Hope and Gloria by Caroline Moir, Macchiato

Thea assumed they were named in an ironic nod to the patriotic hymn, favourite of promenaders and rugby players alike. Were the promenaders under-the-skin rugby players or was it the other way about? 

Their parents were anything but patriotic. Their mother gave birth to them in an old bath tub in the field at the side of their house. She had emptied out the water and scrubbed it clean of sheep’s saliva and chewed grass. The mother had collected fallen oak leaves and filled it in the autumn of the year, which was dry for once. It would have been very awkward to give birth to them in a bath tub full of slippery leaves and in pouring rain, they would have been like eels.

They were eleven just coming up to twelve. They had been to school only the once when they were four coming up five. With inexorable logic they said they had been, and refused to go again and their parents set themselves to teach the girls at home. The natural world surrounded them. Their house backed onto woods and looked out over low fells to the Bay where there were quicksands, where cockling tractors went down under the eye of their owners, experienced cocklers at fifteen years old, and where there had been a tragedy of inexperienced cocklers. 

 It was a three-storey house with small shuttered windows set in the grey stone walls, and doors they could bar from the inside and an adjoining stable at the rear of the house with its own half-stable door and a cobbled incline leading up to the bank on the edge of the pine copse where a lane led to the hamlet closest to them. 

It was a barn really, with wide wood panelled flooring on the second and third floors. Thea had been invited in once for coffee and Hope and Gloria had sat there looking at her sidelong. She and their mother had nothing to talk about, Thea felt very commonplace beside her, and she wasn’t asked again. Nor had Thea invited their mother.  

They were advanced scholastically, though Thea didn’t know why. They were expert runners and the day when she wasn’t at work, she saw them from her cottage running away with loping, long strides, extra long considering their height, over the rocky out crops. They could calculate the elevation and the breadth of the oak trees using applied trigonometry, they had ‘swallowed a dictionary’ as their dentist remarked when they presented their perfect needle-sharp teeth to him, they had read Shakespeare. They read everything. They wrote in their notebooks observations on the seasons and the flora and fauna they encountered. When Thea asked them if they were lonely with no friends nearby, no friends at all as far as she could see, they replied that they ‘considered it an idyllic childhood’. 

Now they had to go to school. Their mother wanted to return to her work as an ecologist and their father, though he had taught them rudiments of French and German, could no longer spare the time because he had been made head of languages in the local sixth form college. Dressed in uniform, and with identical rucksacks for their books, Thea saw them on the first day of the new school year walking the mile down the grassy path that led from their home to the track that began at Thea’s cottage which led to the main road where they could catch the bus to the comprehensive. 

Thea drove in the opposite direction to her school. She wondered how long their obedience would last. The thought popped into her mind unbidden. Just as the open nature of the building where she taught popped into her mind on the morning of the Dunblane massacre. The caretaker with the built-up boot had come post haste to tell her in break.   

During the long golden days of September and on into October, reminiscent of the year they were born, they walked composedly to and from, the request stop which had been put into the schedule especially for Hope and Gloria.  After half-term for several days Thea didn’t see them but the weather had broken – just in time for Hallowe’en, she thought, spoiling the trick or treating of her pupils – and assumed their parents had taken to driving them to and from school. Then as she was leaving at the beginning of the second week, she saw them get into a taxi. She waylaid them on Friday, her day off, she was working a point-eight timetable. She asked why they were being taken by taxi instead of by bus. 

They spoke in unison, ‘The girls on the school run were horrid to us. They called us weirdos.’

Thea could possibly see why they had called Hope and Gloria ‘weirdos’ but – had they done something to provoke it? 

‘Did you talk to them?’ 

‘We didn’t talk to them. They addressed remarks to us.’

‘Perhaps you should have done’, Thea said gently. Then changing the subject briskly. ‘Are you coming down to trick or treat in my house? You did last year. If so, I will get some sweets.’

‘We don’t know.’ 

They didn’t come trick or treating. Thea was somewhat regretful but relieved. They were growing up. Last year they had masks they’d created themselves. Foxes masks. Thea had commented they shouldn’t let themselves be seen by the farmer because he would shoot them. They stared at her in disdain. Thea decided, not for the first time, for all their cleverness, they had no sense of humour. 

She didn’t see them during the second half of term because she was directing a production at her school which involved her staying late and going in her on her day off. It was very hard work, unpaid, but it was rewarding, she was doing something creative. On the eve of the penultimate day of the autumn term, it snowed heavily and the head closed two days early, because the staff had nowhere the leave their cars. 

Hope and Gloria’s school stayed open and Thea saw them equably tramping through snow up to the rim of their wellington boots. She hoped they were fleece-lined and they had got thick socks on, and a thought occurred to her, they were biding their time. 

January came, and then February, then March. Thea saw the girls at the request stop in the mornings, but she didn’t see them get out of the taxi in the afternoon, because she returned later. She saw them pass on Friday when she had her day off. Did they go to school she thought? They were composed, but they weren’t lively as when they were home-schooled, and their rucksacks were suspiciously lean. Thea’s pupils had bags that were bulging with books and PE kits and ingredients for Home Skills classes. 

She waylaid them again on a Friday. It was the beginning of April – Easter was late that year much to the annoyance of the council which had to plan holidays around it. 

She asked, ‘Did you have a good day?’ 

It was Hope who answered, ‘I had a good day, but Gloria didn’t. She was called names in hockey.’  

‘Do you do hockey in the spring term? We have netball.’

Gloria said, ‘Some of us do hockey and some of us do netball.’ 

‘Are you not in the same class?’ 

‘They split us up. They said we were disruptive.’

It didn’t ring true to Thea. She didn’t imagine the girls were disruptive and the PE teachers she knew were too careful of their pitches to play on them in the winter months. Also, it didn’t ring true to separate two sisters of the same age and of the same isolated upbringing. If it was true the head of year was deficient in their empathy for these particular students. 

Hope and Gloria walked on quietly but Thea caught a glance between them – and she could detect no sign of games equipment in Gloria’s bag. 

On the Monday of the second week in April, Thea saw them waiting for the taxi. It must be costing their parents a fortune, she thought, but no more than breakfast and after school clubs. On Tuesday she didn’t see them, on Wednesday she didn’t see them either. She supposed they’d caught some bug which was going the rounds and they were off sick. On Thursday she was off early and back after dark on a trip to Manchester. 

On Friday morning there came a knock at her door. The girls’ father stood outside. He wore a worried expression. Had Thea seen Hope and Gloria? They hadn’t come home last night. They said they were poorly on Tuesday and Wednesday and they were excused school as they had settled down very well and were liking it so much. 

Thea was surprised at this, but she said she hadn’t seen them, she would look out for them, and suggested they ring the year head. The parents had phoned. Hope and Gloria weren’t marked in on Thursday.  

‘Then ring the police.’ 

They had done. Last night. Police were scouring the countryside. The RNLI and the coastguard were searching the bay. 

A mountain rescue helicopter clattered overhead. 

They bided their time, Thea thought. 

They wouldn’t have gone down to the bay. They were mountain people, not sea people. They had escaped to their lair and would come when they were ready and they had punished their parents enough.

About the author

Caroline Moir has one novel published, Brockenspectre, which won the Lakeland Book of The Year Fiction Award 2022, a number of stories, and plays commissioned and produced, among which Lady Anne Clifford - a Woman Cast Out https://www.thegreatbritishbookshop.co.uk ; carolinemoir.author@gmail.com Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/caroline.moir.16 Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/moircaroline/ Threads: Caroline Moir (@moircaroline)

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Taking Pains by David Rudd, Macchiato

‘And how’s business—dressmaking, isn’t it?’ asks Amy, scissors flashing, circling Kirsty’s scalp like a weather satellite.

   ‘It’s okay,’ replies Kirsty, ‘if it weren’t for these back pains.’

   ‘Funny,’ says Amy, ‘you’re not the first.’

   ‘Is something going round?’ asks Kirsty. ‘They came on after my last trim.’

   ‘Dunno. But Tracy’s opening a Pain Clinic shortly. In that empty shop next door.’

   ‘You mean, where Flora’s Flowers used to be?’ Kirsty gestures to her right.

   ‘Before my time,’ says Amy. ‘Tracy’s employing one of those ostrapaths.’

   Kirsty is about to correct Amy when she sees the comb clamped between her teeth. ‘Think it’ll catch on?’ she asks her instead.

   ‘Well, the Gail Gar’s a success,’ replies Amy, continuing her impression of a ventriloquist. Amy gestures through the arch, the opposite side to where Flora’s Flowers once stood.

   ‘Don’t I know it!’ says Kirsty, whose own dressmaking business — A Right Sew-and-Sew! — had its premises right there. When her lease expired, Tracy somehow acquired the property, for reasons still unclear to Kirsty, although Tracy swore it was nothing to do with her. ‘Bankers!’ was all Tracy would say, as though that explained everything and exonerated her.

   The fact that Flora’s shop has now also fallen into Tracy’s hands rekindles Kirsty’s resentment, though Tracy herself has remained as nice as pie, continuing to send alterations Kirsty’s way. In fact, Kirsty still has a cocktail dress of Tracy’s that needs sorting. 

   ‘And what with these pains people are getting,’ continues Amy, her mouth now free of comb, ‘it might take off.’

   ‘She done?’ interrupts someone out of Kirsty’s vision, making her jump.

   ‘Really, Bridget!’ says Amy. “Client courtesy!’

   Kirsty can now see a teenager in the mirror, punk-like in appearance. She holds a broom in one hand and a Ziploc in the other. ‘Tracy told us,’ says Bridget, ‘to clean up straightaway.’

   ‘Well, it’s very hygienified, of course,’ says Amy, bright with laughter, ‘but we mustn’t sweep away our clients with their hair!’

   Bridget shrugs and moves off to the Nail Bar. Amy sighs her eyes and holds up a mirror for Kirsty.

   ‘Perfect,’ says Kirsty. She pays, tips, and leaves via the Nail Bar, where she spots more Ziplocs, each carefully sealed and labelled. Bodily waste? wonders Kirsty. A new Health and Safety issue?

 

#

 

Later that month, Kirsty’s pains get worse. She suspects it’s all the standing and kneeling she has to do, especially now she’s working out of her flat. She pours herself another therapeutic glass of wine and idly picks up the flyer for Tracy’s ‘Pains Taking’ Clinic — does that name even work? The hairdresser’s bubbly image beams out at her, reminding Kirsty that Tracy’s cocktail dress still needs altering.   

   Although she’d finished work for the evening, Kirsty pulls her mannequin from behind the TV and pins up Tracy’s garment, bewailing the cramped conditions in which she now has to work. Tracy, she is convinced, can’t be as innocent as she professes. The thought rankles and, preoccupied with this, Kirsty manages to stab herself in the thumb, the blood welling over Tracy’s dress.

   Quickly, she swabs the material with water and, as she sponges it, notices some of Tracy’s stray hairs still clinging to the material. It’s at this point that her back twinges again and several disparate threads of thought come together in Tracy’s head: hair and nail clippings stored in Ziplocs … pins in mannequins … pain. 

   Tracy ponders her insight awhile before, with a toss of her head, she dismisses it. ‘Voodoo-hoodoo nonsense!’ she says, reaching for more wine.

   Even so, as she bends over her work, her back still painful, she imagines each thrust of her needle following not simply the contours of Tracy’s dress, but its owner’s nerve endings, too.

   ‘All in the mind, of course,’ mutters Kirsty as she completes the alterations.

   Uncharacteristically, though, she doesn’t check to see whether she’s left any pins lurking within the folds of the garment. She hasn’t removed Tracy’s straggly blond hairs, either. Kirsty simply casts the dress aside and swigs down the rest of her wine.

   But she does attempt a demonic cackle, which makes her laugh for real, despite the sharp pain that accompanies it. 

About the author 

 Dr David Rudd is an emeritus professor who, after 40 years, turned from academic prose to creative writing and found fulfilment. Recent stories have appeared in 'Aphelion', 'Bandit Fiction', 'The Blotter', 'Corner Bar Magazine', 'Dribble Drabble Review', 'Jerry Jazz Musician', and 'Literally Stories'. 

 

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The Old Neighborhood by Kevin Joseph Reigle, macchiato

 

            There was something overly nostalgic about being in my old room. I half expected Caroline Schlitt to appear on the vintage television assuring me she was my late-night movie gal pal.          

            On the curved glass, once illuminated by tubes which undoubtedly burnt out during the Clinton administration, I could imagine the flickering USA Up All-Night logo segueing into a B-movie masterpiece.

            Through the bedroom window, the old neighborhood sprawled out over several blocks under the rising metal pillars of the suspension bridge. The buildings seemed frozen in time. Across the street, I could see the tattered green awning of Cirillo’s Fruit Market. The wooden display bins still filled with fruit ripening past their prime as Cirillo Sr. attempted to charm spinsters into purchasing spotted bananas.

            The businesses, the crumbling buildings, even the smell of popcorn coming from the Rialto was the same. Only the LED streetlight on the corner gave the game away. The modern marvel being the only hint that it wasn’t 1989 and my teenage self wouldn’t be loitering under the harsh glow of a long-replaced bulb waiting for Courtney to sneak out and join me.

            I left my old bedroom, passing by stacks of boxes in the hallway. At the top of the stairs, the stark emptiness of mother’s room forced me to look inside. Only the area rug remained. Even the four-poster bed had been taken away weeks ago.

            Outside, the For Sale sign hung from a metal gate. The final rays of sun disappeared behind the row of brownstones. Pools of rainwater sparkled with the glow of neon lights from the bar across the street.

            Far away, near the island of steel and concrete, jet engines roared. If the night was still, like tonight, their takeoffs and landings could be heard as the wind carried in from the harbor. The breeze made me wish I hadn’t forgot my jacket at the hotel.

            My Lincoln was parked around the corner, the only space I could find. As the heels of my Tom Ford loafers clicked on the pavement, I looked at the lone streetlight. The corner was empty. In fact, the entire sidewalk was. The few souls out and about earlier, were now gone. Even the bar was devoid of smokers lingering in the alley, banished from their fraternal right by the governor.

            Across the street from my car, children jumped up and down in a lighted townhouse window. A window I tapped on thirty years ago trying to get the attention of a certain raven-haired beauty. A girl who now could be anywhere. A girl, who if she ever thought of me at all, might remember me waiting under a streetlight so we could slip past the usher into the late-night movie at the Rialto.

            I couldn’t wait for my old brownstone to be sold. Whatever I hoped I’d find here, was gone.

About the author  

Kevin Joseph Reigle’s short stories have appeared in Beyond Words, The Dillydoun Review, Bridge Eight, Pensworth, Prometheus Dreaming, Bright Flash, The Yard, and Drunk Monkeys. He teaches at the University of the Cumberlands.

Returns Not Accepted

 

by Amy B Moreno 

a double-shot macchiato

The walls of the changing room were painted the colour of surgical bandages; lightly blistered.   The piped-in pop music was bubble gum sweet and sickly.  Felicity twisted her shoulders as a hungry bead of sweat made its way down her spine.

Her fingers fumbled around the front of the dress, buttons straining in dissent.  Her centre protested, pushing against the seams.  She side-eyed her reflection, and a rosy marshmallow frowned back.

Viewed this way, from the outside, she looked like she was missing a piece. Her face bore abandoned crochet holes where glinting hoops had sung.  Her hair limped along, carrying faded sky-blue tips.

But inside, underneath the pastel-pink, sat a fierce punk rocker, waiting for the next time it was her turn.  She would be blue spiked with tattoo sleeves and complicated boots.

And, reaching yet further inside, into the tryptic mirror, Felicity knew there lurked something else altogether: the final piece of a painted Russian doll.

Pencil scribbles stretchmarks worked their way from one side of the changing room wall to the other.  She pulled off the dress and the white-blonde hairs on her arms stood to attention, heckles up.  Swallowing back the acrid worries, she quickly stuffed the unwanted maternity dress into her schoolbag and exited the cubicle.

About the author 

Amy B. Moreno writes poetry and prose for adults and children. She writes in English, Scots, and Spanish, including multilingual pieces. She has recently been published by MsLexia (Little Ms), Secret Attic, The Common Breath, The London Reader, The Scottish Book Trust, and The Ogilvie Literary Review.

The Hard Shoulder

by Henry Lewi

double macchiato 

   Stranded on the hard shoulder at 9 o’clock on a deserted motorway is one of the loneliest places on the planet he thought. Moments earlier he’d suffered a rear blowout of his tyre. Swerving across the three lanes of the road he’d managed to bring the car under control, and although it sounded awful, he’d coasted the car onto the hard shoulder, put on the hazards, and quickly got out of the car. Shaking and with his pulse racing he tried to think what to do next.

Right get the mobile phone, get the cigarettes, get help in that order. The first two were on the nearside passenger seat so he retrieved them promptly and lit up a cigarette gradually calming his nerves. Well he’d survived so far. He convinced himself to look at the rear tyre. 

“Bloody hell” he said to no-one in particular, the tyre was completely shredded, and the Alloy wheel was sitting directly on the ground. OK so what next? who to call? For a start there was no spare tyre, the new Mercedes SL used run-flats only. 

“Pity they didn’t prevent complete blowouts”, he muttered to himself. So, he needed an emergency breakdown and  recovery service but definitely not the police -  stay behind the barrier for safety. 

“Bugger it,” there was no service on his phone on this part of the deserted motorway. 

“Ok where’s the emergency telephone, there must be one either up ahead, or behind, I really don’t want the police involved”, he thought.

 “Right, so let’s get to the phone and call for an emergency recovery and get them to transport me and the car home, at least then I can sort this mess out.”

   There was little traffic around, but he really envied those driving past, snug and warm in their heated cars, listening to the radio, they really didn’t know how lucky they were. He walked forward to the emergency phone, carefully keeping close to the barrier, he really didn’t want to end up as another statistic of motorway fatalities. 

 There, about 200 yards ahead was one of the emergency phones, alone and isolated it was an orange beacon, beckoning him closer.  Arriving he picked up the phone and was quickly put through to an operator. He quickly outlined his problem, emphasizing that the car was undriveable and  requested an emergency recovery, agreed the price it was going to cost him and carefully detailed the make, model and registration of the car. He gave the operator the location number of the emergency phone making sure he emphasised that the car was parked a few hundred yards behind the phone. 

“I’m sorry Sir but could we have some credit card details for the emergency breakdown service,” said the operator.”

“No problem,” he replied, pulling out the wallet from the pocket of his jeans, and read out the long number, security code and expiry date, giving his name exactly as it was printed on the front of the card. 

 “Righto sir,” replied the operator, “I’ll have an emergency recovery truck with you in the next hour. Please return to the car but don’t sit in it and remain behind the barrier at all times.”

He suddenly felt a lot calmer and thought “It’s all going to be OK.”

   

He walked back to the car and was astounded to see two police cars parked slantwise behind the car with the police closing off the inner lane and diverting the traffic.

  “Good evening Sir,” said one of the police officers. “Can we be of help”.

“No, no its OK. I’ve organized an emergency recovery which'll be here very soon.  There’s no need to worry. I’m perfectly safe and there’s really no need for any fuss.”  He could hardly speak as his mouth was now so very, very, dry.

“Would you mind unlocking the car Sir,” said a second policeman.  “I’m sure everything is in order, we just need to see your insurance, and driving license.”

“They’re all at home I’m afraid.  I’ll drop them into the nearest police station tomorrow, if that’s OK,” he replied.

  “Could you step round to the boot Sir?” requested the first officer, as he opened the trunk. They all stared at the unconscious bound figure lying there.  “Our Assistant Chief Constable does love his new Mercedes Sir.”

About the author

Henry has retired from the NHS after many years. He now writes short stories and a monthly column for a local magazine. He is a member of the Canvey Writers Group.

The Note on Death Row

Macchiato 

by Nichola Johnson

After it happened, there was a stillness in the air, like death had reached from the depths of that room and cast its shadow. Nobody spoke for half an hour. Not out of respect, but because nobody had anything to say. They came into his cell as night crept in to gather up the little things he possessed. A photograph, a newspaper, a pack of cards, cigarettes, tattered clothing. They stripped the bed and replaced the sheets, fanning out the material like a shroud. A piece of paper had escaped all this. In the hustle of the moment, in the bustle of the night, a slip of paper eluded them as they removed the man’s shoes from under his bed. As they lay down the bed sheet, the paper lifted up and blew across to the cell opposite. No-one noticed its presence.

   For what seemed like an age that scrap of paper lay on the dusty floor of an empty cell. When a man moved there, he picked up the scrap, grateful for something to do. It was a folded letter; to who, he could not make out; the sender unknown. Yet the man knew, from the way the words played out, that it was a letter filled with regret and apologetic promises. But the man couldn’t read, had never bothered to learn, and while he could make out the faded love note, he could not tell what it said. He asked one of the guards to read it to him, and they took it from his shaking hands, with pity in their eyes. He lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes, listening to the lull of the guard’s voice.

           

    ‘There is a man sitting on the floor in the corner of a roomsurrounded by pages torn from a notebook. This man is me.The torn pages are my weak attempts to say goodbye to you.I don’t know how I can begin. First, let me tell you that I know that I loved you. It was once and a long time ago. I rememberyou told me that love was meant for fools. But I think I would prefer to be foolish. Perhaps if I was a foolish man, I wouldn’t have done the things I am in here for. I gave myself up for love,so that you could realize what you had lost. But I have found that I am the one who is lost and I can’t seem to find my way back. I don’t recognise who I used to be, only what I have become.My life has been reduced to these dark days, to the walls thatsurround me; the little things I own worn and beaten, as thoughI no longer have use for them. I will just exist here, until the end; until my body becomes ashes and they scatter in the wind. If Icould still remember what it was like to hold you close to me, to feel your heart beating against my own, I would miss it terribly. Now as I sit here, the only thing I miss is freedom. Freedom fromregret. Regret for the things I didn’t say. I’ve been here so long now,I can’t bring myself to remember those things. I can only sit and wait as the regrets taunt me, as it fills me up and weighs me down.Waiting for death in here is not like I thought it would be. I haven’tbeen given the chance to take my last days and turn them into somethingworth remembering. I know they will send my things back to you, which is the only way I know that you will read this.There is a man in the cell opposite who is going to die tomorrow.Looking at him now, I can tell his soul died long before he ever realised his fate. I do not want to become that. I still need the lightto shine in my eyes before it goes out.

Dying will not hurt as much as it does waiting for it alone but I

hope this letter finds you, like death has found me – easily and without question.’

The guard does not comment but folds the note and hands it back to the man. He sits up on the edge of his bunk and looks out to the empty cell opposite. He does not know if the occupant of that cell wrote this, or if he, like himself, found it by chance on a dusty cell floor. The letter could have been years old, passing from prisoner to prisoner, to those who have yet to lose hope. Hope; a notion that he will too soon forget, like a lost soul that blows away with freedom in the wind.

Nichola Johnson completed a degree in English and Creative Writing at the University of Salford and currently writes short stories and scripts for both theatre and TV formats.