Sunday Serial:280 x 70, 39. BJ by Gill james, cheap fizzy white wine

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.

 

Why does he always have to muzz his hair like that? Before a radio interview? Okay, so they're filming him going into a radio interview. He has to keep up appearances. Actually, would a fine haircut make a difference? Probably not. He's one of those guys whose shirt always hangs out. 

They say he tells lies. Lie after lie, some claim. It's not just the twisting of statistics to suit his cause - that's what most of them do - but he doesn't even trade in verifiable facts, does he?

Of course, he's given us a bit of a giggle at times. They've even liked him on the mainland because he lightens things up. Gives them something to laugh at when things have got too serious. The trouble is, things are serious now and there isn't any time for buffoonery.

He rarely gets his facts right and he ought to be able to, given the education he's had. I know he's just being lazy.  Can't be bothered to find out and now it's become a trademark so he can't drop the act even if he wanted to.

Good for the country, eh? Well I suppose at least he'll get on with it. He'll charge in there. Rummage around a bit. Fix a few things, break a few things. Perhaps he will bring us together. He'll unite us in our despair of him.

It's all one great big Eton mess, with a little jack Russell jumping up at their heels as the meringue and strawberries go flying. Oh oh.  Tweedledee and Tweedledum either side of the Atlantic. But which one is Dee and which one is Dumb? Or dumb and dumber?    

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 

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Unlike Romeo and Juliet

by  Iris N  Schwartz

sparkling white wine 

 

I didn’t tell you this before? You’re sure?

 

At 5:00 p.m. every Friday, after slogging through his civil service job in Manhattan, my father would ride two subway trains and one bus to South Brooklyn. At about 6:30 p.m. he would open the front door to our home.

 

On this particular Friday he stealthily crossed the linoleum floor toward my mother.

 

Mommy didn’t hear him. She faced the kitchen sink and was running hot and cold water, scrubbing and butchering five to ten reasonably priced whole chickens, the parts of which she encased in plastic bags for storage in the freezer.

 

Daddy pantomimed shushing me and my sister Rochelle, holding one index finger in front of his pursed mouth. He tossed his trench coat over the back of a kitchen chair. I don’t know if my sister noticed that Daddy was carrying a pocket-size box in his right hand.

 

You would have seen it. You spot details.

 

I watched as he — then his lips — neared the back of my mother’s neck; she spun around so swiftly he had to step back from the cleaver she wielded. My father stumbled and almost fell, but righted himself and managed to capture the little box, too.

 

I lifted my chin in Rochelle’s direction, pointed at the domestic drama in progress; she shook her head back and forth, raised both palms. Returned to her textbook. (Unlike me, Rochelle spent considerable time studying. Which is why she garnered high 90’s or 100 percent on most exams. Which is why I didn’t.)

 

Yes, I know. Focus: father, mother, sister, Brooklyn kitchen, gift.

 

I heard Mommy chide my father: “Louis, not in front of the kids, please!” So he didn’t kiss my mother then, but he did open the lid of the tiny box to show her what was inside.

 

“Oh, Louis, you shouldn’t have!”

 

I think my father was still smiling.

 

“This must have cost a small fortune. Why did you spend so much money on me?”

 

Daddy’s mouth: a straight, horizontal line.

 

Later that night I examined the present where Mommy had left it, on the living room coffee table: it was a pin consisting of multicolored gemstones atop long gold “stems.” This bejeweled bouquet didn’t look expensive to me. It was, however, very pretty. I passed the box to Rochelle, who waved it away in order to concentrate on homework.

 

One Saturday afternoon not long after the flower pin debacle, the four of us sat in foldable chairs on our front porch. My sister was taking photos of Mommy and Daddy. One week later as we passed the pictures around I noticed that my mother’s hands were entwined with my father’s.  

 

I must have told you this: the first time I lifted my face to yours and closed my eyes, nothing existed but your lips and mine.

 

Maybe it was like that for my mother and father – when Rochelle and I weren’t around.

 About the author 

Iris N. Schwartz's fiction has been published in dozens of journals and anthologies, including Anti-Heroin Chic, Five-2-One, Jellyfish Review, Litro, and Spelk Fiction. Her short-short story collection, My Secret Life with Chris Noth, was published by Poets Wear Prada and nominated for two Pushcart Prizes. Shame is her latest collection.