Eternity

                                                                      Jessica Cooke

Black coffee, no sugar

She stood before me daily, smiling and laughing as she twirled round and round allowing me to inspect every inch of her body without any self doubt or fear of my callousness. Perfection. It radiated from her. Her long hair blacker than the stroke of midnight, her once snow white skin tinted brown where the sun had luckily kissed her. Emerald eyes sparkled as she looked at me lovingly, devotedly. I was completely besotted with her. This was my routine day in, day out.  

       Until one day she didn’t show. I waited, all the while desperately hoping she would appear and grace me with her beauty once more. The sun set on me long before I gave up hope.  I waited for hours, days, until eventually a week went by, and my longing had tripled, when she finally stepped into my life once more ...but there was something different about her; the glow had dissipated. She stood before me and I stared in anguish.

       Her once vibrant green eyes, now embedded within dark circles, no longer sparkled but were heavy with sadness and her skin, tightly stretched across her bones, was almost translucent. All that had made her once so captivating seemed to have drained from her. I could see all the youthful energy had been taken, leaving her hollow. Her fragile fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her blouse and let it drop to the ground; she turned to reveal her once beautifully smooth back now ridden with purple clusters of large, angry boils. With each movement her hard skin cracked allowing thick, dark blood to ooze from the wound.

       As each day passed, she stood before me and showed me the progression of her illness. I watched, forever silent, as the sores took over the right side of her body, spreading across her stomach, over her chest and down her leg. Although her eyes brimmed with dread she managed to hold back her tears until, at long last, it crawled up her neck, resting on her cheek. I watched her as she decayed, forever helpless to her plight.  

       Eventually she deteriorated so terribly that I couldn’t bear to look any longer and fortunately it was then when she disappeared forever. The last I saw of her was a rogue hand that slipped from the gurney, a goodbye, as she was rolled out of my life forever. I didn’t expect her parents to come to me, I didn’t know what to do, I just stood and looked at them as they cradled one another and asked me over and over; ‘Why?’

       In the end her parents left and I was alone. Alone with the swirling thoughts of my lost love, of her beauty and grace, how it always radiated from her... but every so often the raw memory of her blistering body crept into my mind and all I could do was hope I would forget her. After a while everything grew grey with dust and resentment. I see no longer and instead I wait, for what feels like an eternity, for someone else to give my life meaning again.

Bio:

Jessica Cooke is an aspiring writer based in Salford. She has longed to be an author since childhood and loves to read and write short and flash fiction most of all. She was also the winner of the the Flash-Lit Fiction 2011 online competition.

Website:

www.storytimewithjess.blogspot.co.uk

PREMONITION

PREMONITION

Roger Noons

a large whisky, without water

 

 

James awoke with a start. He was bathed in sweat, although the duvet had slipped to the floor. He realized his heart was thumping, he sensed the high level of adrenaline in his blood and he had a feeling of dread. Something awful must have happened. As he normalized his breathing by slowly filling and emptying the whole of his lungs, he looked about him. Everything seemed familiar, he was in his own bed, in his own bedroom, it was just getting light and his watch said 07.05.

    As he calmed, he realized that what he had seen must have been in a dream. He remembered being in his car which was slewed across the highway. There was shouting and alarms were sounding, and in his mirror he saw blood running down his neck. Rapping on the glass alerted him to the face of a man who was shouting through the window. He thought he heard the words ‘Hang on mate, we’ll get you out.’ The remaining events faded. He was perplexed, as he seldom had dreams and on the odd occasion when he reckoned they had occurred, he could never recall even the tiniest part of the content. He concentrated but couldn’t remember anything else. His body gradually reverted to normality.

    On his way to the bathroom, he looked out of the window and saw that his Audi was parked in its usual place. There was no sign of any damage to the bodywork and it was spotless, as only last evening, on returning from the office, he had driven it through the Auto wash, after he had filled up with petrol. He put it out of his mind and concentrated on his shower.

    Whilst waiting for his bread to toast, he again thought about what he had endured. The clothes that he had worn yesterday were perfectly alright, hanging neatly in his wardrobe. The sitting room was exactly as he expected, having spent last evening at home watching television. He was baffled. As he lifted his coffee cup it occurred to him that if the content of the dream had not taken place, it might be something that was due to happen in the future. That was even more worrying. How could he prevent a car accident other than to not drive? His mind reviewed his diary for the day, and he calculated that he could travel to work on the bus, but tomorrow he would need his car to visit customers.

 

*

 

 On that Tuesday, he did use the bus and the following day he took his car. He drove extra carefully all day and nothing happened. He told his boss about the dream and the effect it had on him.

    ‘I shouldn’t worry James. It’s probably something you saw on TV, or in a film. Perhaps one of your customers mentioned something to you. Forget it; these things happen all the time. I don’t think there’s such a thing as premonition.’

 

*

 

Time passed and James did forget the incident, largely because he attended a sales fair in Berlin, and returned having received orders for goods to be supplied to customers in Hungary, Poland and Romania, which he expected would nett his firm over three million pounds. Not only was his boss over the moon, but the Chairman sent for him to offer personal congratulations and confirmation of a pay rise, extra bonus, and a new company car. In fact he could choose whatever model he desired, up to the cost to the company of £50,000.

    It was whilst looking through the BMW brochures and reading about the various cars, their specifications and performance, that he remembered his dream. He laughed to himself, shaking his head and wondering why he had been so concerned. The safety aspects of the latest models were incredible and it was improbable, according to the blurb, that in the unlikely event of a driver suffering an accident, he would incur an injury. Before he went to bed, he earmarked the model he would order, and chose the colour options of either black or silver.

 

*

 

 ‘Mr. Hancock?’

    ‘Yes,’ answered James, only half concentrating on the voice at the other end of the telephone.

    ‘It’s Corbett’s here sir, your BMW has arrived.’

    ‘Oh, good.’ He was now fully attentive.

    ‘It will be ready for you to collect anytime after two pm tomorrow.’

    ‘Right, thanks, the firm’s keeping mine for another employee, so I’ll get someone to drop me off around four, if that’s OK?’

    ‘That will be fine sir; we’ll look forward to seeing you then.’

    James was not a car enthusiast; he often repeated that it was a box, to get him from A to B. The thought of his new vehicle did however cause a shiver of excitement, as he checked his diary for the following day. At the very least, his customers would be impressed when he drove onto their car parks.

 

*

 

 ‘Alan, as you’re having my Audi, would you like to take me to Corbett’s tomorrow afternoon, so I can pick up my new car?’

    ‘Of course James, what time should we leave?’

    ‘About three, if that’s OK?’

    ‘No probs. mate, I’ll sort it.’

 

*

 

As they traveled to the car dealer, James listened, as Alan excitedly described how his girlfriend of nearly six months, was looking forward to being chauffeured around in an Audi.

    ‘She thinks I’ve really made it, although it’s three years old. How soft is the leather on the back seat James?’ he laughed.

    ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, I obviously don’t get the opportunities that you do.’

    All James needed to do was insert the odd yes, or no, as his young colleague kept up his commentary. He heaved a sigh of relief when they arrived at Corbett’s. 

 

*

 

It took over an hour for the formalities to be completed at the dealership, as although James believed he was sufficiently experienced in the operation of modern cars, the Sales Manager insisted on the full spiel. I suppose that’s a must when you spend so much money with them, James thought.

    It was therefore almost six o’ clock when James drove away his new, black hatchback. Within a mile, he was on an A road, and as he relaxed after selecting fifth gear, he appreciated just how powerful his new car was, so he eased back with his right foot. He thought that before he set off, he should have switched on the radio, as it contained a satellite receiving facility that automatically advised him of the weather conditions and any upcoming road hazards.

    He decided not to attempt the operation while he was motoring along, so was unprepared when he turned a corner and saw a car on its roof in a field on his left, and two vehicles wedged against the central reservation barrier. He switched on his hazard lights and braked so that he could park on the nearside of the highway. As he climbed out, he heard emergency alarms in the distance.

    A glance to his left indicated that the driver of the Mondeo had escaped from his upside down silver saloon and was standing scratching his head, no doubt wondering how he had got there. After checking behind him and registering a slowing Land Rover, James skipped across to the central reservation, where he identified the car with the crushed front. He peered through the shattered side window and saw Alan’s head at a strange angle, resting on the steering wheel. There was blood running from a gash on his forehead.

    As the ambulance drew up alongside him, James was about to shout, ‘Hang on mate, we’ll get you out’, when he remembered Alan’s last words. ‘Actually James, now I’ve got your motor, I might dump Lucy, I reckon I can get somebody better.’

   

 

Submission from Roger Noons.

 

 I began writing fiction in 2006, and have become addicted. I try to write at least a little every day. In the last two years I have begun writing poems, and some of my output is non fiction. I hope soon to publish a slim volume of 26 short stories, and by the end of the year, a novella.

 

Victor

VICTOR

 Roger Noons
a large glass of a Provencal Rosé 

Looking back, I still cannot believe it, although initially, it felt like a regular Wednesday. The alarm sounded at seven thirty, my wife got up and complained that she had to do everything, then she went downstairs and turned on the radio in the kitchen. I showered, shaved and dressed smartly, as the night before, I had checked, and saw that I had an appointment at eleven am.

    At two minutes to eleven, I arrived outside the large Edwardian house on the edge of town, in an avenue near to the cemetery. Number twenty appeared much like the others in the street, having been constructed prior to the days of speculative building using uniform designs, and having been well maintained. I gathered my equipment and presented myself at the front door.

    After ringing the bell four times, the door opened, and I found myself staring up into the eyes of a well-built lady of my height, in fact she could have been over six feet. ‘Yes?’

    ‘Good morning, Madam, I’m from Moving Studios, I’ve been commissioned to photograph, Victor?’

    She looked me up and down and sniffed, her head on one side. ‘I’m afraid he’s not quite ready, but you can come in and wait.’ She turned, but over her shoulder, added, ‘please wipe your feet, and be careful with all that equipment; you may scrape the furnishings.’

    I followed her along an ill-lit hallway, until she stopped and opening a door, said, ‘you can wait in here. I have converted the drawing room into the studio in which I would like Victor’s portrait to be created.’ Although she said no more, she stared at me as if awaiting a reply.

    I took the opportunity to appraise the lady. She was clad in a kaftan, which brushed the floor and rose to her throat. It was a hectic pattern of reds, orange and bright yellow. Her face was entirely white and her hair, also orange, looked like she had knitted it herself, despite having lost the pattern. As I took in these final details, she began to scratch her backside.

    Assuming I was required to reply, I said ‘Thank you, if you would like to tell me when Victor is ready.’

    She nodded once, as if that concluded our discussion, and left the room, carefully closing the door, lest I assume, that I should attempt to follow. I looked around what I assumed was an office cum library, as three walls were covered by book shelves which had few gaps. I wondered if Victor was some sort of academic, possibly a writer, often working from home.

    When she had not returned within ten minutes, I began to unpack my gear. Taking a camera body from my bag, I fitted an appropriate medium telephoto lens, checked the battery and settings, and was screwing it onto my tripod when the door opened and I was amazed to see a carbon copy of the woman who had let me into the house, except her hair was jet black, and her garment was dominated by blues and purples.

    She smiled. ‘We’re ready for you now, if you’d like to follow me.’ She looked at the bag of lights and stands, which I had carried into the room. ‘Those won’t be necessary,’ she pointed, ‘Hannah has decided that Victor should be recorded using only natural light.’

    ‘OK,’ I said and holding the tripod out in front of me added, ‘kindly lead on.’

    The room which we entered, was entirely black, the floor and ceiling had a matt finish and the walls, door and window frames, had been brushed with gloss paint. There was only one item of furniture, which was placed near the large, bay window, which began a mere six inches above the floor. Between me and the chaise longue, I was pleased to see a free-standing screen of white satin, which would serve as a reflector.

    When I rounded the screen, Hannah announced, ‘this is Victor.’

    Sitting on the purple, brocade-covered bench was an overweight, white cat, I assumed a Persian. He obviously shared the women’s hairdresser, as well as their publicist. He was the ugliest feline I had ever seen, and sneered at me as I placed my tripod opposite his mean face.

    ‘Isn’t he handsome,’ Hannah declared, ‘I hope you will be able to do him justice.’

    I think I must have done, as the account was settled within forty eight hours of the framed photograph being delivered, to 20 Victoria Avenue.

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.  
 

Will You Walk With Me A Way?

 

Dorothy Davies

Still water

 

Will you walk with me a way?

            Not far, just to the end of this road. 

            I am...empty inside and need a few moments of interaction with someone. Oh my, that sounds so formal, doesn’t it? In truth, though, to ask you for a few moments of idle chatter, or gossip would be nonsensical. Especially with what I have in mind.

            You look wet, is it raining? Oh I see; it’s that fine drizzle that no umbrella can ward off, so you didn’t bother. Me? No, I don’t get wet. Call it a shield if you like, rain tends to avoid me.

            Tell me, how are things at the nursing home these days? Does the garden bloom as fine in spring and summer as it used to? I recall the days of sitting out there, listening to the birds that would be singing as if their lives depended on it, the insects buzzing and flitting hither and thither as if their lives depended on it … come to think of it, they did. But us, the static ones, we stayed where we were, in our wheelchairs or sun loungers or wherever the staff had put us, there to bake in the heat until they took us back into the coolness of the home once more. Not a word of complaint from any of us, you know that, but oh the longing at times for shadow, cool water and rest from unremitting sunshine was overwhelming. But it was life and despite its many, many drawbacks, we clung to it tenaciously. Why? I wonder now why I did not just give up and drift away.

            The big problem really, for all of us, is memories.

            They hurt.

            ‘Sometimes memories walk a little hard.’ The wisest words I ever heard, from the most wonderful person I ever knew, my maternal grandmother. Oh she was right! How hard do the memories walk when your means of perambulation is either wheels or a walker? You recall the times when three strides would take you to the door, the cupboard, the TV, whatever/wherever. You recall the way you could walk freely down the road, wander round the shops, visit restaurants and museums, libraries and stately homes. Can you even begin to imagine not walking?

            Of course not.

            It doesn’t come to all of us but enough … oh yes, enough.

            But look at me now. Do I not walk well? Proud, tall and easy? Not so much as an ache in the hip joints or knees, the ankles flex and move as they should. Ah, the joy of it.

            You? You are too young still, in terms of experience, to fully understand the joy I feel at being free to walk again.

            I have to ask … do you not remember me? The old cantankerous lady who sat in her wheelchair in the garden and demanded cool drinks and ice cream and got neither? Do you not recall how I asked for shade and had none offered to me? Do you not know the suffering you put me through, you who were paid to care and didn’t?

Well, I got you to walk with me a way. And look, here we are, right by the cemetery which is now my home. Oh, you will not escape me this time! Now I see the horror on your face as I cast off the mask of humanity and show you what I am. A skeleton.

            Bony hands can grip harder than flesh covered ones, can’t they?

            Will you walk with me a way? Let me show you where I lie, here in the cold earth, with not so much as a snowdrop to lighten the darkness of the earth. No one cared, did they … and you, you were one of the worst. Did I not see you laughing behind closed doors at those who pleaded for respite from sun and thirst and were ignored?

            Oh, you did not know, did you, that after I left your side of life I returned, over and over again, to watch, to record, to – all right, stalk you if you like.

Here we are. This is my narrow bed.

            Will you share it with me for a while?

            Like, eternity?

 

Dorothy Davies lives on the Isle of Wight, a small island off the south coast of England.  There she works as an editor, writer and medium, channelling books from the rich (and not so rich) and famous from all eras of history, ancient through modern.  Her novels are available from Amazon. She edits and features in Static Movement anthologies.

 Her latest book, I Bid You Welcome, is available from

https://www.createspace.com/3840578 

Check out my writing website:
www.notes-from-a-smaller-island.com

 

For The Greater Good

Dorothy Davies

A stiff whisky

‘Shut the damn door, Crouch!’

‘What’s up, Joseph?  Too cold for you?  Get too hot in here and the stiffs’ll start to rot.  That what you want?'

            ‘ No, just some heat for them as are drinking, is all.’

            Ben Crouch studied the belligerent face of the landlord, wondering what the problem was this night.  He'd had his share of the advance paid out by the surgeons to get the bodysnatching season underway, what else did he want?

            ‘All right, look, the door’s shut.  Now if any of the medical students wants to come in and take a look at the stiffs, they better be quick about it ‘cos if they start smelling we got problems.'

            Joseph Durham swabbed at the bar with a dirty cloth, a token gesture of cleanliness which fooled no one, least of all Ben Crouch and his cronies.  Ale was poured into a thick tankard and pushed along the bar until the ex-prize fighter was able to grasp it and lift it to his lips.  He spluttered and coughed.  ‘In the name of all that’s holy, Joseph, what the hell’s that?’

            'My best ale,' Joseph retorted. 'Shows you got no taste, Ben Crouch!’ A ripple of laughter went around the Fortune of War pub.  The regulars knew of the ongoing half-friendly half-nasty banter between the two men; it had been going on for a long time.  It seemed to get worse when the bodies were laid out in the back room, awaiting Sir John Abernethy's minions to come and assess the haul.  Digging up bodies was not illegal, stealing a grave shroud was.  Technically, the Fortune of War was not acting illegally in displaying the bodies, but Joseph Durham was happier when they were not there.

            Even as he thought this, the door opened and two medical students came in.  One was new, his nerves showing even as he tried to hide them.

            'Sir John asks...'

            'Three big ones and one half size out the back.’ Ben Crouch gestured with a sweep of the arm clad in a most elaborate jacket.  The ruffles on his shirt showed, the lights in the public house glinted on his gold jewellery.  He was the most dandified person in the place and stood out because of it.

            The more experienced student made straight for the back room, the other hesitated in front of Ben Crouch.  ‘You the famous prize fighter, Sir?’ he asked with obvious awe.

            ‘That I am, sonny! You heard of me then?’

            ‘I have indeed, sir.  My father has seen many of your fights and said you were one of the best.  I am honoured to meet you, sir.'

            Ben Crouch seemed to grow several inches in all directions in the light of the compliment.  A huge grin split his face and he grasped the young man's hand.  'Right pleased I am to meet you, young man.  Gonna be a surgeon, are you?'

            'I would like to be, sir, I need to see how I get on with the dissection.’

            ‘Nothing to it,’ one of Ben Crouch’s ‘helpers’ butted in.  ‘A body’s a body for all anyone ever wants to say to you about it.  When they‘re dead they’re just meat.’

            Ben Crouch realised the young man was beginning to go rather green, so he clapped him on the shoulder, turned him toward the bar and shouted, 'give this boy a shot of the best hard stuff, would you?  Put it on my bill.'

            A very small glass containing an extremely dark liquor was put on the bar and the young men took it hesitantly, looking at Ben Crouch for encouragement.

            'Drink it down in one go,' he advised, 'then go take a look at the stiffs, go report back to Sir John and tell him we have a right good collection here for him this night.'

            The drink disappeared, the young man coughed and went very red in the face, but it seemed to give him courage.  His associate was beckoning to him from the back room, he walked boldly over and looked in.  'Look all right to me,' he said, his voice slurring very slightly. 

            'But you haven't looked properly!' 

            'Don't need to.  Mr Crouch here says to tell Sir John he has a right good collection for him this night.  Don't need to know any more than that.’

            It was obvious that the other young man was nerveless when it came to dead bodies.  He looked at his slightly drunk companion with disgust.  'We'd better get back then, seeing as how we have a message for Sir John himself.’

            The two young men left the pub.  The drinkers waited until they were out of earshot before they broke into riotous laughter.  Ben Crouch laughed so hard he had tears pouring down his face.  'I never saw anyone drink your liquor like that before, Joseph, good job he don't know what it is!'

            Joseph Durham joined in the laughter.  'Tis naught but the dregs of all that gets left,' he said through his mirth.  ‘And there was him thinking he had my best hard stuff!'

            The door opened and everyone turned to look, expecting to see medical students come to take the bodies away.  Instead the imposing figure of Sir John Abernethy stood in the middle of the floor.

            'Was that your idea of a joke, Crouch?' he demanded.   ‘If it was, it was damn fool, that student is trying to project his stomach out through his mouth outside Bart’s at this moment.  He will soon find it a medical impossibility.’

            Joseph Durham wiped his eyes with the corner of his apron.  'Was but a small jest, sire, the lad were that green at the mere thought of the stiffs, we felt we had to boost his courage a bit.’

            Sir John's stern face cracked into a small smile.  'I can see why you did it, but you must have given him some strong stuff for him to be vomiting it so quickly.'

            'While you’re here, sire, take a look yourself at what we have the night.'  Ben Crouch moved quickly to cover up the moment, knowing they had played a mean trick on the student

            'I will, Crouch, that's a good idea.'  Sir John strode over to the back room and looked in.  'You were right, fine ones tonight, I'll get someone across to collect them.  We can get on with the dissection in the morning.’

            The surgeon walked out of the pub, leaving behind a sense of anti-climax.  It had been a small joke, it was a shame it had such a violent effect so quickly, but on the other hand, Sir John had not made trouble over it, he must have realised himself that the boy was nervous, not having seen a dead body before.  He must also have known that to send somebody so naive into the den of body snatchers was asking for trouble.  Or so Ben Crouch reasoned to himself, as he could find no other explanation for Sir John’s attitude.  He sighed, patted the pocket where the guineas rested and thought bodysnatching was a good deal easier way to make money then prize-fighting had ever been.  This way he didn't have to get hurt, he didn’t have to train, he didn't have to pummel another man into the ground, just to use his cohorts to get them out of the ground and into Bart’s Hospital, there to be dissected for the greater good of the rest of the population.

            Feeling very benevolent at that moment, he threw a golden guinea at Joseph Durham.  ‘Drinks for everyone,' he said, just as the students arrived and took the bodies away.

Factual note:

In one year 8 bodies went into Guy’s Hospital in London for dissection and 137 bodies went into St Bartholomew’s Hospital in the City of London.  No contemporary books make reference to Sir John Abernethy’s use of the body snatchers but it is a matter of record that Ben Crouch and his gang supplied the hospital with all that they needed in the way of ‘raw material’ for their anatomy lessons.  Ben Crouch was known as the ‘Corpse King’.  Records show that Joseph Durham was indeed the landlord of the Fortune of War public house at that time. The building no longer exists; in its place is a banking establishment which has a plaque set in one wall commemorating the Fortune of War and its place in the bodysnatching story.  When I researched the background for my novel on the bodysnatchers (still being written) my mother told me that her father used to drink in the Fortune of War pub...

Bio: Dorothy Davies is a writer and medium who is fascinated with history and the way it reflects on modern life. She is also a horror fan and likes to include horror/ghostly elements in her work. She lives on the Isle of Wight, a small island off the south coast of England, reputed to be the most haunted place in the UK.  It suits her well.

CUBS GOT CRISIS

Kirsty Ferry

Orange juice and a rich tea biscuit

The Cubs were breaking up for the Summer Holidays. 

Traditionally, the final night of Cubs involved an outdoor games night, but the persistent rain of the last three weeks had negated the use of the field at the back of the hut. It was no longer a field but a mud-bath: and unless they wanted to introduce mud wrestling into the Cub programme, it wasn’t a good idea to play outdoor games. At least, not from the adults’ perspective.
      ‘There’s no option. We’ll have to do Cubs Got Talent,’ said Bob, the Cub leader. He looked around at the boys. It had been rashly mentioned when the rain started, that a Cubs Got Talent show might be a good idea if the bad weather continued. Unfortunately, despite their inability to remember things like homework, family birthdays and important letters from school, some of the boys had actually remembered about the talent show and had therefore come equipped.
      ‘I did warn you,’ said Angela. Angela was Bob’s wife, a primary school teacher who understood young boys. ‘They have a sixth sense for these things. Making noise is high priority on a boy’s to-do list.’
      ‘Bob’s fault,’ muttered Eve, the parent-helper.
      Bob dredged up a pained smiled and looked around again. His eyes settled on Sam. He might as well get this over with. Sam was fairly innocuous; one of the more sensible little chaps in the Cub Pack. ‘Sam, would you like to start?’ Bob asked. Sam nodded and dragged his keyboard to the front of the hall. He did a few scales to warm up and a lone Cub clapped.
     ‘They were scales,’ Sam said, witheringly. ‘No need to clap just then. I am about to start the proper music now.’ He stood, legs crossed in front of the keyboard, and picked out Twinkle Twinkle. He earned a round of messy applause.
      ‘Charlie’s turn!’ beamed Bob. Sam had been fine – Charlie couldn’t be much more difficult, he reasoned. He was a decent Cub as well. Charlie had brought an acoustic guitar and, when he was called up, he grinned at Bob and scraped and bounced the instrument along the floor to the stage area. He hoisted his guitar up and began to pluck out his own version of Twinkle Twinkle. The audience discovered that the scraping and bouncing had seemingly knocked all the strings out of tune. Charlie didn’t have a shoulder strap either, so he bent further forwards with each note, the weight of the guitar and the force of gravity eventually dragging him down. Throughout his recital, he hopped and balanced with his guitar in a strange sort of dance. The final note faded as he ended up bent double, staring at the floor, the guitar inches from the lino.
      Harry was next to take to the stage with his acoustic guitar, and he chose to play Old Macdonald. At least, that’s what he said he was playing. The notes droned out with odd, irregular timing and the Cubs who were trying to sing along gradually stopped trying.
      ‘Would you like another verse?’ Harry asked.
      ‘No thanks,’ said Bob kindly. ‘We’ve got to fit Jake in.’
      Jake was busy setting up his electric guitar and amplifier, making a great deal of noise and fuss about it: he was clearly very proud of it. Some of the boys nodded approvingly and Jake finally settled into a chair. He surveyed his audience, adopted a surly, rocker-type expression and waited for silence. The Cubs watched and waited. Jake strummed a couple of notes then started his rendition.
      ‘Twinkle Twinkle, little star...’ Everyone waited for the Eric Clapton riff at the end. None came. Jake stopped playing and shook back his too long hair. He looked at Bob, challenging him.
      ‘So: who’s the winner?’ asked Jake.
      ‘Yes. Who’s the winner?’ asked Charlie.
      ‘You’ve got to have a winner,’ added Harry. ‘And someone gets voted out.’ The Cubs all nodded.
      ‘Who’s the winner?’ they chorused.
      Bob looked at Eve, panic-stricken. ‘Did we say there would be a winner?’ he muttered.
      ‘I don’t think we even confirmed Cubs Got Talent,’ she whispered. The Cubs began to bay. Bob and Eve felt the panic start to rise. They had angered the Cubs, misled them and failed to manage twenty-four small boys and their relative expectations. It was as bad as Christmas, when the Pack had trapped Eve against the craft table, hollering for more glitter and demanding she cut twenty four snowmen out of fifteen sheets of silver craft paper. And that all the snowmen had to be the same size.
     Luckily for the leaders, a smiling Angela swooped in to the Talent Show melee at that point, carrying a tray of fortifying coffee for the adults. She took in the situation with one practiced, all-encompassing, teacher-like glance. Her smile waivered, but only for a second. She put the tray down and clapped her hands. The Cubs took their eyes off their prey and looked at her instead.
      ‘I say,’ she said, ‘let’s form a rock band! Everyone is just far too good to vote anyone out! Jake, Sam, Charlie – could you all do Jingle Bells together? Like a proper band?’ It was like magic. The portentous atmosphere lifted, and the boys nodded enthusiastically.
      ‘I shall need to study the music first,’ said Sam. Harry put his hand up.
      ‘I don’t know Jingle Bells,’ he said. The memory of the flat Old Macdonald song too raw, Angela nodded at him compassionately.
      ‘That’s OK, Harry,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to do it.’
      The rock band huddled together at the front of the hall. Sam was flanked by the guitarists and Jake was situated sensibly next to his amp.
     ‘Jake, it’s probably best that you stay there and don’t tangle Sam’s legs up with your leads,’ said Angela, simultaneously ensuring that Charlie’s strings had been re-tweaked.
      ‘One, two, three...’ she shouted, when she was finally satisfied. The rock band picked out the notes of Jingle Bells and received a huge cheer. Bob got excited: winners and losers were forgotten amongst the roars of general approval.
      ‘At Christmas, we could do carols!’ Bob said. ‘All the boys who play instruments can bring them in!’ More whoops and cheers from the Cubs, who were stamping their feet in joy by now.
Angela and Eve looked at Bob, pleading silently with him. Big mistake, Bob, they tried to communicate, big mistake. We may not be as lucky next time. Next time, there may be consequences...
 


 
Bio
Kirsty Ferry won the English Heritage/Belsay Hall national creative writing competition in 2009 and has had work published in various magazines including Ghost Voices, The Weekly News and Peoples' Friend. She has also had a number of short stories published in anthologies including The Best of CafeLit 2011, Devils, Demons and Werewolves, Voices of Angels, Fangtales, Mertales and Whitby Abbey Pure Inspiration. Her first novel, a YA paranormal tale set on Hadrian's Wall and entitled The Memory of Snow is now available on Kindle with a paperback version due out soon.