At St Medard's by Guy Pratt, peppermint tea

It had been the occasion of the year at St Medard’s – the Bishop’s Visitation. It had been decided that the service be held on the Sunday afternoon so that those from other churches in the benefice and indeed in the whole deanery, could attend if they wished. Ministers from other denominations were also invited. The mayor and councillors were invited too, together with the local Boy Scouts and Girl Guides. Everything was done to make this an auspicious event.

St Medard’s was a large town church, and the response to the invitations was excellent, all the pews were filled to capacity for the occasion.

The Vicar and his wife entertained the bishop to a hearty lunch, which he seemed to thoroughly enjoy and partook of a second helping of the ginger pudding, Mabel, the vicar’s wife’s speciality.

Everybody was assembled at the church in good time and the choir and the clergy proceeded up the main aisle at the beginning of the service. Members of the clergy were all regaled in their finest vestments and the mayor wore his chain of office. Choristers were all in freshly laundered white surplices. Everything had a touch of pageantry about it. Visitors were welcomed and preliminary announcements were made before the opening hymn. Everything was running very smoothly.

It was pleasing to see the other churches in the benefice well represented and friends from other denominations had turned out as well.

Of course, the vicar was very keen to impress the bishop. He had heard that there was soon to be a vacancy for a canon at the cathedral and he had promotion hopes in mind.

The bishop was known to be a softly spoken man and the person responsible for audio equipment, which most large churches have today, had been primed to turn the pulpit microphone up to full volume.

When the bishop climbed up into the pulpit, he gave an inspiring address which held the congregation in rapt attention. You could have heard a pin drop when at the end he stepped back to sit down.

Everything had gone extremely well apart from one incident and the vicar felt it incumbent upon himself to address this matter from the pulpit the following Sunday.

He stood and thanked all those who had contributed in various ways to make the bishop’s visit such a success. He had delighted in seeing the church packed with so many people.

He then launched into a sermon on forgiveness which seemed to be very focussed on forgiving our youngsters for their foolish pranks. He recalled the time when he discovered his young son shaving the hairs off gooseberries and trying to sell them to the neighbours as grapes, but of course he’d been forgiven. Then there was the occasion some choirboys had smeared glue on the choirmaster’s chair and he was unable to stand up at the appropriate time, but the choirmaster had been very forgiving – boys will be boys.

Other similar instances were related all ending in the forgiveness of the miscreants.

Then, however the vicar’s face darkened like thunder and his voice rang out loudly “But if anyone ever again put’s a whoopee cushion on the chair a visiting bishop sits on after his sermon, I swear I will call down fire and brimstone upon them.”

Some of the congregation looked startled at the vicar’s outburst, but others nudged each other and exchanged knowing winks. They knew it was all a cover up job.

 Anyone who had partaken of second helping of the vicar’s wife’s ginger pudding knew it was most likely to produce a Celia Imrie moment, but could a bishop openly admit to that from the pulpit at the end of a sermon, like Celia did on Traitors.

About the author

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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Her Fiery Red Hair by Aneta Ciszek-Kowalska, black coffee

He could swear her hair turned a more intense red when she got angry, as if catching fire. Perhaps it was just the light, the way she was standing up against a window. For a moment there, he lost the trail of thought, stopped listening altogether. She was gesturing excessively, that level of hand waving didn’t bode well.

He came over and reached for her hands, pulling her gently towards him. A calming gesture. She sighed heavily and stopped talking, so he guided her onto the sofa, where she plonked heavily. He dropped her hands, and she rested them on her lap.

‘How could she be missing?’ she said in a quieter voice now, not calm, but resigned rather.

The silence that followed made her words hang in the air.

‘Thousands of people go missing in the country each year, most of them return home shortly after,’ he finally spoke.

She turned around as if in slow motion and looked at him like he was from another planet. That wasn’t the answer she needed to hear. It was one of these questions that required a compassionate response, rather than facts and statistics. But that’s just the way he was.

‘She will be back soon, you will see,’ he tried again and this time it resonated better, he could see it on her face.

A slight nod of hear head, then she rested her cheek on his shoulder, the flame-like hair tickling his chin. It was curly and very unruly. She hated it sometimes, but he loved it. Especially the way it smelled, her shampoo. He inhaled deeply. Jackie’s hair did not have such intense fragrance, nor colour.

‘She hasn’t been to work for two days. I don’t even know how long she has been missing for. I haven’t spoken to her since Friday! I feel so bad about it now. ’ The words were flowing fast out of her mouth. She sniffed, her nose red, matching the colour of her fiery hair.

'She has been gone three days,' he said, but she couldn’t hear him, the words only spoken in his head.

‘I am restless. I can’t stand still and just wait. I have to do something.’ She jumped up suddenly, startling him.

He blinked, he had to play along.

‘We should bring a picture.’ She retrieved her mobile and scrolled through the photographs, searching for one of her friend. ‘We could wander around in her local area and ask if anyone had seen her.’

She selected one photograph, a close up of her friend’s face. It drew his attention. The dark brown eyes smiling into the lens.

‘Aren’t the police doing that?’ he asked, without taking his eyes off the photo.

‘Sure, yeah, but you know how they are always, understaffed. Should we make posters?’

‘If you want.’

The look she threw him made him realise how it sounded, indifferent, as if they were considering getting takeaway, rather than trying to find her missing friend.

‘Sure, let’s do that,’ he rushed to tell her then, making an effort to sound more eager this time.

‘Should we start with the local pub? I know she went there sometimes for a pint or two.’

She waited for him, in case there was something else he wanted to suggest or add, but he didn’t. He just gestured with his extended arm for her to go.

‘After you,’ he said.

The pub was empty at the early hour of the afternoon. The staff were busy cleaning up and getting ready for the evening. She came right up to the barman -  her companion stood a few feet behind -  retrieved her mobile out of the pocket and showed the bartender a picture of her friend, then asked if he had seen the woman.

‘Yeah, I think she came here Saturday nigh.’ He nodded, stacking the pint glasses on the shelf.

‘Alone?’

‘Police were here before you. I told them she was with a man, if it was her, that is.’

‘A man?’

‘Yeah, about her age. Looked a little bit like your friend over there,’ he gestured.

She turned around and he smiled weakly, then averted his gaze towards the floor, rubbing some stain off the wooden floor with the tip of his shoe. The barman looked at the spot on the floor and a crease appeared between his eyebrows.

‘I didn’t get a good look, though. It was busy. They didn’t stay long,’ he added.

‘Any idea where they might have gone after?’

‘Not a clue, sorry.’

 

‘She was with somebody.’ They exited the pub and she had to speak up to be heard over the noise of the traffic.

‘I heard.’

‘I kind of want to go to the station to find out what they know. See how I can help.’

She waited for the bus to pass, before speaking again.

‘We will just be in the way,’ he reasoned.

A deep sigh escaped her.

‘Do you really think so?’

She seemed a little distracted somehow.

‘Are you alright?’

‘I am just,’ she started and stopped, taking large and slow gulps of air. ‘ I think I am stressed.’

‘Of course you are.’

‘All this... I just don’t know how to deal with it all. I think I need to sit down,’ she looked the direction of the pub entrance.

‘No, don’t get back in there. There are only heavy drunks in there at this hour. Come on, let’s find a coffee shop or something.’

‘Can we go to yours? I can’t face people right now.’

She must have noticed his hesitation, so he hurriedly answered before the surprised look on her face took hold for longer.

‘Sure.’

 

The key glided smoothly into the lock and she touched his hand before it turned.

‘What’s happened to your hand?’

‘I was gardening.’

‘At this time of the year?’

The key turned and the door opened, before he spoke.

‘Yeah, the bulbs had to go in, so they could come up in the spring.’

‘Right.’

‘This and the neighbours’ dog died.’

‘What?’

‘They have a paved backyard and asked me if I could bury him.’

‘In your garden?’

‘Well, yeah. I didn’t want to make it more difficult for them. I picked a corner when there is no traffic, beside a rose bush. No one will disturb him there.’

‘And they made you dig it up by yourself?’

‘They are elderly; I insisted.’

‘Wow, fair play. When was that?’

He looked at her funny.

‘This Sunday, why?’

She shrugged.

‘Do you want some coffee?’

‘Not sure; I'm all jittery as is. But I will have a glass of water.’

He disappeared into the kitchen, but didn’t find her in the living room when he returned. A cold draft was slipping into the room from the terrace door left ajar. He stepped outside into the garden.

‘Are you admiring my roses? They are not in bloom now.’

The lawn was well watered and squelched slightly as he approached her, making her jump a little.

‘Was that a big dog?’

‘Large enough. Do you want your water?’

She sipped thirstily as if she was in the middle of a desert and had not drunk for days. Water droplets dribbled down her chin.

‘Your hand is shaking. You are going to drop and break the glass.’

He reached for the empty glass and struggled a bit to free it from her hand. It seemed to have glued itself to her palm, her grip firm and tight, so lifted her fingers off the glass, one by one, took it away, and disappeared inside the house.

Unable to help herself, she started digging with her bare hands. The soil that had been recently moved yielded easily enough, dirt getting under her fingernails, she cried as one of them broke.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, appearing at the door, his voice strangely calm.

Her eyes opened wide as she turned, like a deer’s caught in the headlights.

‘The barman said he saw someone like you with Jackie on Saturday night. Was that you?’ She couldn’t hide the panic and her voice came out high pitched and off key, resonating and vibrating with every note that came out of her mouth.

He shrugged, but said nothing.

 

Wiping the sweat off his forehead and his temple, he left dirty marks on his face, grit under his fingernails. He rested his arm on the shovel, the weight of his body digging it further in. Taking the moment to catch a breath, he flatted the soil near the rose bush that she disturbed.

Something drew his attention, his eye travelled. It was a long fiery hair strand burning in the autumnal sun. He bent down to pick it up, the long red hair swayed in the air. He crumbled it in the palm of his hand, squeezing it tightly, regretting that he won’t be able to smell it anymore.

 

About the author

  

Aneta Ciszek-Kowalska writes psychological thrillers, suspense and speculative fiction, along with children's stories and theatre plays. Completed a creative writing course QQI Level 5 with distinction. Master of Political Science, Bachelor of Business in Human Resource Management. Working full time, mother of two boys. 

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A Love Kept Faithful by Alvaro L P Rossi, a medium latte

 

A Love Kept Faithfull.

They carefully edged their way into the coffee shop, he a little painfully, aided by his two lifelines: his walking stick which he grips as tightly as his no longer supple hands will allow, and his good wife of many years firmly grasping an elbow as she guides him to the nearest table. There she pulled out a chair and gently, carefully lowered him onto it, then went to the counter to order their usual drinks, then did her best to maintain a flow of almost one-sided conversation.

 But it had not started like that. Fifty plus summers ago, both had been in their early teens, just reaching the tipping point of taking note of, in the boys case, those soppy creatures who wore skirts, and in the girls case, those rough lads with dirty knees. James could not help but be drawn to Patricia. He would need to have been dumb, deaf and blind not to have done so. She had just turned fourteen and was showing every sign of breaking free of her chrysalis and morphing into the most delicate, colourful butterfly. He followed her every movement with eager, almost worshiping eyes. They were still just a little too young to start going out on dates, but he took every opportunity to be in her company, at times going out of his way to do so. She did not show any sign of objecting. Far from it. She relished their time together, brief as it normally was, since if he had noticed her, she also had taken note of him. Being, a rather precocious girl Patricia had started earlier than most in sizing up the boys and when her radar had picked up James, she homed in on him. Had he but known it at the time, James never stood a chance. Barely into her teens Patricia had already made up her mind that he will be the father of her children. By the time they were fifteen they had become an item, one’s name was rarely mentioned without the other’s being spoken of at the same time. Both sets of parents smiled indulgently on their friendship, wondering just how long it will last. Much to their surprise James and Patricia were still together at age seventeen and had started to go out on real dates. A little over a year later they were separated as each attended a different university but remained faithful to each other. Letters flew between Oxford and Cambridge, carrying messages of love and affection, till three years later both graduated with excellent degrees. Good careers followed, so by the time they were in their late twenties James knew it was time to solemnly go through the formality of going down on one knee to propose to Patricia, even though he was assured of her answer. It was a bit of a pantomime, but he knew it would please her. After all these years together, she could read James as if he were a favourite book, dipped into many times. The moment she woke that morning a sixth sense told her that this was to be the day. Of course, her answer would be in the affirmative, but to please and further encourage him she took more than usual care with her attire, her hair and make-up. When they met that evening his breath was taken away. She looked not simply lovely, but positively dazzling. He had engineered the sequence of events for this special evening: a private room, a champagne dinner, her favourite music playing quietly in the background. The meal over, James savoured a sip of his fine brandy, took a deep breath, removed the box from his pocket, went down on his left knee, and with a slight tremble in his voice asked Patricia the question she has known almost from the first moment she laid eyes on him, that he would some day ask her. In response she mouthed a quiet yes and plants a kiss on his eager mouth.

Nine months later they are married amid much rejoicing. Late that afternoon, their car packed with luggage, they set off on the start of their honeymoon, heading for a quiet, remote spot in Scotland. After a simple dinner that evening, they indulge in a special toast to each other, then retire to their room. Despite having been an item for all those years, against the prevailing trend, they had never shared the same bed. They knew that the majority of their contemporaries, once engaged, took that as carte blanche to sleep together, but not them. For them that special physical relationship is reserved for man and wife. Their first night between the same sheets should be something special, to be treasured and remembered for the rest of their lives. But in the here and now, being alone like this for the very first time, both felt shy and nervous. Who should make the first move? To break that moment of tension Patricia took her vanity case and repaired to the bathroom, where she undressed, showered and changed into her special wedding night nightdress. The vision that emerged from the bathroom robbed James of his breath; he could  hardly believe that she is his. To cover his confusion, he quickly went into the bathroom and likewise showered and changed into his specially purchased pyjamas. Patricia had been eagerly keeping watch on the bathroom door, awaiting the emergence of her young groom. Both gingerly got into their chosen side of the bed, sat up and waited for the other to make that important first move. Eventually James lent over, placed a chaste kiss on Patricia’s specially rouged lips, which she returned in like manner. A little later they exchanged kisses that had something of the passion of a wedding night, but their touching did not get beyond that. About an hour later both yawned ostentatiously, exchanged a final goodnight kiss, turned over and pretended to sleep. It was some four nights later when both were sufficiently at their ease, they started to touch each other intimately, exploring each other’s body, discovering what each liked to have done to them. It was then that nature took its pre-ordained course and they started to make love. An hour later they were finally married, in the fullest sense of the term. For the final few days of their honeymoon, they eagerly raced to their room, quickly undressed and were soon between the sheets, making passionate love for about half the night. It was on one of those blissful nights that their first daughter was conceived, born nine wonderful months later to the great delight of the new parents and grandparents. By now they were accomplished lovers, so over the next few years another daughter, then a son came along.

Theirs proved to be a peaceful, happy marriage, with little upsetting the even tenor of their days. A little over twenty years later their eldest daughter, as pretty as her mother had been at the same age, walked in one evening firmly grasping a young man’s hand to announce they had just become engaged. A year later they married and a year or so after that presented them with their first grandchild. Over the next five years first their other girl and then the boy, flew the nest, starting their own families. Once more on their own, James and Patricia made much of the free time they now had. But the years were now catching up on them: Patricia’s hair had lost much of its blonde sheen; there were signs of crow’s feet around her eyes and her figure was now somewhat fuller than it once had been. James’ hair was now no longer the fine, silky black of his youth, but had turned almost totally white, plus he was a little stooped, but nothing untoward for a man of his age. It was though just a few years later that Patricia noticed him slowing up and finding difficulty performing tasks which just a short time before he carried out without thought. Then one day he stumbled and fell. He tried to pass it off as just a slip, but Patricia was not fooled, she understood only too well this could be the start of something rather more serious. Reluctantly he agreed to an appointment with the doctor. After a thorough and careful examination his GP advised that his bones were simply showing signs of the normal wear and tear if you lived past a certain age; there is no cure, yet, for that. Just slow down a bit and take it easier. Patricia felt more reassured by this than James, who, despite being a little over seventy, simply could not think of himself as being an old man. But after a little gentle persuasion from his wife, he allowed her to buy him a fine, sturdy walking stick. Much to his own surprise this did much for his morale. He felt quite the dapper gentleman when he stepped out with it for the first time. Perhaps growing old was not so bad after all. Patricia felt quite proud of him, the way he had adapted to all this. She also was no longer the sprightly female whose heart she had eagerly allowed him to take captive, those many years before. It was some years now since they had last made love, the spirit was still willing, but time had now placed a barrier on that, but they still held each other closely at night. While doing so they could reflect gratefully on the many happy years they have had and pray that when the good Lord called time, they will then be together on the other side of the divide, to continue being together through eternity. Patricia wonders when they get there will they still be encumbered by these now worn bodies, or will they turn back into those handsome youngsters of yesteryear?

About the author

Alvaro has a passion for reading and writing.

 

  

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Home Town by P.A. Westgate , a mouthful of bitter lemon

Well, that was that, I thought. With my aunt’s death there would no longer be a reason to come here. I had time for a stroll around, a trip down memory lane, before catching the train home

            I hadn’t noticed them, or there hadn’t been any, going to the cemetery but on the way into the town centre, I saw the flags, flying from lampposts or hanging from windows. I saw quite a few were actually upside down. Dropping my gaze back to the road I saw that a man had moved into my path, forcing me to stop.

            “Where are you from then?” he said.

            I thought about ignoring the question and pushing past but somehow that didn’t seem to be the best course of action.

            I told him where I’d travelled from that morning, adding “For my aunt’s funeral.”

            “No, I mean where are you really from?” the man said.

            Really? I thought.

            “Actually, I was born and grew up here” I said and then “Why are you interested?

            He just stared for a moment before saying “Well you don’t sound like it” and, after a pause, “or look like it.”

            I thought a shrug was the best response.

            I put a little firmness into my voice “I was having a walk around before I catch my train, so I need to make a move.” I said.

            He didn’t say anything, so I stepped to the side and walked past him. For a moment, I thought he was going to take it further but I’ve always looked like I could take care of myself and I’d learned that a confident air and a firm tone often did the trick. I was shocked and a bit shaken. I suppose because it was my home town. Somewhere I’d grown up, happy and safe.

            After walking around for a couple of hours I had seen that a lot had changed but the house that I grew up in was still there. I was sure that the crazy paving in the front garden had been laid by my father donkey’s years ago. My school was still there, although the buildings were no longer home to the senior school that I had attended. It didn’t seem to have changed apart from that. A lot of the shops I remembered no longer existed. Most, it seemed, were either fast food outlets or charity shops. The pubs where friends and I would put the world to rights over a few beers were still there. But as I walked, I thought I caught glances and outright stares everywhere. Real or imagined they seemed to say ‘you don’t belong here’.

            I’d stayed longer than perhaps I should have and it was beginning to get dark by the time I got to the station. But trains were frequent and I’d be on my way home soon.

            To get to the right platform I needed to cross the footbridge. From the bridge there would be a view of the Esplanade fronting the beach, the estuary beyond and the amusement arcades and shops common to any seaside town. I remembered walking there as a child with my parents, eating an ice cream.

            But instead of people, families, strolling up and down, eating ice creams in the early evening, the whole length of the Esplanade was lined with people, unmoving. Many were holding a flag aloft or a light. The tide was out and the lights cast deep shadows across the mud.

            With the tide out the mud covered a fair distance before the deeper water mid-estuary. I could see small boats, dozens of them, mostly inflatables, each one packed with people. I could clearly see faces staring at the shore. The boats were scarcely moving. I assumed that they were just going to let them drift in with the tide. What their occupants imagined would happen I don't know, but surely they could see that the crowd was not going to welcome them with open arms. Then there came the roar of engines from speedboats further out in the estuary and fire in the air as bottle after bottle, Molotov cocktails, were thrown at or into the packed boats. Over the yells of the crowd on shore and the roar of the speedboats came the screaming. People, some with their clothes on fire, jumped into the water and began splashing towards the shore.

            Those making it to shallow water and believing themselves to be safe stood up and started to walk towards the shore, others simply changed clumsy swimming for crawling. Their smiles of relief turning once again to horror as they began to flounder in the mud, their legs becoming stuck and with the tide now rushing in and threatening to overwhelm them.

            Those that made it out of the mud and up to the Esplanade faced further horror. As they tried to climb off the beach, baseball bats, lengths of timber, golf clubs, cricket bats and even tennis rackets were lifted and viciously brought down, again and again and again. After a time there was silence. I saw a few people looking around, as if checking for more targets.

            Suddenly I was afraid. I hadn’t been taken for a local earlier and the crowd weren’t in the mood to give any benefit of doubt if I were seen now. I ran across the bridge, ducking to keep below the parapet.

            Hiding in a dark corner of the platform for the ten minutes it took for my train to arrive, the scene at the Esplanade played over and over in my mind. Some of the people were probably ones I had lived alongside, gone to school with perhaps. I thought that my home town had changed when I wandered through its streets. Now I didn’t recognise it at all. I thought about the town I now lived in; had lived in happily for many years. I wondered long it would take before the flags went up there.

 

About the author

P. A. Westgate, Paul, lets his imagination run wild through short-story writing. In addition to writing, Paul enjoys an eclectic mix of activities including reading, singing, the Arts and cocktails. He lives quietly in his native Essex where he tries, with varying degrees of success, to keep his house and garden tidy.

 

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Broken Night by Guy Pratt, a can of beer

It was Saturday night, but he retired early to bed. He had to be at the hospital by 6 am in the morning to start one of those long, thirteen- hour shifts on the busy Accident and Emergency unit and with nearly an hour’s travelling to get there, he’d set the alarm for 4.30.

The boys said they were turning in after Match of the Day. He always called them boys, but they were young men now; both had left school and were started on apprenticeships.

He had dropped off to sleep easily enough, but woke with a start when a loud bang disturbed him and caused him to sit up. The bang was followed by the noisy whirring of what sounded like a helicopter. He put his head down on the pillow and tried to get off to sleep again. Sleep would not come; he buried his head under the blankets, but it would not shut out the sound of raised voices.

Then he was just beginning to drift away when a volley of shots rang out. This time he pulled the pillow out from under his head and put it over his head instead, but it still wouldn’t muffle all the noise. It was becoming one of those nights when once deep sleep is broken,  you can’t get off again and every five minutes seems like an hour.

Some music now that rose to a deafening crescendo, then a woman screamed and another shot rang out. It seemed as if he had been awake for hours, and he began to fret about whether he would hear the alarm when the time to rise came. He was getting really angry and frustrated now. He was still the master of his own home.  Had they lost all respect for him? They knew he had to get up early, even if they didn’t.

Finally he leapt out of the bed, not pausing to put on slippers or dressing gown, rushed out of the bedroom, cursing as he stubbed his toe on the newel post at the top the stair, thundered down and threw open the lounge door. James Bond’s Aston Martin raced across the screen in the late night movie. Not pausing to locate the controls he strode across the room and yanked the plug out of its socket. Silence was restored.

 He swung round angrily to release a string of invectives at his tormentors. One lay full length on the sofa, a couple of empty beer cans on the floor beside it. The other was sprawled in the tilted back recliner, two more empty cans and some empty crisp packets on the coffee table beside him. They were both sound asleep.

He walked out of the lounge to a cupboard in the hall and took out a couple of blankets, quietly returned to the lounge and gently covered each of the boys. Then switched out the light and tiptoed silently up the stairs.

As he slipped back between the sheets, Jean half stirred on the other side of the bed and said sleepily, “Where have you been?”

“To turn off that infernal racket downstairs, ” he muttered.

“Didn’t hear a thing, ” mumbled Jean, drifting back into her dreams.

He did hear the alarm at 4.30 and climbed out of bed quickly, fearing if he didn’t, he might drop off again. Once under the shower he felt invigorated. Jean, woken by hearing him stir, slipped on her dressing gown and went downstairs to put the kettle on and prepare some breakfast. She always did this for him when he was on an early shift and would say “I don’t know how you can eat at this time in the morning. I’ll get mine later.”

Breakfast over, he gave Jean a peck on the cheek and picked up his car keys. “Try not to be late” she said “I’m cooking something special for you this evening.” He left and Jean feeling wide awake, decided to sort some laundry and do some ironing before she walked the dog. The boys would be shouting for clean shirts on Monday morning. Perhaps she’d have time to go to church this morning; she hadn’t been for weeks. Or maybe call in on Mrs Francis, who hadn’t been at all well. With such an early start she could get round and still get lunch for the boys.

He turned on the radio in the car. At least the roads were clear at this time in the morning and he’d have no problem finding a parking place when he got to the hospital. He knew it would be a busy day. It always was at weekends. As well as the usual everyday cases there would be the hungover, nursing the injuries of Saturday night brawls, they weren’t conscious of until the numbing effects of the alcohol wore off, then the endless string of sports injuries. At least the day went quickly when you were permanently on your feet tending to somebody.

Jean, having had a long day had cleared away the remains of that special meal, put the crockery in the dishwasher, put the empty wine bottle out and had given the dog his short evening walk, then retired to bed with her book. She too, had had a busy day. Was a woman’s work ever done? She nodded over the book which dropped to the floor as she drifted into a peaceful slumber.

The boys came in from their evening at the youth club at 10 ‘o’ clock; they would have to be up early for work in the morning.

As they came in the front door a light was on in the lounge and the TV was on loudly. They looked in and saw him stretched out in the recliner, his feet up on the stool; an unopened beer can on the coffee table.

One went across the room and turned the television off whilst the other went to the cupboard in the hall and took out a blanket.

They covered him gently, then tiptoed silently up the stairs to bed.  

 

About the author 

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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The Dog in the Shadows by Henry Lewi, a tank of mead

The old man regularly took a walk twice a day from his house down on to the beachfront, once in the morning and for a second time in the late afternoon, always with his silver topped black cane in his left hand and in his right he carried a leather leash. He was often seen talking and calling out to someone or something that wasn’t there. Some passers-by thought he was possibly looking for his dog that had disappeared, others thought he was just a lonely somewhat senile old man, but he didn’t have that appearance. Tall and straight with long swept back silver hair he was always immaculately dressed in a three piece dark suit or wearing a long camel overcoat if the day was cold.

   His house was one of those large tall double fronted Victorian houses overlooking the sea, and separated from the beach by a wide road, with the double gates to his property always left open; parked in the driveway was a vintage Bentley and an old Mercedes Convertible.

  The four of them had watched the old man for a week, they had noted, checked and followed his movements and observed his twice-daily walks.

  The house they knew was packed with valuable artworks and ancient artefacts that would net them a small fortune, but it was access to the vault in the basement that they really wanted.  Their Boss had told them that the safe contained an extremely rare and valuable relic, ‘It was his,’ the Boss had said, and he wanted it back, and he wanted it back badly, and he would reward them handsomely when they bought it to him.

   There were no video cameras or alarm systems in or around the house, clearly no guard dogs, and whilst the old man always carried a leash when out walking there was certainly no dog that they’d ever seen.  He was as the Boss had said, ‘just an old man living alone in the big house full of pieces of art work and the valuable contents of his safe.’ 

   ‘Easy pickings’, they all thought, well that was what their Boss had said.

  The four of them broke into the house that night, and as they entered the large white painted front living room the lights came on, and they were confronted by the old man seated in a large armchair, his silver topped cane lying across his thighs, a dog leash lying on the floor next to the armchair.  The room was empty except for the old man in the armchair and a large long tusked Golden Boar about four-foot in height quietly standing perfectly still in one corner of the room.

  ‘Get up old man,’ said the the leader of the four, ‘get up, we know you’re all alone here, so get up and open your safe for us.’

   The old man smiled and remained seated, ‘who sent you?’ He asked still smiling. 

  ‘Nobody you’d know, but he knows all about you,’ replied the the leader of the group, ‘and he’s a very, very powerful guy, so do us all a favour, get up and take us to your safe sharpish.’

  As the old man slowly stood up and leant on his cane, still smiling he asked, ‘so what did he tell you all about me?’

  ‘He just said you were an old man, an art collector who lives by himself all alone in a big house, why, are you someone special?’ Asked one of the four.

  ‘So let me tell you who I am, I am Loki, Son of the All Father Odin, and that safe you want me to open contains an ancient heavy War Hammer.  Did he bother to tell you that I’m very very well protected; so are you all willing to brave my fury, that of my dog, and the Old Gold Boar standing over there, for the sake of a few artefacts?’

  ‘Your fury, your fury, what are you Old Man, delusional?’ Replied the leader of the four; ‘we can see that Gold Boar stuck in the corner over there, standing completely still like it's a fucking statue, but this dog you keep going on about, where’s this fucking dog?   There isn’t one we can see, we can’t hear any sounds of a dog, just that stupid leash on the floor, so clearly there isn’t one, so stop with all this nonsense about the dog, as well as that Golden Boar and this rubbish about your so-called protection, just take us to the safe Old Man.’

  ‘So he really, really didn’t say anything about my dog?’ Asked the old man.

  ‘Don’t you understand what I just said?’  Replied the leader of the four intruders.

‘No, and I’ll repeat it for you for one last time, No, he didn’t say anything, about a dog, so just do what we’re asking.’

  Still standing the old man tapped his silver-topped cane twice on the floor, and pointed to the wall behind him; all four now saw the shadow of a huge silent wolf-like figure looking as if it was about to pounce.  The old man tapped his cane yet again and suddenly on that back wall appeared the shadows of three men now standing in front of the huge wolf.  Looking round the leader of the group realised that his three companions had suddenly disappeared, leaving him now standing completely alone in the white painted room facing the Old Man, whilst the Old Gold Boar in the corner remained still as a statue.

  The leader of the group watched, mesmerized by the dancing shadows on the white wall opposite, as the Shadow Wolf appeared to leap and attack the now silent shadows of his three men, who were projected onto that white wall; and all the while, the old man looked on silently.  

 ‘That dog,’ said the old man finally, ‘that dog,’ he repeated, ‘is my Hellhound, The Embodiment Of My Son The Wolf-God Fenrir, a Silent God who only keeps to the shadows.’

 ‘NOW GO!  Go tell your Boss, and YES, YES I know that your so-called Boss is my idiot brother Thor; so go tell him that his brother Loki says, that if he wants his Ancient Hammer back he knows where to come, and simply ask for it; and whilst he’s at it, he can also have Gullinbursti his old Golden Boar back as well; it keeps crapping all over my carpets.’ 

About the author  

 

Henry is a retired Surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group. He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site. 

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Saturday Sample: Amelie at the Window by Penny Rogers, old wine

 

Christophe Pichon was still there. The blurry glow emanating from the gas lights in the dairy across La Place de la République made him look so handsome. Amelie sighed. She was in love. The October afternoon had turned into a chilly evening; it was 6.30 and almost dark. By the dim light of the dairy she watched the young man shuffle from foot to foot. The story of how his left foot had been broken when he was a lad, riding the greengrocer’s horse as a dare, was still a source of amusement in the town. ‘Pauvre Christophe,’ she said softly, ‘you need boots that fit properly and don’t hurt your feet.  And when we’re married they won’t dare laugh at you.’

She knew that Christophe had been outside the dairy for almost an hour. She wondered who, or what, he was waiting for. At least she could see him and dream about standing next to him. She wriggled in her chair, willing her wasted legs to move. Soon Odille would come to put her to bed. Oh the indignities of it all! She closed her eyes and imagined Christophe carrying her downstairs and out into the world. He would take her to Lourdes, she just knew he would. When she was cured and able to walk he would marry her as soon as possible. They would always be happy together and never ignore each other as her parents did.

A shout from the other side of the square caught Amelie’s attention.  M and Mme Fischer were arguing. They usually had a row after the second or third absinthe, but today they had at least four before the tension began to build. She knew that Raymond Fischer had come to the town as a young man, running away from something, or someone, in his native Alsace. His curious accent amused Amelie; she knew that behind his back the locals called him choucroute. She also knew they never dared call him that to his face, he had a bad temper and a short fuse, although the years and alcohol had slowed him down.

 

In the room above the milliner’s shop, Amelie picked up her sewing. Needlework was her escape, her link to the world beyond her window. She embroidered appliqués for the hats her parents sold and did a little work on commission. At the moment she was embroidering a velvet cape. It was difficult to hold the slippery material secure in the hoop without damaging the fabric. Slowly a profusion of exotic birds was transforming the edge of the cape. She picked up her work, but it was too dark to see properly. The parrot’s wing would have to wait until the morning.

Amelie could hear voices coming from the shop below. The words were muffled and indistinct but she gathered that Mme Gaudin was undecided about the inclusion of an ostrich feather in her new hat. Amelie strained her ears to catch more of the conversation. Mme Gaudin had seen in an illustrated paper, that peacock feathers were in vogue this year and she wanted to be up to date with the fashion. On the other hand she did not want to appear ostentatious in the endroit reculé of Forentan.  Amelie was horrified to hear her home town referred to as a backwater, and she guessed her parents would be as well. But Mme Gaudin was a good customer, so there was nothing they could do except agree, suggest, agree and suggest.

Another shout from across the street caused Amelie to re-focus on the deteriorating situation outside the tabac. After several drinks they started arguing, inevitably about Clovis. Amelie vaguely recalled the red-haired infant son of Marie-Pierre Fischer. He had died of polio during the same outbreak that had killed many children and left her with legs that didn’t work. According to Odille, a young woman employed by her mother as a part-time nurse and carer, Clovis was born just two months after the Fischers’ wedding. Odille had said that although the child wasn’t his, Raymond Fischer had treated him as his own, doted on him and was heartbroken when he died. Odille reckoned that Marie-Pierre’s heart had broken as well, and that they had both drank so much to hide their pain.

Most evenings Amelie watched the altercations between the Fischers with a combination of horror and amusement, but tonight her attention was divided between the tabac and the dairy. Her eyes were fixed on the latter until it was too dark for her to see the angelic profile of her beloved. She vaguely wondered where Odille had got to; she wasn’t usually late. Below she heard her mother saying ‘Au revoir’ and ‘Merci beaucoup’ to Mme Gaudin. Then the sound of Maman trudging up the stairs. She saw Papa cross the street and hurry to the dairy. To her amazement he was soon in conversation with the adored Christophe.

Her concentration on the unusual sight of her father talking to the man she intended to marry was broken by shouting from the tabac. She saw Marie-Pierre pick up a chair and smack it across the head of the inebriated Raymond. Blood and invectives flowed across the square. Amelie did not know whether to watch the drama with the Fischers unfold or keep her eyes on Christophe and her father.

Her dilemma was solved when Maman came into her room. ‘Odille won’t be coming any more. I’ll have to care for you myself until we can find someone else.’ Amelie’s heart sank. Her mother was never gentle. More importantly, Odille was her source of information, a bridge to the world beyond her bedroom: news of events, gossip, even salacious titbits that had to be whispered when Maman was not around.

‘What’s the matter with Odille?’ she ventured.

Maman sniffed ‘No better than she ought to be.’  Amelie watched as her mother busied with preparations for bed. She could hear Maman muttering ‘catin’ and ‘prostituée.’

 Amelie was none the wiser but didn’t want to upset her mother even more by asking questions.

 

As the autumn dusk turned rapidly to dark, a few more gas lights were lit. Amelie stayed glued to the window until the last possible moment. She wished with all her heart that she knew what Christophe and her father were talking about.

Her concentration on the two men was distracted by the sight of a horse and cart trundling around the square. From her vantage point Amelie could recognise all the locals and their horses, carts, bicycles, even the occasional automobile. But she’d never seen this before. She felt very sorry for the horse, it looked worn-out and dejected. Then she noticed what it was pulling, a sort of trailer with what looked like a wooden shed crazily fixed to the flat bed. Her first thought was that it must be a circus! How exciting, perhaps she could go to that and see the wild animals. Then she made out the faded words on the side of the cart. It was a travelling photographer. Quelle déception.

She turned her attention back to the scene outside the dairy. Christophe was hopping from one foot to the other; her father was punching his fist into the palm of his other hand. He always did this when he was arguing. Amelie considered that this did not bode well for Christophe; her father frequently argued and never conceded anything.

      Meanwhile outside the tabac, the nightly charade of the Fischers had ended. Amelie watched the husband and wife making their way home with considerable difficulty.  Raymond could hardly walk; the arms of his wife, strengthened by a lifetime of hard work, held him just about upright. She guessed, correctly, that the proprietor Bernard Lavoisier was telling them, as he told them almost every day, that they weren’t to come back, that their custom was not worth the fuss and that they would have to pay for the chair. In truth the chair was fine. Raymond’s head less so.

Amelie looked back towards the dairy just in time to see Christophe step back from her father and shake his head. Then he seemed to hesitate, turn and move towards the older man before reluctantly holding out his hand. The two men shook hands then turned away from each other. How she wished that she could have heard what they had been talking about.

 

At 7.25 Amelie was in bed with a bowl of hot chocolate placed carefully on the table beside her. Her mother had clearly resented the wiping, the washing, the holding, the lifting and the dressing. But Amelie closed her eyes and dreamed of the future, WALKING down the aisle with the man of her dreams.

In her room above her parents’ shop, Amelie drifted off to sleep. She wondered why her evening chocolate always tasted so much better than the insipid drink she had in the morning; one day she’d pluck up the courage to ask her mother. But for now she slept, dreaming of the day she would become Madame Pichon.

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About the author

Penny Rogers is the writing name of Penny Dale; she uses
the pseudonym to prevent any confusion with the marvellous writer and illustrator of children’s books who is also called Penny Dale.
 

Before retirement Penny was an academic librarian, and in this capacity edited and contributed to books on learning environments in universities. She also wrote and presented academic and technical papers on learning spaces, as well as development and training for staff in higher education library and information services.

These days Penny writes mostly short stories and flash fiction and enjoys trying out different styles and genres. She has stories in anthologies published by Bridge House,
Henshaw Press and the Dorset Writers Network. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit and has had stories published by Spillwords, Funny Pearls and in Bare Fiction and Writers 112

In her home town Penny facilitates a writing group that meets to offer mutual support and encouragement. She is also a member of a local poetry group and was on the
management team for SOUTH poetry magazine until it ceased publication in 2025.

When not writing, Penny enjoys knitting, preserving fruits and vegetables from her garden and visiting historic buildings. She is particularly fond of old churches and is
inspired by their history, architecture and continuing contribution to their communities. She is especially good at sitting in her beautiful garden, advising the gardener and planning her next story.