The Lens by Jim Bates, mocha

 His boss was a crotchety old guy who ran the Texaco gas station with an iron fist and a greasy hand. The boy liked him even though he never once saw the old man smile. It was a good part-time job and he learned how to change oil and grease cars, two skills he never used much as he got older but were good to know nevertheless.

            For high school graduation that year, his boss gave him a telephoto lens for his camera.

“Thought you could use this,” he said, handing him an unadorned cardboard box while they were taking a break from working in the garage. Then he went back to changing a head gasket.

The boy was stunned “Thank you!”

The old man just grunted and said, “Hand me that ¾ inch socket wrench, will you?”

“Sure!”

The next day the boy went into the woods with his camera and new lens. He climbed a tree and waited. And waited. And waited some more. He was looking for the perfect shot, but it never came.

Back at work the following day, he told his boss he’d used the new lens, and that even though he hadn’t seen anything worth photographing he’d had fun anyway. The old man wiped his hands and nodded. “Good,” he said. “I thought you’d like it.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Come here. I want to show you something.”

They went back into his cluttered office. His boss opened a file cabinet and took out a folder. He handed it to the boy. “Here. You might enjoy looking at these.” The boy opened it up. It was full of outdoor color photos. To the boy’s untrained eye, they were beautifully composed. There were photos of lakes, landscapes, and mountain ranges. There were sunsets and moonrises. Storm clouds and flowering meadows. The boy was speechless. The old man smiled. “If you stick with it, you’ll take better pictures than these.”

When the boy finally found his voice, he said, “I’ll never be this good.”

The old man grinned and clasped him on the shoulder. “Sure you can. You just need to practice.”

And back to work they both went.

Words could not express the boy’s gratitude for the lens, nor the hidden friendship shown by the old man; the kind and caring concern hidden beneath his greasy demeanor.

That perfect shot? It never came, although the boy always kept his camera handy just in case. And that was fine with him. He learned over the years to enjoy being outside and looking at birds and animals and trees and the seeing world in a different way. Kind of like an artist might.

He took a lot of photos too. Some of them weren’t too bad. They captured the feeling of the scene and the beauty of nature. Like the old man had done in the photos he showed him on that long ago day. Deep down in his heart, he has the feeling his old boss would like the ones he’s taken throughout his life. Especially the ones with the lens the old man had given him. All those outdoor landscapes. Yeah, especially those.

 

About the author

Jim lives in a small town in Minnesota. He loves to write! His stories and poems have appeared in over four hundred online and print publications. To learn more and to see all of his work, check out his blog at: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com. 

 

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Sunday Serial: The House of Clementine by Gill James, Chapters 29 & 30, orange juice

 

CHAPTER THIRTY

             

"Bakewell tart and builder's tea. That do you?"

Marijam placed the tray on the low coffee table. The tart, Kaleem noticed, was slightly oddly shaped. Why was she carrying the tray herself anyway? What did she think the kitchen droid was for after all? Oh yes. Right. It was obvious. "You made it yourself?"

Marijam nodded.

"Why?"

"Because I can and I wanted to."

"Why though? The droid would make it near perfect. And it would be more economical."

"Who knows how much longer we'll be able to have droids and all this fantastic technology? The world's going mad."

"You don't think it will get that bad do you? Surely not?"

"I hope not. We never seem to learn from history. We're repeating ourselves."

Kaleem shrugged. Well, maybe. He took a bite of his tart. Gosh it was good, even if it was a funny shape. Both the pastry and the cakey filling were extra light. You could really taste the almonds and the raspberry jam as well. "This is good, Mother."

Marijam laughed.  "I always could make pastry.  Don't you remember when we lived in the caves?" 

Oh yes, he did. He nodded and took a sip of his tea. That was good too. It was unusual as well. Zandrian water did not usually make good Terrestran tea but this was really convincing. "How did you manage this then?"

"It cost a fair amount. I'm just making the most of it all while the communications are still open."

"You think it will get that bad?"

"It's best to be prepared for the worst. Anyway, now that you've enjoyed my afternoon tea, talk. I know you’ve come to  tell me something. You've got that look about you. "

"I'm going to Zenoto.  I'm to find out what's really going on."

"What?"  Marijam's eyes flashed. She blushed. "You're going to be a spy again?"

"Kind of."

"It's ridiculous."

"It has to be done."  

"Why?"

"Because as you said, the world's going mad." Would they go as far as being without droids and all the new technology, though? 

Marijam shook her head. "If we have to go back to living in caves would it really be so bad? Don't you remember what it was like?"

He did. Only too well. They were dark and a little damp. They'd had some technology though it had been inferior compared with what had been up on the surface. The main problem, though, had been his isolation from other people. He looked different and he was different also because he had a poorer life physically. The life there hadn't been unhappy in other ways.

Now, though, they were used to a much higher standard of living. He gestured round the room. "You'd miss all of this, wouldn't you?" He knew his mother had adapted very well to luxury. Anyway, she'd been born into it in the first place.

She glanced at where he was pointing. "Maybe. A little." Then she turned back to him. "But I'd miss you more."

"Nothing's going to happen to me."

"Oh, you can be so sure of that, can you?"

Well, he had to be didn't he, or he'd never do anything.

Marijam now looked straight into his eyes. "Look at what happened when you were in the Z Zone."

Yes, that. He had mixed memories of that time. The conditions there had been really squalid compared even with the cave home he and Marijam had shared. But he had shared that time with Rozia and it had been wonderful until it became dangerous and Rozia had been hurt.

"Mother, I can take care of myself. I really can." Even if he couldn't take care of the person he loved most in the world.

"Let somebody else do it this time. You've done your share."

"You know I can't."

"You won't have the protection of the Prophecy this time."

Kaleem sighed. "Mother, you know that there wasn't anything in that in the end. It was just a recording of Davina Patterson's therapy sessions."

"Yes. All right. But wasn't it odd how she sensed you?"

Yes, well that was a bit of a mystery, how a 20th century woman under hypnosis had described some of the things that happened to him. Might it, though, be a question of making the story fit? A bit like the way fortune-tellers could say something so general that it would actually suit anyone.

"Or it could have been Kevik."

Kevik had also been born in a cave in the Z Zone and his mother had thought he had been the one mentioned in the "prophecy" until Kaleem came along. Both of their names began with 'K' after all.

Marijam shrugged. "Or it might not have been." 

"Mother, you know that it was all the excellent training Razjosh gave me that protected me. Not some mumbo jumbo." 

Marijam frowned. "All right then. We don't know what might happen if you go all that way and they're as hostile as they seem on the news here."

"Well Exton's an oddball, and it's puzzling how he got into office, but he's actually seeking connection with others. He doesn't want to be hostile. Just the opposite. He wants more connection with people." Kaleem wished he could actually believe himself. There was really something disturbing about the man. He had to reassure Marijam some way though. 

"For goodness sake, Kaleem, isn't there enough to occupy you here? People wanting to leave the One World Community. Brown tunics marching on the streets.  Nasty racist incidents."

"It's all part of the same thing isn't it?"

"Oh yes. So if you find out what's causing the trouble here, you could apply it to what's going on on Zenoto, surely."

"I guess it's bigger on Zenoto. They need me there. A Zandrian can sort it out here."

"Who would you suggest?"

"Ella Tyler, for example." He felt himself blush.

"Ah. There we have it."

"Mother, I'd be getting away from her, wouldn't I, if I went to Zenoto?"

Marijam sighed. "What is going on here, Kaleem? It's frightening."

Kaleem nodded. "And Zenoto, the old Zenoto, might have been able to save us. They need me to uncover it again." He wondered whether it all had something to do with the House of Clementine. He suspected it probably did. That was now becoming just as much a mystery as the Babel prophecy had been. Would that have a rational explanation in the end as well?

"Would it? And you're a bit arrogant if you think you'll be able to persuade them to go back to their old ways and help us. That you can do this better than anyone else. "

Ah. There was his mother speaking.  

He sighed.  "Mother, you know I have to do it. That's all there is to it."

"What about Rozia and Petri? Are you going to abandon them?"

Oh, yes she'd got the measure of him, most certainly. Kaleem swallowed the huge lump that had formed in his throat. His mother was right. Of course he couldn't abandon Rozia a second time. Surely, anyway, he needed to stop her from going back to Terrestra.  However bad it was getting on Zandra, there were still so many advantages for her and Petri if they stayed here.

"Well? You won't will you?"

He looked at his mother. "I don't think I can. You're quite right. "

"Good. I'm glad we've got that settled. So you'll go and talk to them?"

Kaleem nodded.

"Today?"

"As soon as possible."

He got up from the table and started getting ready to leave. "The sooner the better, I guess."

This wasn't going to be an easy 

About the Peace Child Series:

Book 1 The Prophecy

Kaleem Malkendy is different – and on Terrestra, different is no way to be.
Everything about Kaleem marks him out form the rest: the blond hair and dark skin, the uncomfortable cave where he lives and the fact that he doesn’t know his father. He’s used to unwelcome attention, but even so he’d feel better if some strange old man didn’t keep following him around.
That man introduces himself and begins to explain the Babel Prophecy – and everything in Kaleem’s life changes forever.    

 

Book 2 Babel

Babel is the second part of the Peace Child trilogy. Kaleem has found his father and soon finds the love of his life, Rozia Laurence, but he is still not comfortable with his role as Peace Child. He also has to face some of the less palatable truths about his home planet: it is blighted by the existence of the Z Zone, a place where poorer people live outside of society, and by switch-off, compulsory euthanasia for a healthy but aging population, including his mentor, Razjosh. The Babel Tower still haunts him, but it begins to make sense as he uncovers more of the truth about his past and how it is connected with the problems in the Z Zone. Kaleem knows he can and must make a difference, but at what personal cost?

 

Book 3 The Tower 

Kaleem has given up the love of his life in order to protect her. He now lives and works on Zandra. A sudden landquake, not known on the planet for many years, destroys many of the forests his father has planted to bring life back to the planet. The new relationship Kaleem has helped to establish between the Terrestrans and the Zandrians is also under threat. A third party gets involved and Kaleem has to use all of his diplomatic skills to keep everything on track. Mistakes cost him dearly and he looks set to lose Rozia for a second time. The Babel Tower mystery, others mysteries and sadness plague him. Can he find a way through to fulfil his role as the Peace Child?

 

Find out more here.  

 

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit.

She writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation

She is a Lecturer in 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

See other episodes: https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/search/label/The%20House%20of%20Clementine    

 

 

Saturday Sample: Transforming Communities, Forward. spring water,

 

Foreword by Debz Hobbs-Wyatt

 As part of the small team at Bridge House Publishing, I have had the pleasure of being able to read and help select the stories for the Waterloo Festival Writing Competition for the past three years. The theme has always been connected to the idea of transformation: transforming minds, transforming being and this time transforming communities. Of course, at the time the theme for this year was announced, we could never have anticipated what 2020 would bring or the impact that would have on all our communities globally.

Covid-19 has clearly had a major impact on what it feels to be part of a community. It has touched all aspects of our lives, including how even this collection is launched and how the 2020 festival is run. The good thing is that at no other time in history have we had so much technology at our fingertips to make that possible. In modern life, we already know about virtual communities, some even fall in love that way, and now we have realised the real importance of making our connections through different means. Of course, that is no substitute of the warmth of a real hug – but those days will return when we will once again close the two-metre gap and understand that part of community we are closed off to at the time of putting this collection together. If that has happened, go hug someone right now and appreciate something as simple as that. Perhaps not if you’re reading this on a train full of strangers!

Community for me is connection. We connect, we come together, we support, as you will see in the stories in this collection. But connection also has its dark side, as we will also have seen at this strange time in our history, perhaps non-conformity is equally part of community.

You will see community explored in the most diverse of ways in this little book. From a mining community trying to save the planet but at the same time killing its workers, children who disappear, segregation according to colour but not as we know it, though disturbingly similar. You will read about a book club for the elderly, about storytelling, about communities who come together at times of adversity…each story unique and exploring the theme in new and interesting ways.

There were stories I loved that I almost chose for the collection but this for me had everything I felt a collection about transforming communities needed. At this current time of transformed communities one thing you can always rely on – writers will write, stories will be read and people will find ways to come together.

Enjoy and well done to all of those who made this collection possible. Even if you did not make it into the collection this time, we enjoyed reading the stories and there’s always next time!

 

Debz

May 2020

     

The End of an Era by Judith Skilleter, Argentinian Merlot

Avril and Ken are struggling. Avril is probably struggling more than Ken. Their daughter Louise, known as Lou, once known as Louby Lou, which Louise hated, has gone off to university. She won’t be home till Christmas and Avril is feeling the loss already.

In fact she felt the loss all the way home from Exeter back to Lancashire and was still feeling it four weeks later. She'd even felt the impending loss from the date Lou started talking about A levels and university. Probably the fear of losing Lou goes back even further.

“Why did she have to go so far away,” she complains to Ken, her husband of thirty-five  years. “Exeter is not even near enough for a weekend at home.”

Ken agrees. He too is missing his little girl, hardly little anymore but you know what I mean. “But you know Av, perhaps she needed time to herself, to explore a bit of the world without us - and to see what life would be like without us.”

“She could have done that at Manchester. Manchester has perfectly good universities, in fact Manchester has very good universities. And we would have kept out of her way” says Avril.

“I know” replied Ken, but he secretly thought “And you would have been going into Manchester every week with things you thought she needed and arranging shopping trips and cinema trips. You wouldn’t have left her alone.”

Louise Amelia Frost had been a surprise to Avril and Ken after nearly twenty years of unsuccessful pregnancies – early miscarriages, a stillbirth and failed IVF. She was a natural conception but for nine months Avril and Ken lived on their nerves. Every twinge was followed by a trip to the bathroom to look for tell-tale signs of another loss. Every book that gave advice on pregnancies in your forties and what to look out for and what to do were read if not devoured.

Eventually Louise arrived at forty-one weeks, a healthy and solid nine-pounder and was adored and cherished from the off. Avril and Ken were both hands-on parents and they spent as much time with their daughter as the rest of their responsibilities would allow. Avril had given up work to ensure a smooth pregnancy with few other concerns and she never went back. Louise was her work, her purpose, her future, her identity, her achievement. And Ken didn’t mind. Avril’s salary was not missed; he had a good job – but he insisted that at weekends Louise was his responsibility. Louise was breast-fed but Ken insisted that Avril express milk into bottles so Ken too could feed the tiny tot. It was as far as possible shared parenting.

Louise went to local schools for primary and secondary education and did very well. She was always near or at the top of her class. Louise was also sporty and Ken and/or Avril, usually both, would take her to whatever sporting fixture she needed to be at weekends. Football was Louise’s favourite sport and Avril loved getting her sports kit ready and ensuring that her boots were clean.

“I can do that, Mum,” was heard regularly and plaintively at weekends but Avril insisted. And Louise would go off to her bedroom feeling very frustrated and thinking that at times her life wasn’t really hers.

She would go out with her friends and when she arrived back late but always in a taxi, as Ken and Avril had always insisted and paid for, she could see one of both parent waiting at the open door and then asking if she had had a nice time and did she want a cup of tea? This another time when she thought that her life wasn’t really hers – and there were so many other occasions when Louise just wanted to scream “Get out of my hair” or “Leave me alone” or worse. There were more than a few blazing rows that just led to tears, especially from her mum, but Louise tried very hard to avoid these. They were too emotionally exhausting.

It hadn’t been too bad when she was younger but now she was well into her teens she wanted more freedom, and to make decisions for herself without having to share them with her mum and dad. She wanted independence.

When Lou first started getting homework it was great fun because she and her mum did it together and homework was followed by cake and milk as she and her mum snuggled in front of the TV before bedtime. But then, when homework became more serious, Lou needed to concentrate and do it by herself. Her mum was not pleased to be sent downstairs and Lou remembered a fading and plaintive “But I did history too at A level” as her mum got closer to the kitchen.

When she had to decide what universities she would apply for Louise was adamant that her choices would be her choices and not her mum and dad’s. Avril has already decided for her, the two Manchester universities, Liverpool, and Chester

“No way” said Louise. Her choices were Exeter, Edinburgh, St Andrews and the University of Kent at Canterbury. Avril was horrified and tried to include at least one of the Manchester universities in Louise’s list. But Louise was insistent. Places to read history were offered at all of them and she chose Exeter. And of course she got the right grades to go there.

When Avril and Ken drove to Devon, “to the ends of the earth” thought Avril, there were silent tears all the way from her mum.  Louise felt a bit guilty for leaving her parents who had loved her so much and given her so much all of her life but this feeling of guilt was soon pushed out the way by excitement and eagerness for new adventures ahead where she was the decision maker. Yes, she would make mistakes but she would deal with them she reckoned.

Avril hoped they might help her settle in and arrange her room, perhaps stay the night. But Louise said “No, I want to meet people and do things slowly. Sorry Mum – this is just me, please go home” and to her delight her dad agreed. “Lou is right, Avril. It's time for us to go home. She knows where we are when she might need us and there's always the telephone – but not every day please Avril.” Louise looked at her dad with gratitude. Louise knew her mum would give him a hard time at home, made harder by the fact that he would miss Louise hugely too.

A hug and Ken and Avril set off north, with Avril’s silent tears suddenly becoming noisy ones

“We have to let her live her own live love. She has to learn to be independent and not have us fussing all the time.”

“We don’t fuss” objected his wife. At this Ken did not reply but raised his eyebrows.

Once back home Avril cleaned and decorated Louise’s room. “I have to keep busy” she explained to Ken.

“But Lou might not want her room decorated. She may not want you going through her private things and changing things.”

“She will, it will be a lovely surprise when she comes home for Christmas.”

Ken told Louise what was happening.

“I figured something like that would happen and everything I don't want Mum to see is in the back of the loft in a locked suitcase. I'm relying on you, Dad, to ensure Mum doesn’t find it and force it open.”

“Of course sweetheart” said Ken – even though this felt like a betrayal of Avril and, of course, he secretly wanted his daughter a bit closer too. “That is my heart talking”, he said to himself. “I must listen to my head and let her go. If only Avril could do the same.”

As for Louise she loved university and her freedom from day one. And she found a new boyfriend, Alec. There had been boyfriends before but they had been kept secret as she couldn’t bear the thought of questions and interest from her mum. Alec asked her to visit his house after Christmas and meet his mum and dad. Louise so wanted to say yes but she knew what the reaction from home would be. It was a very difficult decision.

 

About the author 

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with three grandchildren 

 

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Pretty as a Spring Photograph by Lynn Clement, milky Latte with a Cinnamon Twist,

 Sitting by the gravestone, I let my mind drift away from the grey drizzle and damp moss clinging to the granite…

And daffodils are now blowing in the breeze. Their scent is in the air and my step is light as I reach for your hand. It was warm, sweaty even as it was an unusually hot spring in 2010.

The hills of Cumbria rose majestically as if they had just erupted from the earth, to say ‘hello.’ Their green carpet dappled with fluffy white clouds, on legs. Tiny bleats calling for attention from passers-by.

But we only had eyes for each other. You lent me your hankie to mop my top lip, and then you put it on your head, after knotting the ends like an old man on Brighton beach. You looked so silly, and we laughed and laughed. But it stopped the sun from burning your, ‘in denial’, bald spot.

Do you remember feeding the ducks on the lake, with the crusts from our meal at the Bed and Breakfast? We had to hide them in our napkins so that the landlady didn’t see. She was so fierce, we didn’t dare say, ‘no’ to her huge English breakfast, even though we were full of our delicious candlelit meal the night before. Still, we ate it, didn’t we and savoured it too. All the time talking and giggling like teenagers. The other guests must have known we were newlyweds.

The cold crisp evenings were my favourite; wrapping ourselves up in that enormous scarf that your mother made for us. One long scarf around two people in love – perfect. Life was perfect, then.

 Even when the honeymoon was over, our life was bliss, me nesting and you riding off on your motorbike every day to, ‘bring home the bacon’, as you used to say. I’d wave you off every morning with the knotted hankie and feign heartbreak like an old-fashioned Hollywood idol. ‘Keep safe darling,’ I’d sometimes call, but you didn’t look back.

Cooking was never my forte, but I tried to put a decent meal on the table for you. I know there were times you’d pretend to like the food and slip some to the dog when I wasn’t looking. But I didn’t mind. Even when you re-stacked the dishwasher after I’d left the kitchen, I didn’t mind. I miss that.

Do you remember when I put the pregnancy test result on your pillow in our huge double bed and you swung me round in our bedroom? You said it was the happiest day of your life. And then you told me to lie down and have a rest. You treated me so carefully. Precious moments. I didn’t mind you fussing over me. I know some women do. But I enjoyed it.

I loved being pregnant. ‘I want a dozen,’ you said, cradling my swollen belly. ‘A whole football team.’ And then, when we found out our baby was to be a girl, you told me that you were starting up our own girls’ football team… But that wasn’t to be.

These flowers are nice. They’re like the ones you used to bring me every Friday when you finished work, arriving home in a puddle of sweat with your helmet skew-whiff, a silly grin on your face, and a bunch of carnations picked up from the garage on the high street. Pink ones usually but sometimes yellow to match the kitchen tiles. I used to sniff them in a dramatic manner and say ’mmm lovely,’ which always made you smile. These flowers don’t smell.

How can one year bring so much drama? That year, hospitals became a big part of our lives. The midwives were great. They made me feel so special. ‘It’s a girl,’ one would say and then the next one would say, ’rapid heartbeat means a boy.’ I wish I could have had twins for you. One girl and one boy. He would have been handsome too.

Dad’s death hit us all hard, didn’t it? I don’t know how Mum coped. The Macmillan nurses were amazing and you were so kind to her. I know you helped her so much. The death of a loved one is so tough, but it’s not the end.

‘One in, one out,’ she said to me one day, looking at my bump. ‘Your dad would have loved being a Granddad.’ I know he would have, he told me. My heart broke but time heals.

 How happy you were when our baby, Ellen, came along. ‘She’s the image of you,’ you said. As I lay exhausted on the hospital bed, even though the nurses were fussing around me checking things, I remember the look of absolute adoration on your face as you held her close to your chest, a look that said, ‘I will die for you.’

Four years to the day. I can’t cry anymore.

Mum came to see me yesterday. She looks well. Her face was strained but she smiled a lot. I’m glad she’s got Ken now. He brought flowers and she arranged them. They acted like a team. It’s sad when you lose someone so dear as they both have. They stayed a while and then went to see Ken’s wife, Mary. She’s in the Garden of Remembrance. They took her red roses. She likes red roses.

Our daughter looks lovely today, quite the young lady in pink and yellow. You’ve done well with the matching frilly socks. I love the see-through raincoat. She’s as pretty as a spring photograph. I’m glad you gave her my name – thank you.

You are doing a great job of bringing her up. I wonder if you play football with her like you said you would. I hope so. You are a good man and I love you still. But maybe it’s time that you started to look for someone to help you. You might get that football team yet.

 I must go now, so I’ll say goodbye. Thank you for always coming to see me. I hope Ellen enjoys her fourth birthday and isn’t too sad that Mummy isn’t there with her. She’ll be able to read soon, and know that the date on the headstone is the same date as her birthday.

 Remember to tell her that Mummy loved her very much and I always will.

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 

 

 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.)