Fishpond

Gail Aldwin 

pistachio milkshake

There’s splashing in the fishpond when I put out the rubbish and I guess the frogs are at it again. I find a torch and shine it over. Some of them are riding piggy back like double headed beasts. There’s at least a dozen in there – that must make it an orgy. A toad sits on the edge, winking at me. His ungainly body becomes lithe when he springs into the water. I watch the activity like a voyeur then I scuttle back to the kitchen.

            In the morning, a Mallard observes the results of the night’s activity. Standing on one leg, he cocks his silky jade head, then takes a stroll around the pond.  When he quacks, the female descends, spread winged from the roof.  She’s like a babe in a bathtub, scooping through the weeds with her beak, throwing back her head to gobble spawn.  

Gail Aldwin’s short stories and flash fiction have appeared in on-line publications and she has two short stories featuring in print anthologies to be published in 2012.   Gail is currently redrafting a manuscript titled Manipulation which is set in Outback Australia and tells the story of a gap year that goes wrong.  In What the Dickens? Magazine, Gail has a regular column that answers writers’ questions. Gail lives in Dorset and writes blog posts about all things literary:   http://gailaldwin.wordpress.com

It's Antique

 

Roger Noons

 

Coffee with a splash of Cragganmore

 

 

 

 

 

‘It’s antique!’

‘How do you know?’

‘The man in the shop said.’

‘Said what,’ sighed my father, forever pedantic.

‘He said it was over a hundred years old,’ I replied trying to hold my temper.

‘Ah, and I always taught you that a true antique is something made before 1830.’

‘Yes, and you also told me that irrespective of whether it’s old, to only pay what it is worth to me, which is what I did.’

There was a silence while he turned the spoon over and over in his fingers.

‘How much did you pay?’

‘Thirty,’ I paused, ‘euros.’

‘Ooh,’ he sucked air in through his teeth, you would have thought I’d said a hundred pounds. ‘What’s that in proper money?’

‘About £25.’

‘Well at least that doesn’t sound so bad,’ he grudgingly allowed, reaching for his loupe. ‘What year do your reckon?’

‘I think it’s Chester, 1890, it’s a capital G.’

‘Any thoughts on the maker?’

‘I doubt it’s anyone of note, could well have been an apprentice. After all it’s only a spoon.’

‘Yes, but it’s attractive, I’ll give you that. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad buy after all.’ He removed the magnifier and blinked half a dozen times, smiled and added. ‘I taught you well.’

‘So you agree with the date?’

‘Certainly looks that way.’ That was as definite as you ever got from  Dad, even in a good mood.

 

*

 

It was two weeks later when I visited my father again at his cottage by the lake. After the preliminaries, I handed him a presentation bag, the type that you put a bottle in, for a gift.

‘What’s this?’ he frowned.

‘Look inside.’ He withdrew the bottle of malt whisky.

‘Cragganmore, my favourite and eighteen year old too. Thank you son. Have you won the lottery?’

‘No dad, but do you remember that spoon, the one I showed you the last time I was here?’

‘The Chester one?’

‘Yes. Well I took it to a fair, in Stratford upon Avon. I sold it for £250.’

‘You never did! Was the buyer blind, or American?’

‘He is a collector of individual silver spoons, he has more than a thousand, he told me. When I showed him the date mark for 1825, a capital G, he agreed to my valuation.’

‘That was never 1825, we decided it was around about 1890, didn’t we?’

‘Yes, but when I explained to Harrison Jeffers, from Chicago, that I wasn’t sure whether it was the G of 1890 or 1825, he assured me that he was an expert, and insisted on paying the higher price.’ I grinned.

‘Well I’ll be damned,’ he said. ‘I taught you even better than I thought.’

 

*

 

As the old man pulled the cork, on a Cruise ship departing Barcelona, Mr  Jeffers was handing the spoon to a well known millionairess.

‘Oh Harrison, is this for me? How kind you are. It has my initials on it.’

‘My dear, that’s why I bought it for you, and it’s antique.’

 
BIO - Roger Noons began writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay, for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts, then began short stories and poems. He occasionally produces non fiction, particularly memoirs from his long career in Environmental Health. 

Garden Shed

Jenny Palmer

Rosé 

The door of the shed had been locked for years. By now the sneck had rusted over and the hinges were hanging off. Moss had grown around the edges and welded the door to the frame.

Kathy felt an irresistible urge to open the door. She'd tried a few times before and given up but today she was determined. She used a metal bar to prize it open and then pushed. She was surprised how easily it gave way. There was nothing like brute force. But once inside she immediately felt like an interloper, like the guy who had entered the tomb of the pharaohs must have felt. Who was that now?

She must get a grip. This was only a garden shed, after all. Her eyes scanned the interior.There was a sun-lounger, blue and flowery, in seventies style, two fold-up charis and a white table. There was also a spade and a fork, whose handle had fallen off. And there was a plastic bag hanging up, non bio-degradable, so it was still intact. The bag still had the local wine merchant's logo on it.

An image flashed across her mind of a woman sunning herself at a poolside, somewhere in the Mediterranean. The previous owner had obviously been used to foreign holidays and had tried to recreate them in her back garden, wine and all. Only there wasn't really the weather for it in the North of England.

Kathy shut the door quickly. It didn't seem right to pry into someone's private life like this. But the door wouldn't shut now. The best she could do was to prop it up against the casing. Sooner or later she would have to clear the shed, anyway. That would mean hiring a skip or, more likely, trundling it all down to the local council skip, a laborious task when you had to take one item at a time

For the time being she'd clear the garden. It was overgrown and full of rubble. She piled the bits of gutters and downspouts up separately. Metal had a value. Then she made a pile of the branches she'd lopped off the trees. It was too arduous a task to chop them into small pieces. One day she'd have a massive bonfire. Never mind if it did smoke the neighbours out. The leaves could go in the compost but the branches were too big.

What she'd really like now would be a cup of tea and crumpets but there were no crumpets and the milk had run out.There was only peppermint tea and brown bread. All this healthy living. After that, it would be an evening of mindless Saturday night television.

It was later in the evening when the image of the plastic bag hanging in the shed came back to her. Why hadn't she taken a look inside? Some scruple about not prying. There could be no harm in it, surely. The previous owner was long gone. The woman had obviously been partial to the odd drop. Maybe this was where she kept her secret stash. No, that was unlikely. You wouldn't leave the stuff hanging up in a garden shed if you'd bought it. You'd drink it. There must be something else in the bag. But what could it be?

The bag could contain some secret or other. Otherwise, why would it have been locked up in there? It could be anything: a diary, an address book full of telephone numbers, some sort of treasure. Perhaps the woman had had a secret lover who she'd entertained in the garden shed. Her husband had started to suspect something so she'd had to call off the affair. The garden shed had lost its purpose and she'd abandoned it, leaving everything just as it was.

Or the husband had come home one day to find his wife in bed with her lover and in a fit of jealously he'd killed the two of them and hidden the bodies in the garden. No, that was just too gruesome to contemplate.

It was past midnight when Kathy crept out of the house and up the back garden. The steps were slippery due to a heavy night-frost so she had to hang on to the remaining branches to lever herself up. There was no moon. That was a godsend. The neighbour should have gone to bed by now so at least he wouldn't see her clambering up the path in the dark.

It didn't take long to reach the shed. She was surprised to find that the door was ajar. She pushed it open and shone the torch around inside. To her dismay there was nothing where the bag should have been. Someone or something had beaten her to it. She let out a gasp.

The neighbour's light went on in the upstairs' bedroom. A face appeared at the window. She stood perfectly still. She hoped she was out of view. There could be nothing worse than being caught sneaking about in the garden at this time of night, even if it was your own garden. The neighbour was the nosey sort. If he saw her, she would need to find some sort of explanation.

The face disappeared and the light went off. It was hard negotiating her way down the steps again. It may have been her eyes adjusting to the dark that caused her to slip and lose her footing. As she lay there in a heap at the bottom of the steps she noticed something white on the ground. It was the same plastic bag that she had been searching but it had been torn to shreds and its contents were splayed on the floor.

It was clothes pegs. That was what was in the bag. The bag was full of clothes pegs. And directly in front of her was a pair of eyes bearing a glint of disppointment, mirroring her own.

 

Bio: Jenny Palmer returned to Lancashire in 2008. Since then she has had stories and poems published in the Clitheroe Advertiser and Times, the Lancashire Evening Post and anthologies produced by Clitheroe Writers' Group. She is a founder member of the Ribble Rousers and of the Downham and Twiston History group.  

Seeking Salvation

Patsy Collins
 
Communion wine


Nobody had ever done anything to help her.

"God will provide," forcing to exist under their disapproving gaze
tying her down to the dreary town she longed to leave. If she could
get away things would be better.

"You can't run away from yourself," Mother had said on her way to church.

The woman spoke in clichés; the girl found the imagination to escape.

She didn't get far. No further than the bottom of a glass. She escaped
the flat and warmth and food. Each grey morning she awoke; in a
doorway, bus station, cardboard box. She couldn't get free.

The state was no help. It was begrudgingly forced to give her enough
money to exist. Never enough to live. She'd never really lived. Never
would.

"Ask for God's guidance," Mother pleaded. That was no help, the girl
didn't believe in Him.

The church. Oh yes, the church thought she'd live on after death.
Maybe they were right, who knew? They knew they were right about sin.
She'd sinned. Not much, she didn't know how to do more and couldn't
afford to find out. The church would forgive her wouldn't it? It'd
forgive her if she asked on Sunday. Sunday before the Priest ate his
lunch, or if that wasn't convenient for her, she could come back after
he'd finished his tea. On Sunday.

It was Wednesday. The church would be closed to her. She'd spill her
blood on its wide stone steps. They'd see she'd tried the door and,
finding the way to sanctuary and salvation blocked. She'd find her own
way. Away from trouble, from pain, from forgiveness.

Mother would come to church an extra day next week. Sunday to pray for
herself. Again at her daughter's funeral. What would she pray for
then? Forgiveness maybe. Can the dead forgive?

She climbed those falsely welcoming steps. She pushed against the door
barring her way.

It opened.
 

 

Patsy's novel 'Escape to the Country' has been accepted for
publication at the end of March. For more info, please visit her blog

Pippa Drake

Pippa Drake

 

Roger Noons

 

Vodka tonic with a ice and lemon

 

Pippa’s eyes were focussed on the traffic lights; her ears were concentrating on the husky tones of Sting, who was leading her through a field of barley; her taste buds were savouring the caramel which she had just popped into her mouth and her fingers were caressing the familiar contours of the van’s steering wheel.

Having completed the morning’s deliveries, she was looking forward to returning to the shop, when there was an explosive crash and vibration, generated on the near side. She covered her head with her hands and arms and pressed herself against the off side door. She closed her eyes tight and tried to protect her ears from any further attack. Hence she had no knowledge of the passenger side door being opened and a gloved hand snatching her shoulder bag from the seat. When she experienced no further violation she slowly lowered her arms, and she heard the blaring, persistent horn from the white Transit van which was immediately behind her.

 

*

 

It was almost five pm when she reached the shop and found Lucy in a state of panic.

‘Thank God you’re alright,’ her assistant said, taking Pippa’s hands between her own. ‘It must have been awful. You’ve no cuts though,’ she added after scanning the older woman’s face.

‘No, no injuries, except a bruise on my shoulder where I banged against the door.’

‘Was there much money in your bag?’ Lucy asked tentatively.

‘About thirty pounds I think, all but one of the customers paid by cheque. Those can be stopped.’

‘The most important thing is that you’re OK. Everything else can be replaced. I suppose it will be covered by the insurance?’ Pippa nodded. ‘Why did he smash the window, he could have just opened the door and grabbed the bag?’

‘The police reckon it was to cause me to react the way I did and therefore see nothing. I don’t know a single thing about him, or her for that matter. So far no witnesses have come forward.’

‘No, I suppose they don’t want to get involved,’ said Lucy, almost to herself.

 

*

 

Two days later, in the afternoon, Pippa was making up a bouquet in the back room, when the telephone rang. ‘Hello,’ she said, her attention mainly on the task in hand.

‘Is that Philippa Drake?’

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘I’ve found your bag,’ the male caller said. That claimed her full attention.

‘Oh, that’s …’

‘I’m afraid there’s no purse or phone, but there’s a pen, lipstick, comb, a diary, keys, all the usual things you find in a woman’s bag.’

‘Oh, thank goodness, that is very welcome news.’

‘Might there be a reward involved?’ the caller asked.

‘Oh, yes, of course. Will twenty five pounds be alright?’

‘I thought it might be more than that. You see there’s also a letter … signed by Tim, I think it is. He appears to enjoy inserting his tongue inside your ear, and other more intimate places.’ He paused. ‘Your husband’s called James isn’t he?’

‘Er …’

‘Perhaps you’d like to think again, about the reward. I’ll call back tomorrow.’   
 

BIO - Roger Noons began writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay, for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts, then began short stories and poems. He occasionally produces non fiction, particularly memoirs from his long career in Environmental Health. 

The Visit

Trevor Belshaw

Mocha

He walked across the veranda and stopped just behind her.

'Jodie?'

The young girl stared into the darkness and said nothing.

'Jodie, I...'

'Don't talk to me.'

'Come on, Honey, I just...'

The girl whistled tunelessly and studied the darkness.

'Jodie don't...'

'You left us.'

The man bowed his head. 'I know, Honey. I didn't want to.'

'You just left, without even saying goodbye.'

'I couldn't, Jodie, there wasn't time, your Mom...'

'Mom was hurt real bad. Do you know that?'

'Yes, Honey, I know that. Do you miss me too, just a little?'

'No, I got over you, it took a while, but I made it.'

'I never got over you, Jodie. Never will.'

The girl got up from the step and turned to face him.

'You haven't changed much.'

'No,' he laughed. 'I don't suppose I have.' He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. She stepped back quickly. 'Have you seen Ryan?'

'Not yet, I don't know if he wants to see me.'

'Probably not. He calls Jim, Dad, now.'

'And you? Do you call Jim, Dad?'

She shook her head. 'He's not my Dad. I call him Jim.'

'Is he looking after you Okay? Does he...'

'What do you care? You left us. He wouldn't be here but for that.' She sat on the step again and wiped away and angry tear.

He placed a soft hand on her hair. She snapped her head away, then dropped her chin to her chest and began to sob. 'You went... without...saying...goodbye.'

He sat on the step and placed his arm around her shoulder. A few seconds later she buried her head in his chest.

'I would have given anything to stay, Sweetheart. You know that. I would never do anything to hurt you.'

The sobbing slowly subsided. When she spoke again her voice was soft, all the anger gone.

'Christmas was bad, and Thanksgiving. I didn't celebrate my birthday, not properly.'

'I couldn't send you anything, Jodie. It wasn't possible.'

'I know, Dad. I'm a older now, I understand.'

A voice called from inside the house. 'Jodie? Dinner's ready. Come wash your hands.'

She stood up slowly. He crouched and took her hands in his. 'You had better go or you'll be in trouble.'

She threw her arms round his neck and hugged him. 'Thanks for coming, Dad. Will I see you again?'

'He sucked on his teeth and tipped his head to the side. 'Never say never. It's difficult, but I'll try to come over now and then. It might be a while 'til next time though.'

She stepped back and gave him a smile. 'I love you Dad.'

He nodded slowly. 'I know, Honey, and I love you, never forget that.'

She smiled again. 'Sorry for behaving like a brat.' She turned  away and crossed the veranda as Jim appeared in the doorway.

'Jodie, how many more times...'

'Sorry, Jim. I was just thinking about Dad...it's three years ago today that he died.'

Bio:

TRACY'S HOT MAIL! Release date 20th January 2012. Published by Crooked Cat Publishing
  and direct 


Stanley Stickle Hates Homework. The new book from Trevor Forest
http://www.trevorforest.com

Peggy Larkin’s War, Abigail Pink’s Angel, Magic Molly and Faylinn Frost and the Snow Fairies available in paperback and eBook at my book store. http://bit.ly/fWVFKt

Short stories available at http://www.etherbooks.com via Iphone app.

Website: http://www.trevorbelshaw.com
Wordpress Blog: http://www.trevorbelshaw.com/blog
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Twitter @tbelshaw
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The Milkshakes

Susan Jones

Chocolate

Chummy was his own man. An independent go-getter. When he set his mind on something, he made sure he got it. He had the answer to everything; there was absolutely nothing that our Chummy didn’t know. From listening to friends’ girlfriend woes, to giving advice on financial issues, though Chummy himself was a walking danger zone where owing money was concerned. That’s not to say he didn’t pay his debts, just that he left it until a knock on the door from men in smart suits beckoned.
Sharp as a box of Stanley blades, he was hard to pin down. If Chummy said, “Meet me in half an hour,” you could make it an hour. When his M.O.T. was due, he booked it a month later. Knowing Chummy is an enlightening experience. Throughout his schooldays he sent out only one Christmas card to his one special friend. Chummy has an important date this summer. He’s best-man to that one same friend; who, because he knows Chummy too well, will tell him the wedding is two o’clock; it is actually three o’clock. Chummy wouldn’t miss it for the world. To know him is undoubtedly to love him.

Banana

Nic-Nak had a shop full of unusual items. From toys and sweets to tools and biscuits. Ladies from far and further than that, shopped at Nic-Nak’s. It wasn’t only a shop; more, a shopping experience. His effervescent conversation ensured that once inside his emporium, customers found it difficult to leave. Though leave they did, loaded up with trinkets, biscuits and sweet scented soaps. Once a month he ran a raffle. Top prize being a Panda bear or sometimes a huge fluffy dog. One day Mrs Pierce called in to see what he had on special offer. As she walked in, Nic Nak burst out laughing.
“Well hello there, have you dressed up as a lady for the fun day Mr….er…..which Mr are you?”
Mrs. Pierce, realising Nic Nak meant no harm, besides she did wear the trousers in her house, joined in the merriment.
“You, silly old bugger Nic Nak you! I’m dressed as me-self you rogue you. Only you could get away with calling me a man.” That indeed was a fact. Anyone else would have had the handbag treatment from Mrs Pierce. Nic-Nak, on the other hand, sold her some fruit salad and fresh cream.
                                                                      
                                                            Strawberry

She’s pretty, sweet and just about as girly as a girl can get. Rich and generous to those she loves, and that’s not that many people. You get a warm glow when she’s around; you always know when she’s around because she never stops talking, and I mean, talking, analysing,
“Where am I going wrong?” type of debates.
“What do you mean? Where am I going wrong?”
“Why haven’t I got a boyfriend? My Nan thinks I’m too bossy.” I think her Nan’s too bossy. She thinks her Dad’s too bossy.
Strawberry shake is stronger than she thinks; she does have a knack of turning up smelling of strawberries. That’s a gift she has - turning a bad situation into a good one. She makes me laugh without even trying. Utterly sensitive, feeling everyone’s pain, yet capable of standing her ground and causing a mini earthquake if she has to. Frothy, substantial, honest and faithful; with her, life could never be dull.


Bio:

Visit my website here.
www.susanjanejones.com
I am blogging here. www.susanjanejones.wordpress.com