There Was a Message in the Bottle All Along by Elizabeth Leland, gin

             Daisy and I go out for air before bedtime. On a pavement bench I sit and pat my skirt. She jumps up. I tell her – my fond habitual comment – that she’s the best Jack Russell in the world.

       Above us the quarter moon curves round its own haze. The streetlights don’t quite block all the stars.

       ‘Vincent Van Gogh,’ my mother used to say, ‘cut his ear off.’ She poured clear London Dry and raised her glass. ‘Cheers. Ears.’ Or she announced, ‘Time for a military march. Chop chop!’ and strode, with a sway, round the living room.

       Daisy’s growl is quiet. A handsome Collie approaches, his shoulders and ears taut with interest. Daisy, less than half his size, takes agin him.

       A gin. My mother: a comedy drunk facing down her audience even when it was only me. She had no escape from my father until he decided to leave us, and then no choice but life with me, a silent, critical daughter.

       I let Daisy jump off my lap. On her lead she jogs along and turns us towards home. I try never to make her stay where she doesn’t want to be.

 

About the author

 Elizabeth Leyland writes long and short fiction and lives in the UK. She has been published by CafeLit and Fairfield Scribes.

Betrayed for Gold

 

by Wendy Pike

a double gin & grapefruit

Sunbeams bounce over a restless, ever-moving mosaic.  A myriad of tiny jade triangles rustle in sync with an indecisive, intermittent breeze, which demands immediate compliance, whatever its whim.  Repeatedly yet fleetingly, sunlight transforms selected leafy tesserae into a mesmerising light show of silvery-white twinkle lights.  The illuminations sparkle and shift, creating random patterns to decorate and celebrate the tree.  Its moment to shine.  Its pure, simple summer beauty.

-

 

A brutish, banana-yellow, metal arm swipes viciously towards the tall, straight, white trunk.  There’s a sickeningly, loud thud as it makes contact.  The unexpected violence is met with strong resistance.  And shock.

-

 

Tree report:  Silver Birch.  Category C (removal will generally be acceptable).

-

 

The Woodland Trust:  ‘Silver birch provide food and habitat for more than 300 insect species.’

-

 

The majesty of this silver tree has quietly reigned for more than half a century, just the other side of our garden fence.  Its presence, a constant barometer of the changing seasons whilst bestowing a sense of consistency and stability.  

 

The tree has withstood the record-breaking super-heat of recent summers and freezing winters of frosts, hail and snow as well as rain, gales and storms.  When 15 million trees did not, it survived hurricane-force winds of 90 miles an hour and upwards, in The Great Storm of October ’87.

-

 

An engine revs fiercely in rapid, short, impatient grunts.  Dark clouds of choking exhaust belch out.  Beeping noises. Green and amber lights flash on top of the hired digger. The menacing machine, a lobster-like giant, looks every inch the sinister villain it’s about to become.

 

There’s another sickening thump as the claw at the end of the clumsy appendage swings and smacks even harder into the towering trunk.  Branches clatter loudly and the tree sways violently from side to side.   Disbelief.  ‘They can’t be taking the tree down!  Can they?’

 

-

 

Category C trees are of low quality.

 

-

 

‘Woodpeckers and other hole-nesting birds often nest in the trunk, while the seeds are eaten by siskins and greenfinches.’

 

-

 

Like an elegant, white-stockinged lady in a long, full, swishy skirt of green, dancing a delicate, rhythmic sway, pendulous branches twist and swirl in a light breeze.  Whirling leaves gather pace as the invisible force builds, becoming more insistent.  A crescendo of rippling leaves flutter in a frenzy on the twirling, trailing branches, collectively making a whooshing sound, reminiscent of falling rain.  Then the tempo switches, stilling and quietening in time to the gradually receding, gentle whisper of wind which leads this graceful ballet, resting only briefly before the dance eagerly starts up again.

 

-

 

A diesel engine growls and groans up a chromatic scale as the dispassionate man with a job to do, deftly operates the levers, using the hydraulic arm and claw in a sustained, brutal attack, incessantly punching the tree.  His intention to bully it into submission by battering it harder still only rocks the tree sideways.  Its sinuous anchors hold fast in the ground, returning the tree to upright after every powerful blow.

 

Increasingly more force is exerted, rocking the tree more violently, the engine groaning and screaming, near the top of its limit now.  And still the roots hold firm.  Green and amber lights flashing.  Beep, beep, beeping.  Then disturbing, heart-breaking sounds as the tree finally concedes and starts to yield.

 

Loud creaking, cracking, ripping, snapping and crunching as in full slo-mo horror, its roots are savagely wrenched from their home in the nut brown soil, their grip relinquished reluctantly.  In an undignified end, gravity takes control.  The tree topples.  The pretty, paper-white trunk, peppered with stripy etchings of charcoal grey in its bark, is razed to the ground.  An extensive soil covered root ball, now pointing skywards, exposing itself to the elements.  One final, almighty crash and the tree is reduced to firewood as it smashes to the earth.  Gone.  The engine stops.  Then nothing.  Silence.

 

There’s substantial space in the skyscape, which moments ago was filled with verdant leaves, burnt umber branches and a choir of birdsong.  Stunned silence.  No words yet to formulate the grief to come.  Bewilderment initially with just a growing hint of sadness which will soon overwhelm a colossal sense of outrage, shock and loss.  Still disbelief.  Nature versus man and machine.  This was never going to be a fair fight. 

 -

 

Category C:

•    Tree may have limited life expectancy.

•    They contribute very little to the amenity of the locality.

•    Not considered a constraint against development.

 

-

 

‘In early Celtic mythology, the birch symbolised renewal and purification.  It is also used as a symbol of love and fertility.’

 

-

 

So now, rising like an aggressive alien beast in a sci-fi horror, a silver-foil covered, wooden carcass and roof trusses for a pair of spatially challenged, semi-detached houses have sprouted from the earth.  Rather near the spot in an old allotment orchard where that glorious silver birch thrived before it was felled, without a second thought, to make way for them.  Its passing didn’t raise eyebrows or make the headlines:  Silver tree betrayed for gold.

 

That beautiful tree was in the way.  Man’s needs and greed decreed it had to go.  No matter that the tree provided food, shelter and shade for wildlife.  Its wide-reaching roots helped to enrich the soil, gathering nutrients from further afield and its fallen, lemony, Autumn leaves, recycled by nature, returned their goodness back into the chestnut earth.  That it helped the planet by filtering out pollution and storing carbon, giving off oxygen and stabilising the soil.  It wasn’t just a tree.  Or of little value.  Its contribution was massive.

 

When it’s dark, things look bleak, you wonder when that orange, glowing ball of hydrogen and helium at the centre of our universe will ever shine again.  But it is a true star.  It always does.  Its essential, life-giving, radiating energy, warming, uplifting and illuminating.  You just have to be patient and wait.  Or, if you’re impatient, you can always reverse the inky gloom by lighting a candle yourself.

 

The magnificent, mature, indigenous, silver birch, so irreverently torn down, is surely irreplaceable?  Yet in the sorrow of its forced departure, not the marigold glow of a candle but a golden spark, a seed of an idea, burns bright.  Something can be done.  And it feels like a small step in the right direction.  An act of renewal and love.  We  shall plant a sapling.

 

About the author 

Wendy writes newsletters and press releases for work. In her spare time enjoys writing stories. A few of her tales have previously been published by CafeLit. See her author page here. Check out her blog: www.newswoozle.wordpress.com

The Palace of Dreams

by David Gower

a small gin but see also the cocktails listed in the story

The builders had been working a long shift in their effort to avoid penalty clauses. Bad weather, sickness and unforeseen structural problems had contributed to delay and the deadline for completion drew ever nearer. Everyone, other than Tom, had left the Palace of Dreams for the beginning of the Christmas break. 

This derelict picture palace could wait until they returned after the holiday to complete the transformation into a bingo hall. The 1960s meant progress and that was evidenced by sweeping away the old in favour of the new. Soon clouds of cigarette smoke would fill the auditorium again and bodies would hunch over bingo cards in the race to shout ‘House’ before anybody else. 

As he packed his tools he realised he had left his Screwdriver on the bar counter.  The bar area felt cold – colder than even a winter day. He could see his quarry amid the detritus of glasses and empty bottles. The sign San Francisco Bar hung by a thread. This was all that remained apart from photographs of stars from the past hung on the walls. As his hand reached for the missing tool a woman’s voice behind him said; ‘Welcome to our Christmas party’. It had a warm and gentle quality that went some way to dull the shock. He was sure he had been alone. As he turned the woman before him was resplendent in a vermillion, satin evening gown slashed dramatically and cut on the bias to emphasise curves yet respect decency. A spectacular sight indeed.

‘Christmas party? Here? What…?’ His words died as her cold fingers touched his lips to quiet him.

‘Do you recognise me? I’m Mary. You can see me in the picture behind the bar.’

The picture behind the bar showed the woman in the same dress she wore now. The caption read Mary Pickford. The dress imprinted the phrase Bloody Mary in his thoughts.

Her voice continued ‘It is never a party until After Eight, I do so hope you agree.’

‘I agree, though some younger people might think it a bit Old Fashioned.’ ‘Time is an abstract concept here. We are in a sense immortal. As long as those alive remember us is some way we have life. Our pictures give us life. More than most other mortals can wish for. Don’t be alarmed. You are quite safe and in a sense you have asked to be here with us.’

‘Asked to be here? I don’t know what you mean.’

Mary smiled knowingly. ‘All of us here have seen you in your favourite seat when the Palace was showing our films. We know you enjoyed them and that is why we make ourselves visible to you now at our party. How rude. I should introduce you to our guests and tell you something about how they came to be – how can I describe it –frozen in time. Our costumes, in a sense, represent our most memorable roles. I wore this dress at a Manhattan soiree in a film. You must be hungry after your work, would you like a Jammie Dodger or a Garibaldi? Jack the barman makes them so well.’

By now the bar was filled with characters from the silver screen. Mary pointed to a soldier still in battledress and whose face was smeared with black and green face paint. For all the world he could have been in the Asian jungle moments earlier. 

Mary continued ‘That’s Jack’s Godfather who was killed by a Hand Grenade thrown into the bedroom when he was enjoying Hanky Panky with Juicy Lucy. Delicacy prevents me going into unnecessary detail. He says he would rather that than suffer the after effects of Agent Orange or poison from a Rusty Nail in the jungle. Penicillin was hard to come by. We  never showed such things in the days of the Hays Commission. One foot on the floor in the love scenes.’  

Standing at the end of the bar was a tall, moustachioed man in a dark blue military style jacket with gold braid. He was engaged in an unheard discussion with a strange figure who had a very odd skin tone, reminiscent of a Zombie in an Old Cuban scenario. 

‘That is Alexander, our White Russian. He came to grief when he was hit by a Snowball and fell out of a Sidecar. They found him lying in the road, all Blood and Sand. The gentleman he is talking to responded very well to a Corpse Reviver. He is quite adjusted to life with us now.’

Tom was caught between fascination at the spectacle in front of him and a desire to escape to some place where sanity and normality reigned. 

His host continued ‘Here comes Father Edgar. Such a sad story. What was that film now? He was doing good works in South America and as he rode his Mexican Mule it suffered a Bee Sting.  That was the Missionary’s Downfall. His saddle broke. They found him with a Gimlet in his hand. He had died in the sun trying to fix his girth strap. The heatstroke made him take off his clothes so in addition to misfortune he was Naked and Famous in the clerical press.‘

‘Sad. Very sad.’ Tom replied but was unsure what he should say other than how sad it was. 

‘Here come Jane and Jean, look out for action.’ They are always such fun at our gatherings. Jean always likes the Last Word. They had an argument last year as to what was nicer, an English Garden or a Blue Lagoon.’ 

Turning, he saw Jean Harlow, her platinum blonde hair and startling white floor length gown made her every inch the White Lady. 

‘They always argue over the best looking males at this party and I am sure you will be the subject of their squabbling this time.’ Mary laughed as she spoke.

Jane, her companion, was Jane Russell famed for her links to Aviator Howard Hughes. He had made her a Paper Plane as a souvenir of their first meeting. Then they had gone to the Casino to meet Scott Fitzgerald.  The chatter fascinated him. It was such a Cosmopolitan crowd.

‘Should you be here mate? Building is closed. Everyone should be somewhere safe.’ A night watchman stood in the doorway and the spell was broken. He was in an empty bar again.. ‘You should go ‘ome. Are you all right, guv? What’s your name? Let me get you some fresh air.’ 

‘Tom. Tom Collins’ answered the builder.

George, the night watchman guided Tom to the main entrance. The night was Dark and Stormy as the builder turned to thank the man. Only an empty foyer presented itself. By the box office a plaque read In Memory of George Potter killed by enemy action 1942. He saved many lives.

It was time to go home and lie Between the Sheets of his Bramble Road house. Then a Christmas watching black and white films. A gangster B film set in the Bronx or Southside or a ghost story?

In Tom’s hand was the picture of Mary Pickford. A memento from the Palace of Dreams.

Tronie

Roger Noons

a small glass of Bols gin.

‘Jan?’

    ‘Mmm?’

    ‘Can we speak?’

    ‘I’m rather busy, is it important?’

    ‘It surely is. The girl’s just come back from the market.’ When he didn’t take his gaze from the canvas, she added. ‘With nothing. No food, nothing to drink, not even yesterday’s vegetables. Our credit’s run out Jan, the traders want guilders.’

    ‘Can’t your mother—’

    ‘I’m tired of running to Mama to get us out of trouble.’ The sob was evident in Catharina’s voice. ‘Why can’t you sell one of your paintings? It’s supposed to be the Golden Age, why won’t you send some to the Gallery? You belong to The Guild, I thought that was set up to market your works?’

    ‘My paintings are worth more than people wish to pay. I will wait until I can get a realistic price.’

    ‘And in the meantime we starve. All of us.’ She sighed. ‘I think we have to let Griet go, she gets thinner by the day. It’s not fair on her, we cannot afford a servant.’

    ‘She’s going to sit for me. I think I can make a good tronie which will sell. I’d like you to dress her up.’

    ‘Can’t you do that in your spare time? I’ve heard the brewery by the river is closing. It’s going to be used to make porcelain. The talk around the streets is that it will put Delft on the map. They’ll be looking for people to paint local scenes. You could do that.’

    The look he gave paused her, but having summoned up courage, she continued. ‘You could paint for the weavers, which would be regular work.’

    ‘Catharina, I’m an artist. Dress the girl up, I’ll start tomorrow. And see if you can find an item of jewellery to brighten up her face. It’s rather plain.’

‘Tronie’ is 16-17^th Century Dutch for ‘face.’ Used in The Golden Age it referred to a ‘stock character in costume.’

   

Green for Danger

Penny Rogers                       

 gin and angostura bitters                       

 

The atmosphere in Stephanie’s lounge crackled. The two women had never found each other’s company particularly easy, and now they scarcely tolerated each other. On her 60^th birthday, Kayla decided it was time to bury the hatchet with Stephanie, who was after all, her only relation. 

            So Kayla emailed to ask if she could visit, and received a curt reply indicating that Stephanie would be available at 3.15 on the day suggested.

            The interior of her cousin’s house was just as she remembered it, tasteful and very dull. Kayla refused to take off her shoes as she sashayed into the lounge. Stephanie, muttering about heels ruining the solid oak floor, did not immediately notice the occupant of the shoes homing-in on the mantelpiece.

            ‘Darling, where did you get this beauty?’ Kayla’s eyes fell upon Stephanie’s treasure, a small green horse that she had found in a car boot sale. ‘It’s jade. I have one that matches exactly. A pair is worth so much more than just one. Can we do a deal?’ 

            ‘No. We can’t both own the pair, and I’m happy just having one,’ snapped Stephanie. Kayla shrugged her shoulders and left immediately after tea. Stephanie was suspicious, so in anticipation of a follow-up visit she hid the figurine and found a plastic imitation on eBay to replace it.

She never saw either horse again; neither did she see the green Audi that knocked her down. Kayla overcame her grief by organising the disposal of Stephanie’s belongings, though she gave up as soon as she found the jade horse.

About the author 

Penny Rogers writes short stories and flash fiction, though recently she has written some poetry. She has been published in anthologies including Henshaw Treats (2015), This Little World (2015) and Best of Café Lit 5 (2016) as well as in Bare Fiction, Writers’ Forum and South. She is an intermittent blogger and would like more people to follow her as she is sure this would encourage her to write more entries. https://pennyrogers.wordpress.com/

It's Christmas ... again

Julie-Ann Corrigan

Gin –Mother’s Ruin

It’s early November and already, like a seasonal mythological monster, Christmas begins to loom ominously inside my mind.  I try to blank it out but it’s impossible to escape.

First, the toy adverts begin.  Day and night.  Unremitting.

Then the magazines start with: ‘How to lose weight in three seconds and look like either Madonna or Scarlett Johansson’ depending on which magazine you pick up in your pre-Christmas dental appointment.  And this is only the beginning.  During your weekly supermarket shop you can’t help but wander down the aisles of the Christmas section, buying everything you don’t need; an over-priced Christmas cake, dates, and Brazil nuts.  Items no one in your family will ever eat.  Not to mention the chocolate Santa that your daughter has shoved secretly, beneath the grapes.  It’s only November the second.

The kids, if you’re lucky, are still basking in the fast fading glory of who had the best Halloween outfit; who had the most fireworks.  But this honeymoon period doesn’t last long.  By mid-November you can’t hide your kids from the hype any longer, ‘But Mum, it’s only nine weeks away … that’s only nine Saturdays,’ and you think, my ten year old is right, how am I possibly going to do everything in just nine Saturdays?

And how are you? 

Well, one thing for sure, you won’t be doing it with your partner, will you?  Because no matter how fantastic he is on holiday, at the weekend, and at family funerals, there is something about the Christmas celebrations that alienates the male.

I remember once before marriage and a child, my now husband decided to invite his mum for Christmas lunch.  I was terrified.  I couldn’t cook.  Noticing – too late – the look of sheer terror on my face at the thought of having to produce a turkey with all the trimmings, he proclaimed grandly that he would cook lunch.  I was over the moon.  After opening our presents he set about preparing.  I set about drinking.

Lunch appeared on the table just after six.  I was too drunk to eat it!  After that first Christmas together he never sets foot in the kitchen between the twenty-third of December and New Year’s Eve.

And so; the clock is ticking, the bathroom scales are pulled from their resting place and your child suddenly learns to spell words which were impossible for them in their SATS exams only months before.  Yet, in her enthusiasm to write to Santa, to get what she wants, she suddenly develops the semantic and grammar skills of A.A. Gill.

Buying the presents is the first hurdle to pass, and so you decide to be organised and go for one big shop at Toys r Us. You fall into the same trap as you did last year, buying the ‘must have’ present in good time for the big day; believing the hype that the shop will sell out.  Of course, by the end of November, all people under ten have changed their mind.  They don’t want that ‘must have’ toy – they want another one.  The ‘must have’ one which you’ve already bought has definitely not sold out – there are hundreds of them sitting on the shelf – on offer now.  You’ve mislaid your receipt, so only get back seventy-five per cent of the toy’s original value.

Things are already not looking good.  The husband begins to spend longer at work and your strictness at only allowing ice cream on special occasions is deteriorating rapidly, as you begin – insidiously – to lose your parental nerve.  Anything for an easier life becomes your mantra.

‘How am I going to get to December twenty-fifth?’ you are beginning to ask yourself.  This is before the dreaded phone call around mid-December, when your sister-in-law informs you, for the fourth year in a row, that they are ‘abroad for Christmas’ and ‘can you have Mum?’  Qualifying the request with, ‘You know how she adores being with the kids…’ 

No actually, I don’t know; she hasn’t seen them since last Christmas. But by December fifteenth you’re losing the will to live anyway and your mother-in-law coming to stay is the least of your problems, because your main problem now – mid-December – is THE TREE.

Do we have an artificial, real, fat or thin one; one with dropping or non-dropping needles?  Tree shopping has become like shoe shopping.  Too much choice.  Finally, we pick one and bring it home.  Invariably, everyone including my daughter (who helped me choose it) moans about my choice.  By now I’m anaesthetised to opinion; until my daughter begins to decorate it.  Years of collecting ‘arty’ baubles are wasted as cheerfully, she puts her school-made dough decorations on the tree. 

Opinion begins to manifest itself.  I have to stop myself from yelling, No!  ‘It looks lovely,’ is what I say. 

An earth mother I am not.

Thinking of mothers’, I don’t remember my own mum being this stressed out – she made it look so easy.  I wonder if my own daughter will be thinking the same thing in twenty-odd years’ time?

  

 

Bio:

Julie-Ann writes short stories and articles. She has had short stories published in collections and one of her recent articles was published in Beat Magazine (see her interview with Laura Wilkinson here: )

She has recently completed her first novel and is now working on her second.