Saturday Sample: The Sun and the Moon by Pam Pottinger and India Rose Bird, mineral water

“Why must you leave?”
asked the sea of the moon.
But the moon did not reply
as it slipped softly away
through the dark velvet sky.

Find your copy here

Half-Full And Half-Empty by Philippa Rae, an ice cold glass of mineral water with a slice of lemon served on the rocks

Half-Full was having a conversation with his brother, Half-Empty.

“Look it’s the famous presenter, Charlie Chatter! Fancy him coming in here? He was on TV ten years ago – what a legend!  Gracing us with his lips!”

“Ten years ago – nobody remembers that far back. He’s an old has-been – I didn’t even recognize him. And his lips look slobbery to me.”

It didn’t matter what the issue was. Half-Full and Half-Empty could never agree on anything.  

Outwardly, the brothers looked the same.  They were both tall glasses tapering upwards from the bottom in a v shape. The clear liquid contained in each glass was measured to exactly the same level.  Half-way.  However, their characters were very different.

The pair lived in Kooky café.  Mrs. Van-Grubble that ran it had inherited them from the previous shop owner, a fortuneteller named Mystic Marg.  They would sit on the counter and pass comments. Most people thought that the talking glasses were a funny novelty and did not take too much notice of their opinions. However sometimes they upset customers.

One day, a man with a bushy beard came in. He was thirsty and he grabbed both glasses before they had a chance to run away. With a loud gulp, he swigged first from one glass and then the other.

“My, you were thirsty,” said Half-Full refilling himself under the tap. “You sounded like you enjoyed that.”

“Thirsty?” replied Half-Empty as he too refilled.  “More like greedy.  What a disgusting noise you make. Please don’t buy dinner in here; I can’t imagine what sound you make eating.”

The man was furious. “I didn’t pay to be insulted,” he shouted. “How dare you?”

“I am terribly sorry,” said Mrs. Van-Grubber. “But you are right. All the pair of you does is squabble.  Please leave.”

“Don’t worry; I am sure we will find another job.” Half-Full hopped along the street. “Look on it as an opportunity to expand our horizons.”

“Doing what?” replied Half-Empty. “Our best days are behind us.”

 

Voices were coming from the park.  A young woman was twirling around in a blue dress.  “Adriana, do you like this?” she asked her friend.

“Oh, yes, Miranda.”  Adriana clapped her hands. “I am going to get one too.”

           The glasses could not stop themselves.

“Yes, it looks great,” Half-Full, grinned. “Aquamarine a very popular colour. And that style is very in now! ”

“What he means is that everyone is wearing it,” Half-Empty said. “So you will look the same as them. Also, it is “in” now but how long before it is “out” of fashion? It is probably a just a fad. ”

“Oh!” cried Miranda.

“Really sorry about him,” Half-Full apologized. “He knows nothing about clothes.”

“On the contrary.”  Miranda took out a receipt from her handbag. “I have only just bought this so I am returning it to get something more exclusive. Thank you so much for your advice!”

“Do you know a place we stay,” said Half-Full. “We are also looking for a job.”

“My father is the editor at the town’s newspaper, The Nattering Express.” Miranda scrawled the address on a scrap of paper. “He mentioned something about needing new reporters. Go and see him.”

 

That night, the glasses stayed under a hedge.

“This is different,” sighed Half-Full. “Sleeping under the stars at one with nature.  Just breathe in that fresh air!”

“Fresh isn’t the word for it,” complained Half-Empty. “It’s freezing.  And look at those mangy creatures.”

A hedgehog scuttled by and a fox stopped to scratch itself.

 

The next day, Half-Full and Half-Empty arrived at The Nattering Express. As they entered, a strong smell of coffee greeted them.  A tired looking percolator was heating in the corner.  It looked like it was perpetually on the go, with brown burn stains around the edge.

A large burly man was typing at a computer. “Nice to meet you guys,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you. Miranda told me all about you. She is delighted because she went to a party last night and three other girls were wearing the dress you saw.  Fortunately you had warned her, but it could have been a disaster!”

Half-Empty shot Half-Full a superior look. Result!

“I was right,” he hissed to Half-Full.

“Hello, I’m Half-Full,” Half-Full ignored his brother’s remark. “And this is my brother Half-Empty.”

“Welcome” replied the burly man.  “I’m Scott.  I run this newspaper.  My critic reviewer has left to join a national newspaper so I need someone ASAP who can review for me.”

“But we aren’t journalists?” said Half-Empty.

“But we can learn,” said Half-Full

“Remember everyone has a right to their opinion,” said Scott. “That is why Miranda told you to come here. And I agree. It is a wonderful idea to have both your thoughts! “

“Two for the price of one,” laughed Half-Full.

“Yes, exactly – two for the price of one!” moaned Half-Empty.

“We haven’t started yet,” Half-Full hopped about. “Let’s see how it goes.”

“I’ll give you a week’s trial,” said Scott. “It will give you time to understand how I work.  You can stay here but I need you to start right away.  Tonight a show opens at the Majestic Theatre with the opera star, Griselda DuPont.  I would like you report on it. What do you think?”

“Yes!” replied Half-Full. “It will make a change from sitting in Kooky Café.”

“Exactly. We’ve never been further than the cafe, let alone visit a theatre,” scowled Half-Empty. “We know nothing about music.”

“At the moment, we don’t have a choice,” whispered Half-Full. “So give it a try for now. It will be a learning curve.”

 

So later that day, the pair trotted off to the theatre. They had seats in the front row. Half-Full sat in raptures at seeing live entertainment. Half-Empty kept looking at the clock.

They hadn’t even got back to the office before they were arguing over what they saw.

“What a powerful voice!” gushed Half-Full. “That star could sure hit the high notes! You could hear her in the bar. A classic!”

“What a racket!” complained Half-Empty. “I couldn’t hear myself think, she was so loud. Out-dated and old-fashioned!”   

Scott was delighted when he read their work. “We will put a promo in each week, advertising what next week’s review topic will be and the public can join in the debate!”

On Friday, the newspaper was published.  On the centre pages was Half-Full and Half-Empty’s first review columns. The readers thoroughly enjoyed the forthright opinions of the two glasses. Word spread and soon people were clamoring for their own thoughts to appear alongside the pair.

            It just so happened that the producer, Billy Big-Cheese of the TV show A Country’s Got Talent was visiting a friend who lived in the town.  At the railway station, he found a copy of The Nattering Express on the seat.  When he saw the reviews, he called the paper.

            “I’d like to make you an offer,” Billy said to Half-Full and Half-Empty. “I am looking for a new judge for the show and you would both be perfect!”

            “Two for the price of one!” Half-Full laughed.

            “Yes, exactly!” grumbled Half-Empty but for once they both agreed. They took the offer.

            On the day of the broadcast, when a car arrived to take them to the studio, Scott wished them good luck.

            “Who would have thought that you could make a success out of being yourself?” Half-Full beamed happily.

            “We haven’t been on the TV yet,” Half-Empty, reminded him. “It might go wrong.”

            “Just remember, it is possible to be both half full and half empty!” Scott waved them goodbye. “It just depends on which way you look at it!”

About the author 

Philippa has written four print books, one audio story and had short stories and poems in magazines and anthologies. She has written many assemblies for SPCK Publishing. Philippa enjoys creativity in all its forms from the written word to charity promotions and performance. 

 

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Sunday Serial: 280 x 70, 42 Their Path by Gill James, mineral 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. 

42. Their Path  

 "Now then, guys, smile." A faint breeze came off the Ship Canal. It was good to be near water on a day like this. The photographer danced around them. "Good, good."

Gary and Barry felt good as well. It hadn't always been like this, though. Gary twanged the waistband on his jogging pants. "Remember how we couldn't get anything to fit."

Barry nodded. He remembered uncomfortable clothing that dug into him everywhere. And the sweat. Oh the sweat. Buckets full. A day like this would have probably killed him.

The embarrassment was the worst though. When you took up too much room on the tram, when you began to stink even though you'd used deodorant or when you couldn't bend over to tie up a shoe lace that had come undone.

Then it had become frightening when you got out of breath just walking from the bedroom to the kitchen. When it hurt your lungs just to breathe. And when they told you that they couldn't do the operation on your knee because the anaesthetic would be too risky so you just had to put up with the pain.

Worst of all was not being able to do things with the kids. He couldn't stand through a football practice. He couldn't drive his daughter to ballet lessons because he couldn't fit in the car. Holidays were out of the question.

He and Gary had decided they must do something. Slimming clubs were no good. They couldn't get there. So it had to be online.

It had worked.  Who'd have thought it? And now they were advertising it to others.

"Just one more," said the photographer. "Now, smile for the camera."             

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 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE 

https://twitter.com/GillJames 

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.)

Nerve Pills by Phyllis Souza, mineral water

 

“I can't believe I'm having so much trouble refilling my nerve pills at my local pharmacy," I say to Gennie, my friend.

     "Why?" she asks.

"They won't fill my prescription unless they have all my medications—some regulation."

     "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I mostly use the mail-order pharmacy because there are no co-pays."

     "And that's a problem?"

"You bet it is. I'm on social security. Can't afford co-pays."

     "Have the mail order pharmacist request a transfer of the pills to them."

"I did. But you know what gets my goat. The local pharmacy has been filling this same medication for years."

     The mail-order requests the transfer—no response from the local pharmacy. I contact my doctor.

    My doctor's office calls the local pharmacy.

    The pharmacy agrees to fill the medication— once.

The next day I walk into the drugstore. "I'm here to pick up my pills."

    "Sorry. We don't have the prescription," the lady at the counter says.

    "But my doctor said you would fill it."

    "Nobody contacted us."

    Throwing my hands in the air. "This is nuts!" I call my doctor's office again— for the third time.

    "Forget the local pharmacy. I'm sending a new prescription to your mail-order pharmacy," the physician's assistant tells me.

     My computer beeps. It's the mail-order pharmacy. The prescription is processed.

About the author 

Phyllis Souza lives in Northern California and is retired from a long real estate career. She's taken several on-line writing classes. Her stories have been published in Café Lit, The Raven Perch, SpillWords, Scarlet Leaf Review and Friday Flash Fiction, The Drabble. 

 

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.) and getting the next book out.

Watered Down

By Kathy Sharp

mineral water  

He had fled to the top of the lighthouse shouting, “I’ll be ready for the flood! I shan’t be caught unawares!”

The lighthouse keeper was furious, seeing as Mr Fazakerly was obstructing the light, and thus posing a danger to shipping. As to persuading him to come down, every approach seemed to have failed, and there he stayed, obstinately clinging to the rail.

Mrs Fazakerly was furious, too. “It’s all the fault of that fortune teller – came to town with that travelling fair – told him water would be the death of him. It’s outrageous, frightening people like that. Ought to be illegal. Convinced himself he’s to be drowned in a flood – and now look at him!” She gazed hopelessly up at the distant figure of her husband at the top of the tower.

The lighthouse keeper tended to agree. How was he supposed to make a proper job of tending to the building – much less keep the light in good order – with a crazed man hurling himself about the place, screeching about impending floods and generally getting in the way? Should he consult his superiors? Demand that Mr Fazakerly be formally removed, as an impediment to lawful lighthouse-keeping? It was the best plan, and a note of complaint was duly written and sent. In the meantime, though, life, and light, must go on, Fazakerly or no Fazakerly.

And so the sober and proper upkeep of the building continued. The lighthouse keeper, a fastidious man by nature, discovered a trail of muddy footprints all the way up the spiral staircase. “Didn’t even stop to wipe his feet, that Fazakerly. Scandalous.” 

It was not to be borne, and though it was late in the day, a mop and bucket were carried to the top, and the laborious cleansing of the many steps begun. But it was growing dark, and the lighthouse keeper stopped to tend the light. Normal service must be maintained, he thought, as far as possible under the circumstances.

But Mr Fazakerly, blinded equally by terror and the startling light, barged past him yelling, “The flood! The flood is coming!”

As the lighthouse keeper said at the inquest: “Pushed past me, your honour – very rude – tripped over my bucket, and went bump, bump, bump, crash, bump all the way down the stairs. Broke his neck somewhere on the way down. Buckled my bucket, too.” 

Mrs Fazakerly, in deep mourning, told her neighbours about the prophetic warning of the fortune teller. “Water would be the death of him, she said, and she was right. But it wasn’t a flood, like he thought, oh dear, no. It was just a bucketful did for Fazakerly.”

About the author 

For full details of all Kathy's books, follow her on her Amazon page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Kathy-Sharp/e/B00E5BJ0BK/

Whales and Strange Stars. Lovely historical novel set in the marshlands of 18^th century Kent. 

‘The sense of place is perfectly captured, and the writing just dances off the page. Highly recommended.’ myBook.to/WhalesAndStrangeStars

New Year's Resolution

 Sue Cross

a glass of mineral water with a Slice of Lemon

 

It has been three days since chocolate has passed my lips. Three long, miserable days. It was the sight of my hips that decided it as I battled with the zip of my jeans. I cursed my addiction as I managed to yank it closed, and viewed with horror the roll of fat lying on top of the waistband like an overblown muffin.

‘That’s it. No more chocolate.’ I muttered to my reflection in the mirror.

Of course I had to finish the remains of the Belgium chocolate truffles that my mother had given me for Christmas. It would be sacrilege not too. I savoured each one slowly, letting the bitter, dark cocoa that dusted the outside dissolve in my mouth before the velvety, rich layer of chocolate melted to release the molten deliciousness of the inside of each sinful morsel.

Too soon I had polished them off and I felt a mixture of relief and regret in throwing the box away. No more chocolate for me. Soon my jeans would be swimming on my hips as I dropped a dress size. But my self-righteousness was soon replaced by despair.

I was like one possessed by a force stronger than myself.

Did it get easier? No, it did not. Each day dawned and I was enveloped in misery. How could I get by without my best friend? For that is what chocolate had become. Any chocolate. I fantasised about walnut whips, coffee creams, chocolate covered Turkish delight, caramels in milk chocolate, mint creams encased in dark chocolate, white chocolate truffles, coconut covered chocolates, bitter black chocolate squares, rum and raisin, chocolate bursting in the mouth releasing liqueurs, strawberry fondants, cherries in bitter chocolate.  I dreamed of chocolate. In other words, I was obsessed.

It’s not really my fault. My mother owned a sweet shop and I grew up inhaling the fragrance of her kitchen, where she toiled each evening over fresh batches of home made chocolates.  The bitter-sweet fragrance of that kitchen was the air I breathed: vanilla, spices, Christmas, birthdays, celebrations, life. And when I’d had a bad day at school or fell and scraped my knee, the succour that she offered was always a chocolate placed into my mouth. It worked every time and soon the pain was forgotten as I gave in to the sweet temptations that were constantly on offer.

Theobroma cocao, the food of the gods. The Mayans made it over two thousand years ago with ground cocoa beans, chillies, cinnamon and just enough sugar to take away the bitterness. It was used in ceremonies to give courage before battle. They gave it to their sacrificial victims just before they ripped their hearts out. Such is the magic of chocolate.

Day four at work and Sharon, from the typing pool, brings a box of chocolates into the office. Sharon is a thin girl who belongs to one of those gyms where only the slim venture over the threshold. Sharon worships at the shrine of the body beautiful and chocolate is not a part of her diet. Sharon brings a plastic container of undressed salad to work each day for her lunch.

‘Have one.’ She places the open box on my desk and the familiar aroma is an aphrodisiac, pulling at my senses.

Try me. Taste me. They seem to chant as they glisten in their plastic tray.

‘What are you doing with chocolate?’ I quiz her accusingly, as I avert my eyes from the temptation.

‘They were a present from my new boyfriend but –'

‘I don’t eat chocolate.’ I interrupt, willing her to remove them.

‘But, I thought –'

‘No, I don’t anymore. New Year’s Resolution.’

‘Really?’ Sharon looks at me with deep suspicion, as well she might.

I start to reason with myself. Just the one. One won’t harm. You can walk home instead of getting the bus.

Then I look at her snake hips and remember the sight of mine in my too tight skirt.

‘Yes, really. I find they give me a headache…’ I trail off as I feel a guilty blush creep up my cheeks. I am a hopeless liar. I decide that I would have to go to confession, as lying was now added to my sin of greed.

‘Well, if you insist.’ And with that she whips them away and I breathe a sigh of relief.

‘Well done.’ A voice behind me whispers.

It’s Caroline, five foot two and weighing at around a hundred and fifty pounds.

‘Did you have one?’ I asked.

‘No, I’ve given them up. New Year’s Resolution.’ She replies, looking as dejected as I felt.

‘Are you finding it hard?’

‘Incredibly,' replies my new soul mate.

‘Tell you what.’ I am struck with inspiration. ‘If we can get through this week, why don’t we treat each other to a meal out? Not pizza or anything but something healthy and delicious.’

Caroline smiles and we form a pact.

Six months later I have dropped two dress sizes and joined that snooty gym. Actually, I found it to be quite friendly once the terror of joining was surmounted. Sharon, Caroline and I go every evening after work and once a week we treat ourselves to a meal out.

Do I miss chocolate? Of course I do. But I don’t miss that layer of blubber that used to sit on top of my jeans like an overblown muffin.

About the author:

Sue Cross has written two novels, Tea at Sam’s and the sequel, Making Scents, as well as numerous short stories. You can visit her on the website www.suecross.com