin for discarded partners. 

The Bin Men arrive and I was tossed in with lots of others, mashed up a bit. 

Then we were all squashed together to talk about it. 

* * * 

Now we’ve been disgorged, we paint our toenails blue 

 Get a tattoo A

And get on with it. 

 

Here I’m surrounded by boxes. 

The same boxes here as yesterday. 

The same boxes as last Monday – there.

 

 Last Monday there, was Bin Day. 

 

You said you only needed the weekend to sort out your things. 

You were done by Monday. 

 

Rubbish sorted from the essentials. 

Shoes: eight pairs – polished and packed, 

Shirts – ironed. Jumpers – folded. 

 Files – filed. And Pants – piled. 

New Pants in packs. 

 

Nothing much to throw away. 

 

Just your wife. 

 

Off you drove 

In your decent, un-showy car. 

Occasionally driven faster than one would expect.

Faster than I expected. 

 

It all happened faster than I expected. 

But, if I’m really honest 

 Really, really honest 

It was expected.

 I started to expect it Suspect it 

 Reject it (several times) 

Months ago. 

When my friend became very keen to become my ‘best’ friend. 

 

Robinia – my ‘best’ friend, started to visit us 

Often 

Then very often 

Then all the time 

 

 Even when I wasn’t there. 

Especially when I wasn’t there. 

 

Robinia’s nickname was ‘Binny’. 

 

It wasn’t until a week ago that I accepted, for all those months, my husband had been 

 

 ‘Binning it’. 

He didn’t much like that expression (laughs) ‘Binning it’. 

 

So… 

He disappears in a cloud of aftershave and new pants. 

I assess the damage. 

Weirdly it resembles the aftermath of a wild party. 

 

I commit my pathetic prettyings to a plastic sack. 

 I thought they made a home 

 Actually… 

They make a mess. 

 

That was sooo last week. 

Sooo who I was. 

* * * 

In my suitcase, ten pairs of jeans, mainly blue. Some smart, some grubby for gardening. 

But I don’t have a garden. 

 

Bin them. T

wo dresses, one for winter, one for summer. 

What’s the point of more, if you live in the country? 

 I don’t live in the country. 

 

Buy another dress, buy two. 

 

Books – mainly read. 

They can go. 

 

Underwear depleted 

Arguments defeated 

Phone friends deleted. 

 

OK 

 

’m living here. 

Here, where we’re all piled up in boxes, overlooking the road. 

Our lives separated by a fingers-width of wall. 

Listen! 

You can hear every snore 

Every cough, 

Every moment of ecstasy. 

And you can hear all the basic stuff too The washing machine draining, the toilet flush 

All our rubbish 

Going down the pan. 

OK 

* * * 

I’ll bin the gardening clothes. 

Buy a dress or two 

Buy some new pants. 

Definitely get some new friends. 

 

I’ll visit my neighbours 

I have the perfect opener: 

 

“Hello. Sorry to bother you. I’m new to the flats. 

Could you tell me 

Which day is Bin Day.” 

Find you copy here 

About the author  

Linda is a Dorset playwright who has had short plays and monologues performed at Southwark Playhouse, Leicester Square Theatre, The Bunker and Drayton Theatre, and in the West Country: Salisbury Playhouse, Arts Centre and Fringe Festival, Exeter and Plymouth Fringe and Bristol Bierkeller. She has written four full-length plays which have reached short or long lists of Bristol Old Vic Open Session and/or Salisbury Playhouse New Writers Award.

Saturday, 9 June 2018

A Difficult Meeting

Mari Phillips

fizzy water

Sophie sat with her arms crossed tightly over her hunched body; one of her feet betrayed a nervous tap under the seat. She wanted the large cushioned chair to swallow her up so that she didn’t have to answer the question. “Where shall I start?” she asked, with rather more confidence than she felt.  
“Wherever you want to,” answered Jenny with a nod. The first meeting was always hardest, as the reality of the situation began to emerge, however Jenny understood that this one might be particularly difficult.
How I can say anything to this woman, Sophie thought to herself, she won’t understand. “It’s all a mistake,” Sophie mumbled. “I shouldn’t be here”. A heavy silence lingered in the air. Sophie had always found silence awkward, she would fill it with words, chatter, gossip, but not this time. The lump in her throat seemed to get bigger and her eyes welled up; she didn’t want to cry but she couldn’t help herself. Jenny leaned forward and pushed the box of tissues towards Sophie and sat back in her chair and waited.
“I suppose,” said Sophie, hesitatingly between her sobs “at the moment I just don’t know what to do. I think I know what I ought to do, but don’t know if that’s what I want to do, or even if I can do it. He said he loved me…” her voice tailed off.  
“I think it started when I got pregnant. I was so happy and I thought he was too. We went out to celebrate-well he celebrated-of course I couldn’t drink anything and had to make do with fizzy water, and I was feeling sick. Then he didn’t want me to tell anyone, not even my mum. That was ok at first, it was so early I agreed, but even when I got to five months he still didn’t want me to say anything. I thought it was rather odd and didn’t like having to make excuses to my mum. I had been looking forward to sharing my pregnancy with her, and I knew she desperately wanted to be a grandma.
It got a bit difficult then.  He didn’t want me to tell people at work and when I had a take a few days off sick, I couldn’t say why. Then it got worse. He didn’t want me going out, he said I shouldn’t go in my condition. I didn’t understand that, what condition? I was pregnant not sick. When I had to go to see the midwife at the clinic or the doctor at the hospital, he insisted on coming with me; every time! He drove me there, waited with me, and even came in with me. And he stopped me doing the shopping. If he couldn’t do it I had to order online, you know-click, click, click, and then it all turns up on your doorstep. He said it would be too much for me. At first I thought he was being thoughtful and caring. I just didn’t see what was happening.” Sophie’s voice faded away.
“And what was happening”?  Jenny asked.
“Well it felt as if I was being smothered,” said Sophie, still struggling between sobs. “But then I didn’t want to go out.” Sophie sniffed. “… didn’t want people to see…”  
“See?” Jenny probed gently.
“Well in the winter it had been ok because I wore everything with long sleeves, but when the weather got warmer, it was harder to cover them." Sophie slowly uncrossed her arms and slipped off her jacket-the scars were clear for Jenny to see-a mixture of old bruises and scars-some of them looked like old burn marks.
Jenny looked at Sophie’s arms and then directly into her eyes. She didn’t flinch at the mess in front of her. “These must have been painful” she said. Jenny knew this was the moment that she must stay calm and focused; this brought back painful memories. “So what happened next?” She asked.
“I had the baby,” said Sophie, and her eyes welled up again. “She was early- but no surprises there-we had an argument one evening and I fell down the stairs."
“Fell, " echoed Jenny. “What happened?”
“He said I fell," answered Sophie. “I don’t remember. I woke up in hospital and that’s what he said; that’s what he told the midwife and the doctor. But he was so pleased it was a girl-she was so tiny and had lots of tubes everywhere and I wasn’t able to cuddle her. I wanted to tell her I was so sorry…”
“What happened next?” Jenny asked.  
“I went home. They wanted me to stay in with her until she was bigger but he said no; that I would be better at home and we would visit every day. We did that for a few days and then we stopped; he told me she had died and there was no need to visit anymore. I just couldn’t believe it-my beautiful little girl. He blamed me, but I didn’t understand and I got very depressed; I didn’t even go to her funeral, my own baby. I didn’t want to go out or do anything and he became very angry with me again and then packed up and left.  He said it was all my fault and he couldn’t stay. He took all his stuff, and all the baby things and went…cleared out. It was awful.”
Jenny waited as Sophie gathered her thoughts before continuing. “But one day I didn’t feel quite as bad as the day before and decided I would just try and take a walk. It was a warm, sunny day and I decided to walk along the river near those new houses. I saw him, it was the first time in months, but he was with someone else, another woman, and they were pushing a pram. It looked like the same sort of pram as we had chosen for our baby. I couldn’t bear to look, I was so upset so I ran home."
Jenny breathed a sigh of relief. Sophie hadn’t recognised her. It had all worked, but it was a difficult meeting.