Sunday Best by Peter Lingard, a single malt scotch

As I enter the church, I notice the lace of my right shoe has somehow come undone. In my pew I lean down to retie it and notice a small blob of white cream where the toecap meets the binding. Why hadn’t I noticed it when I put my shoes on? Because the act of lacing the shoe caused my hand to blind my view?  Perhaps. It seems unlikely but I have no other explanation.

I know they make shoe creams in one-fits-all varieties these days and white is a common colour, but I don’t use them. The shoes I wear today are brown and I polish them with brown shoe polish. So what foreign substance is marring my highly polished brogues? I waggle my foot and point to it for my wife to see.

‘Any idea where that blasted cream came from?’

‘Sorry, dear, I didn’t bring a microscope with me – too big for my handbag. What cream?’

I waggle again and move the tip of my finger closer to the offending blob. ‘There, right-hand side where the top cap meets the binding.’

‘If you say it’s there, then I’m sure it must be, but I can’t see it. Sorry darling.’

I’d forgotten it’s more fashionable to be blind than to wear spectacles.

The choir starts with Hallelujah for The Cross, and I know to let things go for a while. It is a vexing puzzle, but one I will have to investigate after the service. I use the corner of my handkerchief to capture the blob, then wipe the surrounding area clean. I look for somewhere to dispose of the soiled material but find nothing. I carefully fold the fabric and put it in my pocket.

After a greeting and a couple of prayers, the choir sings, Shouting Shoes and remind me of my predicament.

Following the sermon, the choir launches into Moses, Take off Your Shoes and I decide not to contribute too much to the collection tray. I wonder about a God who has such hymns in his honour.

 

 

Back at home, I go straight to my shoe drawer – the compartment where I keep my polishes, brushes and cloths. And there it is, the object of my morning’s disarray. A tube of the new-fangled white shoe cream. Whomever had used it had done so without care or discipline. The tube is squeezed in its middle and seemingly writhing in agony. There is clotted waste at its top and it must have been from there that my shoe picked up the offending blob. Why hadn’t I noticed the tube before? Ahh. Because Tuesday had been my birthday and my young son, caring and dutiful boy had volunteered to clean my shoes. He presented his finished work last night. God, he, or she, who likes to be worshipped with hymns that dwell on shoes, should bless the lad. I put the tube of cream back in the drawer and my soiled handkerchief in the waste bin. Tomorrow, I shall teach my beloved son how to squeeze a tube from the bottom.

About the author  

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, laboured in a large dairy, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 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.)

The Library by NT Franklin, single malt scotch, neat

 

Joe sat in the library, or what used to be the library. He glanced around at the bombed-out shell of the building and cried.

‘Why?’ He asked to no one. ‘A library. What type of savage bombs a library with a missile? Clearly a civilian target.’

Joe navigated around the overturned desks and stared at the empty shelves. No books. No staff. His happy place, his safe place, was gone. Blown up.

Joe looked at his clenched fists and tried to relax his tense shoulders. He closed his eyes and looked toward the heavens. His promise to his mother rang in his ears: ‘No, I promise I won’t take up guns and fight.’

Each room was the same. Furniture strewn about and no books. Joe plodded toward the exit and a spray-painted image caught his eye. It was the image of a book, and from appearances, hastily done. Next to it was 910.202.4.

 

Joe knew the Dewey Decimal System inside out; 910 was geography and travel. He arrived at 202 4^th avenue and was greeted by Abby, his favorite of the library staff.

‘Abby, the library’s blown up and the books are gone.’

‘I know, we moved them.’

‘Moved them?’

‘Yes, to here. We’re underground in this abandoned parking garage.’

Joe looked around at the lines painted on the floor and the scratched-up concrete columns. ‘You could have asked for help; I’d have gladly pitched in.’

Abby shook her head. ‘We decided amongst ourselves that it would be staff only. We couldn’t take any risks.’

‘Risks? On me? When did I become a risk?’

‘It was just easier to keep it in-house,’ Abby said.

‘I see.’

‘I was really hoping I’d see you again.’

‘I promised my mom I wouldn’t join the military.’

‘I suppose scoliosis has something to do with her wishes.’

‘I promised I would not pick up a gun. She’s gone and I must keep my promise.’ Joe hung his head.

Abby smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re here now. We’d love some help putting the volumes in order.’

‘Where do I start? I don’t see any books.’

‘Come with me, down two levels. I’d like you to start in the room with the 000 books.’

‘Ah, computer science.’

‘The room has dozens of computers all online. There are other people in the room now.’

‘Cool. I’m pretty good with computers and I’m rather familiar with much of the library’s holdings of this topic.’

Joe hummed to himself while walking behind Abby down the dark stairs. ‘Wow, the stairs look like they’re not used recently with all the litter on the steps.’

‘Yes, Joe; that’s kinda the idea.’

Down two floors, Abby opened a nondescript door and said, ‘Here’s the room.’

Joe took a step in and stopped. ‘They’re no books in here, Abby.’

‘I know, Joe, I know. These are the best and brightest computer people in the area. None of them are in the military but they all want to contribute. Guns aren’t the only weapons, you know; wars are fought on many fronts.’

Joe stared at the tables set up with computers and tangles of wires snaking along the near wall and hanging from the ceiling at each computer station.

Abby walked to the end of the table and put her hand on a monitor. This station’s for you, Joe. What do you say?’

He surveyed the room and computers, then turned toward Abby. ‘In.’

Abby nodded. ‘Introduce yourself around.’ She pointed toward a young man wearing a knit hat. ‘That’s Chad. He’ll help get you started.’

Joe hugged Abby. ‘Thanks.’

Abby backed out of the room and closed the door.

‘Guns aren’t the only weapons,’ Joe whispered to himself.

About the author 

NT Franklin writes cozy mystery short stories, nostalgia short stories, and Flash Fiction and has over 140 publications on numerous sites. He writes because he can’t fish or do crossword puzzles all the time. 

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.)