Lysha by Lynn Clement, sweet tea

 

The electronic arm swung towards Lysha and jabbed the top of her flabby shoulder.

We, The Federation, cannot afford for you to be fat. You will lose two kilos per week for four weeks or you will be de-regulated and have no access to medical services.

The huge screen delivering the message went blank.

A robot wearing a white mask showed Lysha to the door of the hospital.

She blinked in the bright sunlight and immediately the sweat came with the searing heat.

This was her second time at the clinic and now she was chipped.

She stood in line for the swoosh. She couldn’t walk in this heat. The pavement bubbled.

An evil-eye rounded the corner. It slowed on seeing Lysha and scanned her. Its red light flashed.

Now Lysha was chipped, it rolled on its way.

She wiped the sweat from her top lip. She needed to get home to her pod and stay where no one could see her and her flab.

The swoosh came, Lysha boarded.

The automaton in charge looked her up and down. ‘There’s not much room in here you know,’ it said with perfected disdain.

Lysha kept her head down. Passengers tutted.

One woman in a black uniform, put her lunch-pack on the seat next to her, defying Lysha to ask her to move it.

Lysha didn’t ask. She held on to the over-head hoop.

The swoosh jerked. Lysha fell forward. Embarrassed, she said sorry five times, before she looked up into the eyes of a man who was clearly from the high-tech section of society. He was wearing a red uniform with one button open at the top. A little curl of black hair poked from underneath.

Lysha’s face burned. ‘Sorry,’ she said again.

‘It’s okay,’ said the man wearing thick rimmed black glasses.

Everyone’s eyes turned towards them.

‘He spoke to her,’ one of the passengers whispered.

‘And he smiled,’ said another, readying their ring for a recording to submit to the Poliznasers.

Lysha couldn’t stand the scrutiny. She got off at the next stop. She certainly didn’t want the man reporting to the Poliznasers because he spoke to a flabby person. He did have a lovely smile though, said her inner voice.

The sun burned down on her skin. She walked towards the tree museum. It was air conned.

As the door opened, she felt a breath on her neck. Her hair prickled. Someone was close. She held her handbag tight.

‘Let me,’ said a voice she recognized. He held the door back. It was the man from the swoosh.

Lysha gulped.

‘I had to follow you,’ he said.

‘What?’

He smiled that smile. ‘I felt a connection, so I followed you.’

‘But you’re…’ Lysha was anxious.

‘I’m a man,’ he said.

He held out his hand.

He wants to touch me, thought Lysha. Flabby me, a social outcast.

She put her hand in her pocket.

‘I’m Asa,’ said the man. He looked deep into Lysha’s eyes, and she had a strange feeling. Something she’d not experienced before.

In a timid voice she said, ’Lysha.’

‘Lysha, a beautiful name, for a beautiful person.’

That smile again.

‘Can we sit together for a while?’ asked Asa.

‘But what if we’re seen?’ said Lysha.

‘It’s okay,’ Asa said, and he threw his beany hat over the CCTV camera.

This time Lysha smiled. What was it about this man?

Asa bent his head towards Lysha’s.

 For the first time ever, Lysha felt her spine extend.

 She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him as hard as he kissed her.

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 

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Trial by Lisa Rodriguez, sweet tea

Abby gazed down at the linoleum floor with orange squares and yellow flowers. She tapped her right foot. Solid. The plywood den walls and cord-connected phone, which hung next to the open kitchen, complemented the 70ish styled theme. A hundred recollections rushed into her mind simultaneously.

Dad’s gigantic dinner table still dominated the center of the room. Way too big for a family of four. The only inside illumination came from the kitchen, where a California Raisin commercial glowed on the 11-inch TV.

This must be a memory from the late 80s. But where is everyone? 

She glanced out the window.

Snow? Oh yeah! The winter of 1989. The last time it snowed. They’re outside, enjoying dad’s old radio flyer sled.

A loud clank emanated from the kitchen. Abby’s heart skipped when she saw a glimpse of her mother taking one of her famous chicken pot pies from the oven before disappearing around the corner.

‘Mom,’ Abby whispered, squinting her eyes to fight off tears. She glanced at the timer on her wrist. It flickered the number three in neon green. ‘Three minutes to go,’ she murmured.

Abby puffed her chest and stepped into her family’s kitchen. There was her mother, dressed in a typical blue skirt and colored blouse. For this memory, it was a pink one. The two colors looked amazing against her mom's chestnut-dyed hair draping her shoulders.

On the stove sat the pie along with buttered green beans and Pillsbury dough biscuits, the ones with flaky layers. The aromas of salted meat and fresh bread made Abby's mouth water.

She gulped and took another step. ‘Uh, mom?’

Her mother dropped her wooden spoon and spun around. A small gasp escaped her lips. Her hazel eyes stared into Abby’s.

Abby moved closer with outstretched arms, but then stopped short. Her arms became limp.

‘Mother, listen to me. I’m Abby, older Abby, and all this is from your memory. We’re in your mind, not the kitchen. It’s not the 1980s.’ She sighed. ‘I'm here to keep this memory alive. Something is trying to eat your memories, so you’ll forget us. You’ve got to fight it when it comes.’

Her mother kept her gaze steady, as if nothing had changed.

Abby waved her hand in front of her mother’s face. Still emptiness. Her brow furrowed. ‘Mom?’

‘No!’ her mother said, shaking her head. ‘You aren’t Abby. You’re an intruder. A liar.’

Her mother shoved her back with both hands. Abby stumbled before using the corner of the fridge to stand up. The thumps of her heart banging against her ears. 

‘Get out of my house!’ Her mom let out a scream and started yanking at her own hair.

The entire room shook. Old magazines toppled from the top of the fridge one by one. The hanging pots and pans clanked together in dissonance. Even the dish towel tumbled off its hook. 

A crack materialized overhead. Abby watched it rip across the ceiling, zigzagging the great divide. The tearing sound of fabric and ghostly wails.

The sirens blared from her timer, flashing green, blue, green, blue, and like clockwork, the portal materialized.

It was time to go.

She shot a glance at her mom. Rainbow glass had replaced her hazel eyes. Eventually, her whole body would reflect multiple hues of color before disintegrating into a thousand fragments, gone for eternity to the monster of sickness.

Abby wiped away her tears and rushed through the opening.

‘Welcome home, Abby Givens.’ She heard Dr. Cho’s voice first, before anything else. ‘The year is 2037. Don’t move until I unhook you.’

She felt a stabbing sensation in her arm, followed by a series of pops near her head.

‘Okay, you’re good to go. Take it slow.’

‘How’d I do?’ She asked the doctor, opening her eyes. She pushed up from the medical lab bed.

‘Fantastic for an initial trial’ She paused. ‘Your mother’s memory is depleting faster than I realized. To stop the disease from advancing, we need her to fight from the inside. This requires the conscious to realize what is happening.’ Dr. Cho put her hand on Abby’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. Together, we will find a cure.’

Abby glanced across the lab at her frail, 90-year-old mom, still trapped in her Alzheimer’s state of frozenness.

‘Yeah, but when?’

About the author 

Lisa Rodriguez lives with her husband and three year old in Washington State. She loves reading and writing all types of fiction. When not writing, she enjoys hiking and traveling. 

 

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Getting the Job Done

by Allison Symes

sweet tea

She collected specimens, whether they wanted it or not.  They didn’t get to argue for long.  They didn’t have to be alive for a start.  Tell them that and she usually got their co-operation.

So why was this one being so belligerent? She couldn't remember when someone last argued with her. She did know nobody ever got to tell the tale. All she had to do was inform  her supervisor there was an awkward one. Everyone back home understood that.

Well nobody was going to make a dent in her track record. She whipped out a light gun and aimed it at the miniscule creature in front of her. It was a stupid looking thing. All fur, floppy ears, and big brown eyes.

Goodness knew why the bosses wanted it and then she found out.

The puppy sat, whimpered, and held up a paw. There was a husk of some sort in there.

She put the gun down, gently removed the husk, and was rewarded with a big lick across her three pink noses.

She scooped the pup up in her elongated pink arms. 'Sod the bosses. You're staying with me. Let's find you something to eat.'

The pup squealed and wagged its tail. She smiled. She'd not had anything nice happen for a long time. She'd focussed on just getting the job done.

There were going to be changes around here.

About the author

 Allison Symes is published by Chapeltown Books, Cafélit, and Bridge House Publishing amongst others.  She is a member of the Society of Authors and Association of Christian Writers.  She adores reading and writing quirky fiction. Her website is https:\\allisonsymescollectedworks.com and she blogs weekly for online magazine, Chandler’s Ford Today, often on writing related topics - http://chandlersfordtoday.co.uk/author/allison-symes/

New Leaf

by Lynn Clement

sweet tea

  ‘I’m turning over a new leaf,’ I say to my mother. She looks at me with sadness in her eyes.

‘No I mean it mum, this time it’s for real.’

She kisses my cheek and waves as she gets to the door.

   Flopping back on my pillow, I am exhausted at the pretence of it all. Closing my eyes, the old pictures come. I was in a pink frilly frock, or was it purple – lilac maybe. We were in the back entry to our two up two down in the heart of Salford city. Five years old and happy as Larry, whoever he is? Why do people say that, ‘Happy as Larry?’ It’s a good name though, short for Laurence, nearly as good as the one I picked.

   Another memory flashes in my mind, that one where I was with my cousins Kathleen and Frank. We were playing by the river Irwell. Frank was showing off as usual. I adored him. He was my hero in a way and I wanted to be like him. After that day, I wanted to be him.

   We were mucking around at the water’s edge and the dog fell in. I didn’t know any of us knew how to swim. We didn’t have lessons and I don’t remember our parents taking us swimming either. But Frank loved that dog and he wasn’t about to let him drown. Frank dived in, well belly- flopped really with an almighty splash that sent the water splattering over me and Kathleen. He was a big lad Frank. And he was strong. He got the dog, Laddie to the side where he could scramble out. Me and Kathleen managed to drag Frank half way up the bank where he was able to grab some roots and pull himself onto the grass. He lay there flat on his back, panting, a bit like the dog. Laddie had recovered quickly and was now licking his privates and I remember laughing out loud. Breaking the tension I said, ‘Don’t you do that Frank!’ I think Frank swore at me, but in that moment I fell in love.

   The love wasn’t for Frank as such, although I liked him a lot; he was my cousin after all, but for what he was. I hadn’t dived in. Kathleen hadn’t dived in but Frank had. Was that when I realised I was wrong? Something was wrong. I’m not sure really. It’s taken me forty years to know.

   The nurse interrupts my thoughts.’ Hello Frankie,’ she says. ‘How are you feeling today?’ She reaches for the medication as she speaks.

‘I’m ok,’ I say. ‘Just had a visit from mother,’

‘How’s she taking it?’

‘The usual,’ I say, ‘trying to put a brave face on it.’

‘It’s a big thing for her,’ says Nurse Downing.

‘It’s a big thing for me,’ I say.

   She tells me the surgeon will be here in a little while and gives me my pre-op medicine. I’m hoping it will calm the nerves. I am so scared but now I know, I need this. This is my new leaf. No more depression. No more suicide attempts. No more longing to be someone that my body says I’m not. The real me revealed.

   I begin to drift off and I can see my mother’s sad eyes saying goodbye to her little girl at the ward door.

Life Begins at the 250 Bus Stop

by Jacqueline Ewers 

sweet tea

Autumn 2014

I push the key in the door.  Kicking off my shoes, I head for the kitchen.  Most nights I can’t be bothered to make the effort to cook a proper meal. The microwave pings as my toast pops out of the toaster.  I pour baked beans over brown bread.  The smell is comforting.  I settle down in front of the telly.  The evening passes as I watch several episodes of Say Yes to the Dress.  Getting ready for bed, I pull a long satin nightdress out of a drawer full of negligees.  After slipping it on, I bundle up in a cardigan.  I wouldn’t be this cold if I had a husband to snuggle up to.  I put socks on and slump beside my bed to pray.  God, have you forgotten me?  

I’ve been praying for a husband for years.  I’m fed up of the repeated chorus ‘I am praying God will send you a husband, Sister Maxine. Wait on the Lord and be of good courage.’ Today was the worst.  After Pastor Kendal’s sermon: Don’t Worry Your Boaz is Around the Corner, everyone came to encourage me. I wanted to tell them to bog off. God, why haven’t you sent someone for me?  It is so unfair.  Disappointment climbs into bed with me.  As I fill the empty space on my right with pillows, tears fall on the duvet cover.

We were a tight-knit church youth group until members started getting married.  It was great to begin with. Sometimes I was bridesmaid two or three times a year.  But by twenty-eight, I was in the group of women no one chose to marry.  By forty, friends stopped looking out for guys for me saying ‘I was too picky’.  Others said my ‘lack of faith’ was the reason I was still single.

            I sit with Amanda in Tuesday night Prayer Meeting expecting the same routine; a few songs followed by prayer.  Pastor Amy gives an exhortation entitled Trust God, Your Ram is in the Thicket with great animation and enthusiasm.  Voices mingle as members respond to the message.

‘Praise the Lord!’

‘Hallelujah!’

Suddenly, Pastor Amy calls me to the altar.  Sweat beads form on my upper lip as I try to avoid the glances of the others. Terrified, I make my way wondering what she’s going to say.  Pastor Amy shouts from the podium,

‘The Lord says you will be married within eighteen months.’

Stunned, I lift my hands in praise.  ‘Thank you God, finally you’ve heard my prayer.’ 

The next evening while scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, a notification pops up.  Shiloh Church is holding a speed dating evening tomorrow. God, will I find him there?  I register for the event.

The small church hall is decorated with clusters of red and white balloons with tables covered in contrasting red and white paper table covers.  There’s a low buzz of excited voices.  I feel as if I have arrived late even though I am ten minutes early.  Ten smartly dressed men casually discuss sport amongst themselves.  I see nine impeccably presented women clustered in groups of three. They seem to know each other.  I note their smiles fixed in place to catch the eye of a potential mate.  I approach one group saying ‘hello’.  Heat rises to my face as I sense their scrutiny.  I’m so glad I changed into something smart before leaving work. A bell rings.  The room becomes quiet.  A fifty something woman introduces herself as Sister Yvonne.  Her hair is swept back in a simple pony tail and her face make up free. She prays to open the evening asking for God’s direction.

            ‘Ladies and gentlemen, when you came in you were given a number.  Please sit at that table. The bell will ring after 10 minutes. Gentlemen, you will then move onto the next table in a clockwise direction.’

I am quickly bored with number one.  He only speaks about his Lexus car.  On close inspection number two has pencilled in his eyebrows.  A definite no.  Number three just quotes scripture the whole time.  Number four, doesn’t make eye contact.  I think he’s a bit shifty rather than shy.  The fleshy gaps between the straining buttons of Number five’s shirt put me off.  Six makes it clear that he is the centre of his world.  Seven is looking for a woman to replace his mother.  Eight becomes uninterested when I say I don’t like football.  Nine is Pete.  Our conversation flows with ease.  He’s a Pentecostal. Tick.  Working. Tick.  Funny. Tick.  Looking for a wife. Huge tick.  God is this him?’  I don’t really engage with Number ten because I’m thinking about Pete.  The final bell rings.  Some men duck for the door, while others linger.  I quickly look at my phone pretending not to notice Pete coming towards me.

            ‘Hey Maxine, you fancy grabbing something to eat tomorrow evening?’

            ‘Yeah, why not?’ I say, trying to mask my excitement. He gives me his number and we arrange to meet at Tooting Bec Station at 8pm. “Thank you Jesus, I didn’t expect to meet my husband so soon.” I sing “God my provider” all the way home, fantasising about my wedding.

 It takes me all day to get ready.  I choose an outfit to show off my figure.  Hair freshly styled, flawless Mac face, I head out for Tooting.  The thrill of dating bubbles away feeding my excitement.  ‘I can’t believe I’ve found him already.  Thank you Lord’.

            ‘Hey Maxi, you look great.’

            ‘Thanks, where are we are we going?’

            ‘Oh, it’s not far.’

We chat chirpily as we walk down the road. ‘We’re here,’ he announces.  My breath catches in my throat.  As we go inside, the Chicken Cottage menu looms over me.  He throws the words ‘Dutch yeah?’ over his shoulder at me, and then places his order.  Not wanting to look as if I can’t pay for my meal, I order a wrap and a drink.  I watch him shovel a handful of chips in his mouth.  As he talks about himself, bits of chips fall to the table.  He absentmindedly picks them up putting them in his mouth.  ‘This cannot be the one, no bloody way.’  I try to be pleasant but when the chicken fat runs down his chin dripping onto the table, I get up mumbling something about feeling sick and leave.  Deflated, wondering about the promise of a husband, I make my way home, blocking his number.

Spring 2015

As I brown the meat, the spicy curry powder, mingled with ginger and garlic waft throughout my flat promising a tasty meal.  Rice simmers away releasing its buttery aroma.  It’s been so long since I cooked a proper meal.  Amanda chops cucumber.

‘Did you hear? Marj is pregnant.’  

            ‘No way.’  

            ‘Because she’s single she’ll have to give up her post as Sunday School Superintendent. Such a shame, she loves those kids.’

            ‘Now she’ll finally have one of her own. I know what it’s like to be sick of being the godmother and never the mother. Do you think she did it on purpose?’

            ‘Who knows?... I blame our church rules; no sex before marriage; no co-habitation; no marrying non-Christians. I feel smothered.’

            ‘This purity thing ain’t easy.’

            ‘Well, I got myself a rubber friend to keep me company.’ Amanda confesses as she sips her wine.

            ‘What you saying to me?  You know that’s a no-no.’ 

            ‘What’s a girl to do?’

            ‘I’m keeping myself pure for my husband.’  I say, not mentioning crying many nights wondering where he is. 

            ‘You do just that.  God is faithful.  The prophecy will come to pass.’ 

              We continue chatting during our meal.  I savour every mouthful.  I had forgotten how much I love my own cooking and eating with company.  After Amanda leaves I wash up the dishes mulling over my secret encounter with Brother Barry. 

Winter 2014

I first noticed him visiting in a Sunday morning service three months ago. His smooth baritone voice caught my attention. I admired his dapper look and fudge-coloured skin. ‘God, is this him?’  I approached him striking up a conversation. His Paul Smith aftershave gently tickled my nostrils.  He became a regular visitor.  ‘Can I have your number?’ he asked one day. ‘I just want to check you get home safely.’  No guy had ever bothered about my safety before.

          ‘Yes of course.’

He was charming.  I felt special and valued.

‘That colour on your nails accentuates your beautiful long fingers.’

          ‘That scarf you’re wearing looks fantastic.  It compliments your eyes.’

Our dates were incredible.  Tea at The Shard and Cocktails at Maxwell’s.  A far cry from Chicken Cottage.  I loved being a couple.  ‘Please God let this be the one.’  I subscribe to Wedding Magazine.

‘Let’s not tell anyone we’re dating just yet.  It’s much more exciting.’

            ‘Ok,’ I said wondering why.

After a while, he asked if he could spend the night at my flat.  When I said no, he ignored my calls and messages.  A week later I decided to go to his house.  I rang the doorbell.  When he opened the door I confronted him. 

            ‘Why are you ignoring me?’.

            ‘As you’re here, come in.  I know what you need.’ he said reaching for my breasts.

            ‘For God’s sake B.  Stop it.’  I knock his hand away.

‘Max, I don’t know why you’re carrying on like your fanny is paved with gold and lined with diamonds.  I should be able get me some sex anytime, I’ve earned it.  Those dates were investments, it’s payback time.’

            ‘If it wasn’t for the grace of God, I would cuss out your backside.’ He slams the door in my face.  I kick the door shouting ‘Arsehole.’ 

I was furious, mostly at myself.  I can’t believe I imagined us walking down the aisle.  I found out later that Barry had slept with a couple of my single friends at church.  Now, I’m glad it was only my temper I lost with the bugger.  Drying the dishes I ask ‘God, was the prophecy really a word from you?’

Spring 2015

On my way to buy hard dough bread and bun, this guy walks up to the 250 bus stop, T-shirt exposing toned muscles.  His eyes are a striking caramel against his rich chestnut skin.  I fancy him straight away.

‘You been waiting long?’ he says smiling.

‘Only a few minutes.’

‘Happy Easter. I’m on my way to Brixton for bun and bread.  I can imagine the queue when I get there. I hope the bus comes soon.’

‘I’m going to the bakery too… sorry for being forward but you sound Jamaican.’  The bus arrives, I get on first.

‘Yes, I grew up there but came back to London a while ago.  Have you been?’

‘My parents used to take me when I was younger.  Beautiful island.’  I’m chuffed when he sits next to me.  As we chat about Jamaican Easter traditions, I check his wedding finger.  Empty.  I think to hell with it and ask for his number. 

‘Amanda, I’ve met this guy.  We’ve been dating for a few weeks now.’

‘Really?  I can’t believe you’ve kept him a secret.’

‘I wanted to see if things would work out.  Guess what? He’s a Jamaican minister.’

‘Shut…up, a minister.’

‘I know right.  He’s Baptist, but he’s sweet like condensed milk.  Pray he’s the one.      

He makes a mean steam snapper, stuffed with okra, and callaloo steeped in butter.  Oh my word, when I ate the fish I embarrassed myself.  It was so tasty I sucked the juice from the fish head.’  We talk about Jamie for the next two hours. 

Daily I pray ‘God let him be the one.’  Dating is fun.  It’s the first time I’ve felt loved: Surprise flowers at work, and unexpected gifts. We laugh comparing the similarities and differences between Jamaican and Black British culture.  I’m constantly learning something new.  I look forward to our evenings together which always end in prayer.

Autumn 2015

‘What’s up? It’s the middle of the night?’ Amanda answers her phone sleepily.

‘Sorry, I know it’s late but I can’t wait ‘til morning…I’m engaged.’

‘Max. That’s fantastic!  Tell me everything. How did he ask? What’s your ring like?’

‘This evening we went to watch the World Championship athletics.  Jamie asked me to marry him just after Usain Bolt won his last race.  Fans were standing cheering, chanting and waving the Jamaican flag. The atmosphere was electric.  It took me two seconds to say yes.  My ring is platinum with green and white diamonds.  So beautiful.  I can’t believe I’m finally getting married.  I’m too excited to sleep, you coming over?’

‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

When she arrives we squeal, drink champagne, dance around and tumble down giggling like little girls. 

When Pastor Kendal announces my engagement, brethren dance in the aisles praising God for answered prayers and the fulfilment of the prophecy.  Some older sisters struggle to move their arthritis ridden bodies so bang their walking sticks on the carpet. 

Spring 2016

Today, is the final fitting for my dress.  The sweetheart neckline trimmed with scalloped lace emphasises my bust line.  The shimmering diamanté crystals and beads on the bodice hug my body.  My image takes my breath away.  I run my hand over the weighty satin of the skirt, such a luxurious feel.  ‘Jamie will over the moon when he sees you. You look breath taking.’ Amanda says.

‘You expect me to leave my church after over thirty years Jamie?’  I shout, no regard for others in the coffee shop.

‘Yes, of course. You know it’s tradition.  I want you to serve with me in my church.’

‘Why can’t you serve at my church?’

‘Maxine, stop your stupidness.  I want you by my side as my wife at home and in ministry.  If you can’t do that then it’s simple, you’re not ready to be my wife.  Let me know what you decide.’  He walks out the door. 

I wrestle, wondering am I ready for marriage, to compromise and give up some of my independence? Do I have what it takes to leave the church I know so well despite its flaws? 

           

‘You look dreadful.  Bags under your eyes, hair matted together.  What’s going on?’  Amanda enquires.

            ‘Jamie’s expects me to join his church after we’re married.  I’m scared of change.  I haven’t slept properly or been out for days.’

            ‘Are you out of your mind?  You knew all along you would have to go to his church, it’s tradition.  You would pass up marrying Jamie for what exactly?  He really does love you, even the blind can see that.  Look at all the times he’s put your choices first.  Fix up Maxine, stop being selfish.  Call Jamie and tell him you’ll follow him to his church.  After all, you two belong together.’

As we sign the marriage certificate, Jamie declares ’You’re the answer to my prayers.  I love you Mrs Thomas.’

Winter 2016

I love being Jamie’s wife.  We’re both getting used to married life.  It’s been good.  I’m quite settled in his church now.  The members are really nice to me.  I hardly see the old youth group but Amanda keeps me up to date on our nights out.  It’s funny, Jamie really did turn out to be my unexpected ‘ram in the thicket’.

About the author:

"The Secret"  by Jacqueline Robinson available from  www.jewelmarkpress.co.uk and Amazon