The Pale Horse by Lynn Clement , ginger beer and caramel muffin

 The Palomino careered around the field. He bashed his head on the gate post. For a while, he was dazed.

Jenny got out of the jeep. ‘You don’t have to come if you’re frightened,’ she said to Tod, her ten-year-old nephew.

Jenny was looking after Tod for the day, as her sister had an important meeting at work and Tod had another tummy ache, keeping him off school.

Tod pulled his hood up; it fell over his eyes. He got down from his seat in the front. He usually sat in the back of his mother's SUV.

Jenny went to the paddock gate wondering how the little pale horse would react. He’d not settled after another fruitless visit to the vet.

Tod wandered over and stood by the fence. Jenny looked at him. He was a worry too. He’d had a lot of tummy aches recently.

Dinah, her sister, didn’t seem bothered, as long as Jenny or her mother could look after Tod, while she was off doing her important job.

Jenny didn’t want to be harsh on her sister. She’d had it tough, since Tod’s dad Joe, left them for a ‘slapper’ in his office. ‘Slapper,’ was Dinah’s word; she was hurting.

‘Just stand back from the fence a bit,’ Jenny said to Tod.’ He’s been jittery since we got him from the breeder.’

Tod ignored Jenny. He climbed and leaned over the fence.

The colt had backed himself into a corner and was stamping a front hoof.

Tod pushed his hood off and studied the horse.

Jenny went through the gate with a harness in her hand.

Tod watched.

The Palomino whinnied.

‘Come closer,’ said Tod under his breath.

‘Sorry?’ said his auntie.

Tod stared at her.

The horse snorted.

‘It's okay boy,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ve got you.’

‘No harness,’ said Tod.

‘What?’

‘He’s scared.’

‘I can see that,’ said Jenny. She began to move towards the horse.

‘No!’

Jenny stopped abruptly, there was something in Tod’s voice.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Come here next to me.’

A disgruntled Jenny went to him, a quizzical expression on her face.

Tod looked at the young horse and smiled.

The colt stopped his snorting and stamping.

Tod nodded and smiled again.

The horse shook his head, his white mane splaying like a fan. He was a beauty.

 ‘His name’s Goldie,’ said Jenny.

 ‘Goldie,’ whispered Tod.

The horse looked up and walked towards them.

Jenny stared at Tod who was beaming. He had his eyes firmly fixed on the small pale horse.

 She turned back to Goldie, and she would swear to anyone he was smiling but she knew they wouldn’t believe her.

‘He’s hurting,’ said Tod. ‘There’s a knot in his stomach, that won’t go away. The vet won’t find it – he’s sad.’

Jenny stared at her nephew.

The Palomino nodded, shook his pale mane, and nuzzled into Tod’s shoulder.

About the author

 

Lynn is a regular writer for Cafelit. Her first flash fiction collection, The City of Stories,' is published by Chapeltown Books. See 5-star reviews - #amazonthecityofstorieslynnclement Lynn has stories in The Best of Cafelit 11, 12, 13 and 14. 

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What if? By David J Traer, ginger beer

As I passed the dilapidated front door of number 62 Alexander Avenue, a voice called down to me. I looked up through the gloom. The misty shape of a head appeared to be suspended from a window above me.

         It was a Friday, in the cold white twilight of January the third, my father’s birthday; he was working away again, mum wasn’t happy.

        The year escapes me. I’d hazard a guess at 1951. I was ten, maybe eleven: primary school age.  I was on my way home from a friend’s house. Number sixty-two was, like the other properties in the centre of that blitz-scarred, Victorian terrace, neglected and derelict. A far cry from what I see today: much shorter terraces of modern maisonettes, high and low-rise blocks of flats, promised homes for East Londoners after years of war, rationing and, despite a booming job market, homelessness. But as Dad said: ‘You mark my words, now that Churchill is back, all will soon be well again.’

           For obvious reasons the house numbers have changed but I think I’m in the right part of the street. Back then, there were warning notices on every door, every lamp-post, every tree. Not before time, the whole area was due for demolition.

          “Are you talking to me?” I responded.

          “Can you please help me?” The man’s voice was croaky, old.

          I recalled my mother’s words, ‘Charlie, don’t you ever talk to strangers.’ A warning that threw me into a dilemma with another of her mantras, ‘Never be too shy to help those in need.’ With that contradiction in mind, I considered the stranger’s request. I could, of course, have just continued on my way. There was no way he could have seen me, there were no consequences to worry about; but doing nothing, would have bothered me. What If something was seriously wrong? If something bad had happened and I could have helped, I’d never have been able to forgive myself.

            “What’s the matter?” I called back.

            “Can you come up here. Just push the door, it’s open.”

             That I didn’t expect. I imagined that he wanted me to run to the shops for something; expecting me to blindly go into that house was a whole different ball game.

             “Why?” I shouted back.

             “Just push the door, come up the stairs and along the landing,” his voice had grown a little weaker. “I’m in the second room on the left. Hurry.”

             “I’ll see if I can find someone to come in with me.”

             “No need, you can do this by yourself.”

             “Do what?”

            My mind was racing, the sensible thing to do was knock next door. There was no way, I should be entering that house alone, but the whole street had been vacated. The road itself was littered with rubbish, bricks and broken glass. What the hell was he doing in that house, anyway? No one should have been living there? He was probably a tramp. Homeless, skint, injured, maybe even dangerous.

            “Help me…. Please, help me….”

            “Are you hurt; do you want me to call for an ambulance?”

              When he didn’t reply, I started to panic. I was totally alone, no passers-by, no cars, only me, what could I do?  I ran up and down the street, frantically shouting at broken windows.

              I returned to the house and carefully considered my options. If I pushed the door open, just a little, I might have been able to see if it was safe enough to enter. During October and November, most empty houses, these included, would have been ransacked for furniture, floorboards, rafters, anything to help fuel the Guy Fawkes bonfires. Regardless of how dangerous that bloke might have been, the house itself could have been a serious health risk, but I couldn’t leave without at least taking a look.

            I picked up a broken brick from the pavement, moved closer to the door and listened. All was silent. I stepped back, and lifted my eyes towards the fast-disappearing floating head.

            “Should I call for an ambulance?” I repeated.

            “No, I just need you to come up here. Hurry.” His voice, barely audible.

            He sounded like I was beginning to feel, desperate, but his voice definitely came from upstairs. So, he wasn’t behind the door, waiting to jump me. But he might not be alone in there. There might be two or even more of them.

            That last thought spooked me.

            I stepped into the road and reconsidered.  It was growing darker; the main road was around three hundred yards to my left, to my right were more streets like that one. It was a shortcut all the kids used, but only when it was light, only when there was less fear of tripping. There was only one option.

             “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I shouted. “I’m going for help.”

              Not waiting for a reply. I dropped the brick and legged it towards the high street.

              That was over thirty years ago. This is the first time I’ve been back here since that scary encounter.

              I did call for help, the man in the newsagent phoned for the emergency services.  Then, he told me to get myself home and not to worry. That was like telling a kid not to worry about his lost dog.

              On the following day, I returned to the newsagent. He told me that, despite ambulance and fire crews spending over an hour searching, not only number 62, but also the houses on either side and across the street from it, no one was found.  

            I had considered going back to that house to look for myself in daylight. However, the whole area was shut off that morning, demolition works had begun. The sound of cascading brickwork put paid to any of my superhero plans.

            I look up at the double-glazed window frames and wonder, ‘What if?’

‘What if I could have helped? ‘What if he died in there?’  ‘What if I’d been braver?’

             Shaking my head, I select first gear.  The radio is playing the Beatles: ‘Help’. My whole body is shaking.

             I quickly silence John Lennon’s words, depress the accelerator and speed off, vowing never to return; and hoping that one day, I’ll be able to forget.

About the Author

Dave has spent many years writing short stories. He had decided that 2025 would be the year to dip his toe in the water and start to put some out there. This is the first time that he has submitted one to CafeLit.        

The Night Before Christmas by Fleur Lind, ginger beer

Mary gave a wide open-mouthed yawn as she padded slowly up the stairs to the second floor. The 150-year-old stairs creaked as her fluffy slippers trod a well-worn path to her bed. She stalled on the 5th stair, wondering if she had locked the front door. 

‘Bad luck if I haven’t. I’m too tired to care. If we get burglars, I hope they do some housework before the family arrives tomorrow. Thank god Christmas is just once a year. I couldn't do this gig more often. I’m getting too old for this rigmarole,’ she muttered to herself. She climbed into her welcoming bed, the blankets tossed about as she had left them that morning, with no time to straighten it up. Husband Mike wasn't bothered with a messy bed as he lay snoring, exhausted from a busy day. He’d tried to fix the toilet cistern on the 3rd floor, and there was an ongoing, work-in-progress ‘garden’ on the rooftop. It put a jungle to shame, but at least it was a bit of greenery.  One never knew what surprises they would find growing in the maze of potted tropical branches and broad leaves.

 

Not-so-soft snoring could be heard from the second floor, otherwise a beautiful quietness filled the air in the rest of the house, which was a great relief to those on the 1st floor.

‘At last! I thought they’d never settle!’

‘What a day!’

‘I’m exhausted. How will we get through tomorrow, for pity's sake?’

‘The same way we do every year.  With resilience, patience, and sheer grit.’

'Resilience is the same as sheer grit, isn't it?'

'You've been looking at that thesaurus again, haven’t you?'

I snuck a look before it was wrapped…'

'Fair enough. I checked out that new game Tommy is getting, too. That’ll keep him quiet for hours…hopefully…'

'You wish!'

'One can only hope!'

 

As the banter of the baubles, bells and various paraphernalia that hung on the 7-foot Christmas tree continued its hum, up on the third floor, a pair of eyes peeked over the blankets.

'At last!' Tommy sighed, and as quietly as possible, slipped out of bed and opened his bedroom door.  Being well-skilled in midnight feasts and fridge raids, and having lived his nine years in the characteristic terrace house in London, Tommy knew exactly which floorboards made the most noise, so he also made a well-worn path down the stairs.

 

'Shhh!'

'What?'

'Did you hear that?'

'What?'

Creaking…someone’s awake…'

'Probably going to the loo.'

'No, they’ve gone straight past the loo… they’re on their way down here.'

'Are you telling me you know what creak belongs to what floor?'

'Absolutely… don't you?'

'Pfft!'

The living room door slowly opened.

'Who….?'

'Ohhhh, what’s he doing down here??'

'Who?? I can't see a thing. I’m facing the fire and have a pine needle in a very uncomfortable place…'

'Oh, the little bugger!'

'Who??'

'Will someone tell me what’s going on? I’m facing the window and I can't see a thing either!'

The Christmas Fairy Ginger has the best view and revels in her position despite her fear of heights. 'It’s Tommy!'

'Noooo!'

Tell him to go back to bed. He’s eight hours early!'

'What’s he doing?'

'He messing up the presents, that’s what!'

'Tell him to bugger off!. He’ll stir the cat and then all hell will break loose!'

Tabitha had been sleeping soundly in her basket, having promised not to mess with the tree. The lure of the fireplace was far too tempting, so she was on her best behaviour.  But when that paper began to rustle, her ears twitched.

'Ohhh dear God…please don’t wake the cat.'

'She wouldn’t dare….'

'Oh yes, she would!'

She gave me a good swipe today and nearly knocked me off the tree. Those claws are sharp!'

'Well, if she climbs up anywhere near me, it’s all over. I don’t fancy plunging to my demise after how long it took to get me up here. Mary worked for hours to get the tree ‘just so’.  You know what she’s like.'

'Never mind your demise, the whole bloody tree is going to fall.'

'Tommy! Go.. Back. To. Bed!' Ginger hissed.

'He’s after his present!'

'He’s found it.'

I don’t believe it! He’s unwrapping it…'

No way!!'

So is he going to play with it and re-wrap it and bring it back later or something? That’s not how it works…'

'Try telling him that…'

Anytime now, you-know-who will be here…'

'Oh! Is it that late?'

'Shhh…listen…'

There was a faint sound of bells ringing outside.

Tommy looked up, eyes squinting with suspicion.

Santa appeared in the lounge doorway, his eyes sparkling with mischief and the after-effects of an eggnog.

Tommy gasped.

'Well, well…what do we have here then?'

'Oh….'  Tommy uttered.

'I think we’ll wrap that up again,' Santa clicked his fingers and the present re-wrapped itself, 'Now, young Tommy, I think you need to get back to bed…hmmm?'

Tommy was speechless.

'Quickly, off you go…'

Tommy scuttled away faster than Maude, the mouse on the 2nd floor.

Santa winked at Ginger. 'Hello up there. I'm glad to see you have your top spot back again this year, Ginge.'

'I don’t like the height, but the view is good.'

How are you all doing?  Is the cat behaving?'

'We’re all the better for seeing you,' they said in unison.

'You’ve saved the day or night, shall we say?'

'Well, I'd best get on with business. Before the cat wakes up and ruins everything. I bought her some treats if she stirs.'

'How has your year been?'

'How's your wife?'

'I’m busier than ever. I’m now getting emails and posts on socials. I need a secretary to keep up! Mrs Claus is doing very well, and I’ve got a new helper in the workshop. He’s marvellous!'

           As Santa placed the last present at the foot of the tree, he tapped his red nose and bid farewell., Take care, my friends. I’ll see you next year!'

'Adios! au revoir, see you later!'

 

That magic sound of sleep blanketed the house, but a pair of eyes remained open on the 3rd floor.

'Has he gone yet?' Tommy murmured.

 About the author

 Fleur is a Kiwi living in SE Queensland. She enjoys the fun, challenge, and possibilities of short stories. She is a member of the local writer's group - The Squabbling Scribblers. For more of Fleur's work: fleursfabulousfables.wordpress.com 

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Date Night by Sarah Swatridge, ginger beer,

It said a lot about Anna when her guinea pig had more of a social life than she did!

She stroked Biscuit. The animal was definitely not herself. In fact, she’d not been right since Ginger had died. She’d been off her food, and whimpering. ‘Do guinea pigs grieve?’ She asked Joe, her brother, but he just shrugged.

‘A friend has a lonely male guinea pig,’ Anna told him. ‘She’s suggested I take Biscuit over to see if they get on.’ Anna confessed.
‘Is that wise?’ Joe asked, full of concern.
‘Panda’s been ‘seen to’, if that’s what you mean?’ Anna was quite indignant.

The following day Anna took Biscuit to meet Panda, but it was clear from the start, they weren’t compatible.

Anna read the small ads in the paper, she looked at the postcards in the newsagent’s window, she visited all the local pet shops; there didn’t seem to be any suitable playmates. Eventually she contacted the animal rescue centre.
‘We have just the guinea pig,’ Fiona, the manager told her, ‘bring Biscuit over on Saturday… for a date.’


‘Hi, come and meet Cookie – named after the Cookie Monster,’ Fiona greeted them warmly when they met at the weekend.

Anna followed her into a log cabin office. On one wall there was a large cabinet full of books and papers at each end, but in the middle there was an elongated metal cage. The cage was occupied by one guinea pig surrounded by a ‘Pleasure Ground’ of plastic toys, ramps, slides and tunnels.
‘Wow! That’s an impressive set up,’
‘Cookie needs someone to share it with,’ Fiona said as she gently took the cage from Anna, and set it down beside Cookie’s adventure playground.

‘Fancy a coffee while we see how they get on?’
‘Yes please.’
The two girls chatted for a while. Anna explained she’d been working from home but it didn’t really suit her so she was job-hunting, but without much luck. ‘My brother’s been telling me I ought to get out more.’


Anna was fascinated by the way Biscuit’s nose twitched as she sniffed the air sensing Cookie’s presence. Cookie came bounding over to see what was going on. Anna expected Biscuit to show some interest, but she was playing hard to get.
‘Give her time,’ Fiona said softly, ‘I’m sure she won’t be able to resist for long.’

They sipped their coffee and watched as the guinea pigs began squeaking and warbling at each other.
‘She’s been so quiet lately,’ Anna admitted. ‘It’s lovely to hear her communicating again.’
‘They seem to be getting on all right,’ Fiona said. ‘Shall we chance them in the same cage?’
‘When I last took her on a date, she started hissing straight away and I could tell she didn’t like Panda, but I think she’s taken quite a fancy to Cookie.’

Anna gently picked up Biscuit, and placed her in Cookie’s cage. At first Biscuit seemed more interested in Cookie’s playthings than in him, but gradually he approached her and before long they’d sniffed each other and made cooing sounds before running around together as though they’d known each other for years.

‘It seems we have a success,’ Anna said as she finished her drink.
‘I knew we would, as soon as I heard Biscuit’s name. If you’re happy to leave her here, I’ll keep an eye on them, and separate them, if they start fighting. You can give me a call later to see how they’re getting on.’

Anna spent the rest of the day making phone calls and doing research. At teatime she called Fiona. It seemed the two guinea pigs were getting along very well.

Anna told Fiona about her idea. ‘There must be other people in our position, with one lonely guinea pig in need of a friend. I’m thinking of starting a dating agency for lonely pets?’
‘First we have to decide whether you let Biscuit stay with Cookie, or whether you want to adopt him?’

Anna had anticipated the question. It had been on her mind ever since she’d lost Ginger. She knew she had to do what’s right for her pet.
‘I do miss Biscuit,’ Anna said, ‘but I guess she’d be better off with you.’

The following day Anna returned to the animal rescue centre to show Fiona the website she’d created.
‘Just like humans, animals thrive better when they have company.’ Fiona told her. ‘If you’re looking for a job; I’m advertising for an assistant. My main criteria is that the person puts the animal first. You’ve already shown me how willing you are to do that, and I’m impressed by your website. Are you interested?’

Fiona explained the role in more detail. Anna listened carefully and soon realised it could be her ideal job.
‘Would I still be able to work on my Pet Dating idea?’ Anna asked. ‘The more I think about it, the more there seems to be a need.’
‘I don’t like the idea of a lonely animal; they do need company. I think your idea can only be of benefit, so yes, continue with it. I don’t see it as a conflict of interests. You may even find an animal-loving guy for yourself!’

‘Now, that would be a bonus,’ Anna laughed as she thought how well suited Fiona and her brother would be, and how long she ought to leave it, before she introduced the two of them. 

 

About the Author

Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for magazines worldwide, as well as novellas. She has nine Large Print books available from your local library, most of which are historicals.

If you’ve enjoyed her story, you might like to sign up for her one page, monthly newsletter – contact her via her web site: : www.sarahswatridge.co.uk

 

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