Disillusioned

Disillusioned

Gethin Morgan

Earl Grey

The crowd was cheering as he was led up on stage.

‘Go, Mr Crumb,’ one employee shouted.

He smiled, grimaced, and plodded his way centre-stage.

‘Now,’ said the magician, ‘I’m going to make everything you’ve worked for … disappear.’

The crowd tittered, too loudly. Individually, they were all afraid of him. Here, that fear was gone.

‘Time to retire, Dad,’ Brent would say. ‘You’re not getting any younger,’ Mavis would say. He intended to outlive them all.

He clambered into the box, heard laughter.

Drum-roll, then silence.

He climbed out into an empty auditorium, wondering where everyone had gone.

Find out more about the author at: gethinmorgan.com/

Apart at the Seams

Apart at the Seams

M J Francis

A shot of Moonshine

Maria, my poppet,

            I knew about your papa’s death. Every life falls apart someday. Ain’t nothing gonna bring him back from that. Keep this doll I made of him to remind you.

My papa was a doll maker. Maybe I told you this. I learned my craft from him. When he was a child, boys found them in his school bag and teased him. My papa told me them children was always playing tricks. Dunking his head in toilets, stuffing firecrackers down papa’s shirt. You know what them boys called my papa? Sissy. They come talking that trash for them dolls he make. One time my papa came back from showering and his clothes was gone from the locker room. Wasn’t nobody around so he walked naked till he found a teacher. Every child laughed at him. Like he was a joke. But my papa wasn’t no joke and there came a time when them boys couldn’t laugh no more.

Your papa didn’t like me none. I never told you what he did one time, but I tell you now. Remember that day he sent for me to play dominoes in City Park? You was happy he wanted to make a truce. But there wasn’t no truce, poppet. There wasn’t no game. There was three men waiting. Them beat me blue and red. Broke my bones. Wasn’t no car hit me. I lied. For that I’m sorry.

Did you know this about your papa? Do you see him different now?

You need to remember the good times, poppet. Before all these bad. Recall that day we met on Bourbon Street, them days when I played in the Hot Sauce Jazz Club band. You was dancing, wearing that blue dress and them white deck shoes. You sang and danced and saw me playing there, and I know you saw yourself reflected in my eyes, caged there like a bird and happy. And when that song was done I said come see me play at Mardi Gras. Remember that day. Our first kiss. Your lips burning red (ain’t no one never burned me like you). And remember your promise by the Mississippi, when we was listening to the Natchez steam calliope whistling like drunk Blues musicians. How you promised you gonna love me always. How we made vows. Till death us do part, you said. The spirit Papa Legba heard us and blessed us. Bound us.

So don’t you worry none, poppet. Loneliness won’t never claim you. Come back home and don’t you mourn your papa long.

I made us a doll. Two dolls joined as one. A man, a woman. Her hair brown like yours and his hair black like mine. Them dolls hands is stitched together, holding each other always.

Now imagine I get scissors and snip. The thread that binds them hands falls loose. What good is one without the other? Together they form a shape – the letter M – your and my initial, poppet. Ain’t no coincidence. We was meant to be. So imagine I separate them. Snip. The stitches cut. Them dolls let go their hands.

And if I keep on cutting – cutting the doll with the brown hair – cutting along the thread holding its sides, its arms, its legs, its head together. Imagine this.

Say you won’t never leave me. Till death us do part, poppet. Remember.

Always,

Mathias Lafayette

About the Author

Find out everything you need to know about M J Francis on his website www.mjfrancis.com

Obsession

Obsession

Laura Kayne

Sea Breeze Cocktail

The May bank holiday dawns bright and sunny. Marianne opens the kitchen window, feeling a slight breeze.

‘Isn't it a perfect day for the sea-side?’ she comments to Harold.

 Harold stifles a sigh. He's been here too many times before. The sea-side meant Brighton, an hour's drive away, for fish and chips and possibly a ride on the old wooden carousel on the pier. And always followed by spending time staring at the waves. Just the waves, going back and forth, back and forth. Marianne never asked to go to Brighton, just suggested, in such a way that it felt like a demand. He didn’t have any choice. He didn't much care for the sea, himself, but had to admit that he would rather go and survive staring at the waves, than see Marianne upset. However, given the choice he’d much rather stay at home. Especially on a bank holiday, when almost everyone would also be travelling to the coast. There were too many greedy seagulls at the coast, too many screaming kiddies and sand getting in your food and clothes. At least Brighton didn't have a sandy beach.

‘Can't we just relax in the garden? Brighton will be so crowded,’ Harold replies. He has to try, doesn’t he? But Marianne's face falls.

‘But it's bank holiday. We can sit in the garden any time. Can't we go to the sea, just for a little while?’ She says the same thing every time. It had only been a month since their last trip to Brighton.

‘We only went a few weeks ago, dear.’

‘It feels like much longer,’ Marianne murmurs, staring out of the window. Harold does sigh this time.

‘Okay’, he tells her, not wanting a repeat of the time six months ago, on a crisp, cold but bright October morning. He had been tired, and it had been cold, and he really, really hadn't wanted to go to the sea-side. It had taken two hours for Marianne to stop gazing sadly out of the window, tears slowly sliding down her face.

Thirty minutes later they are on their way to the coast. Marianne watches the road ahead, fingers tapping on her knee as if counting down the seconds until they reach their destination. Despite how much he doesn't want to be doing this, Harold can't help but smile at her. He still loves her, he thinks; he just doesn't understand her anymore.

Finally they reach the south coast. Brighton is packed; Harold isn't surprised. There's a light in Marianne's eyes now, and she grabs his hand as they exit the car park and head down the main street towards the sea-front. The smell of doughnuts wafts over to them as they reach the entrance to the pier, where Marianne pushes her way through the crowds of tourists queuing at the food stands. She has a plan, and Harold is helpless to do anything but follow her. Wincing at the bells and whistles of the amusement games and rides, Harold makes his excuses through the crowd and finds his wife standing near the end of the pier, feet balanced on the metal railings, smiling down at the waves gently rolling beneath them. She turns her head at his approach and beckons him over. It's at times like this that Harold can't bear to deny her these trips.

‘Listen to them, Harold. It's beautiful.’

‘To whom? The seagulls? The people on the rides?’

‘No, silly. The waves, the fish, the sea itself. Can't you hear it?’

But of course Harold can't, and he tries to tell Marianne this. She just laughs, shaking her head at him. She lets go of her loose hold at the railings and swings her arms up and out in front of her.

‘I wish you could hear them. They're singing, Harold.’

‘I don't think the waves can actually sing…’ Harold remarks, but he knows she's not listening. He peers over the railings, wondering exactly what his wife is looking at down there. It's a calm day, so the waves are gentle, the tide is out and there are small foam horses playing around the substructure. The water is a greeny-blue, fairly clear, but Harold can't see any fish even if he squints.

They stand there for what seems like hours to Harold. He glances at his watch. It's been fifteen minutes.

‘So, what would you like to do?’

‘What? Oh, you go ahead, Harold. I'm fine here.’

‘Are you even listening?’ But Harold knows he's lost her. It's the same every time, although, he has to admit, the singing waves and fish are new.

‘Well, I'm going to get a drink. You just… stay here,’ he says, wandering off, knowing Marianne isn't listening.

The inside of the pub is actually fairly empty, everyone choosing to take up every little space outside, so ordering a drink is quick and easy. Harold savours his half-pint of beer. All too soon, though, his glass is empty and he can't stay away any longer.

He wanders back to the railings, a smile tagging reluctantly at his mouth as he pictures Marianne still chattering away with her fishy friends. But she’s no longer there. At first he thinks he must have the wrong spot, and rushes up and down the edges of the pier looking for her. There wasn’t enough time for her to go too far, and she wouldn’t just leave him there, surely. But he ends up back where he started, overlooking the under-structure of the pier, knowing deep down that it is the right place.

            ‘Marianne?’

His shouts are caught in the breeze and the noise of clatter and squeals from the amusements. He's shouting in every direction, but already knows that she's gone from the pier. He just doesn't know where. He leans against the railings for strength, feeling lost. And that's when he sees it. He doesn't know if he's imagining it but it looks like a large fish tail, the tip just flicking out of the sea. He stares and the tail dips down beneath the surface. And then Marianne's face appears. He tries to call out, telling her to hold on, and starts looking around for someone to help. Aren't there lifeguards here somewhere? But all he can see are crowds of laughing, happy tourists. He pulls his shoes off, ready to leap in himself.

And then the tail flicks out of the water again, and suddenly he sees that Marianne's smiling, not struggling. It's her tail, finally free from land-locked confinement. He can see it now. He stops, and just stares at her, somehow not the least bit surprised, and manages to wave a final goodbye to his wife, the mermaid.

About the Author

Laura Kayne is a poet, short story writer, and book reviewer based in Brighton. She has had a number of poems, articles and reviews published both on-line and in print, including in Aesthetica magazine, The New Writer magazine, Pighog Press's Ice anthology, The Pygmy Giant, Sentinal Literary Quarterly, PoetandGeek.com, Message In A Bottle, and The Recusant. She blogs at http://poetry-life-distilled.blogspot.co.uk/  

100 Worder Hammer Horror

100 Worder

Angela Haffenden

Hammer Horror

Blood orange juice

The man holds the hammer tightly and flexes his muscles. He is strong and menacing, powerful and angry.  A sharp hair cut, deep brown eyes, eyes that hide violent urges. He stands in the nursery, staring in the mirror, he senses the mirror is mocking him and his anger escalates. In the reflection, he sees bears balloons, a cot, soft woollen blankets. It is quiet, peaceful, a haven.  Soon it will become a place of chaos, bedlam, a murder scene. He can never go back.

No one can help him now.

That flat packed furniture is going to get it.

About the Author

Angela Haffenden is a mother of four children. She is also responsible for a husband, a dog and an ageing father. She writes mainly to stay sane. She lives by the sea and writes in a cabin in the garden.

Defeating Dylan the Dragon

Defeating Dylan the Dragon

Jan Baynham

a tot of Penderyn whiskey 

‘Bryn, I think it’s time you knew about Dylan the Dragon,’ my father said, after sitting me down on a stool by the fire. I must have been about seven at the time.

‘I know there’s supposed to be a giant dragon living in a cavern on the east side of Black Mountain,’ I said, pointing to the large shape which towered above the village.

‘That’s right. Most of the time, Dylan sleeps all day and only ventures out at night; in fact no one has actually seen him. He doesn’t cause any trouble. However, it’s said that once every hundred years, Dylan transforms into an angry, blood-thirsty monster breathing fire, destroying people and property.’

 ‘You don’t believe dragons are real, do you, Dad?’

Years later, I remembered that conversation. It became clear that my father did indeed believe the local legend.

‘You do know what year it is, don’t you, son? I’m dreading it. It’s a hundred years since Dylan last went on the rampage,’ he'd said to me, only the day before.

‘Da-a-ad. If there really is a dragon, he’s been quiet for so long and there’s no one still alive to tell us what happened a hundred years ago. You know how things get exaggerated.’

‘You mark my words, son…’ Dad had muttered and had gone back into the farmhouse.

The setting sun cast an eerie orange glow along the horizon and I felt uneasy; something wasn’t right. It was a cold evening even for January and I was exhausted as I made my way home after looking after our sheep on the mountain. In the valley below, there was an unfamiliar stillness and darkness. Normally at this time people would be hurrying home from work, lights would be glowing in the shop windows and street lamps would mark the curves and bends in the lanes and avenues, gilding each and every landmark in the village. Our farm had been in the family for generations and lay on the outskirts of the village. For about a week, now, everyone had been living in fear.

‘I wonder…’ I whispered to myself.

A cold shiver travelled the whole length of my spine. What I first thought was the sunset was actually a huge fire. Flames of scarlet and orange intensity were engulfing the buildings of the next village a few miles away. As I opened our gate, my father ran out and grabbed my arm.

‘Quick, Bryn. Get inside. Old Dylan’s gone mad as we knew he would. He’s destroyed most of Llanbadarn and we’re next.’

‘I saw the fire as I came down the mountain but how do you know it’s him?’

‘There was a message from him posted on the village notice board this morning. That’s why we’ve plunged the place into darkness but he’ll soon find his way here. He’ll just breathe that fire fury again. But Bryn, it’s even worse than that!’ Dad said, stammering in panic.

I tried to keep calm and asked what the message had said. My father repeated it, word for word.

‘THE VILLAGE OF NEWBRIDGE IS NEXT. ON THE SIXTH DAY OF EVERY MONTH THROUGHOUT THIS YEAR, EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY SIX, I SHALL DEVOUR SIX YOUTHS, AT THE PRIME OF THEIR LIVES. IF YOU DO NOT AGREE TO MY DEMANDS, I SHALL BREATHE ENOUGH FIRE TO BURN YOU ALL AND RAZE YOUR VILLAGE TO THE GROUND.’

I went cold. It was the third of January the next day. I knew then I’d been wrong to scoff at my father for believing the legend about Dylan the Dragon. I could be one of those to be sacrificed. No wonder my father was in such a state. I summoned up the calmest voice I could.

‘Dad, I think we should call a meeting tonight. All the youths about my age. We haven’t got much time.’

‘I agree. Three days, that’s all. Let’s get everyone here to the farm to see what we can do. There’s no way Dylan will destroy us without a fight.’

By seven o’clock that evening, eighteen young men with their parents had turned up at our farm. They talked and talked about how they could prevent the tragedy.

‘Let’s put explosives in the cave,’ said one.

‘Why not meet fire with fire and burn the east side of the mountain?’ said another.

‘Look, we’re not dealing with a normal animal here,’ said a Mrs Davies who had three sons. ‘Dylan has such special powers so we need a special plan. I think it will need a very brave person to out-think and out-smart him.’

‘I hope you’re not looking at one of us, Mam!’ said Dai, her eldest.

After more discussion, all agreed with my father that every young man between sixteen and twenty-one should draw a ticket to see which one of them would venture up to Dylan’s cave in the daytime when he slept. Squares of paper – one for each of us - were hurriedly cut, folded and placed in a biscuit tin. Mrs Davies made sure that one ‘ticket’ had a cross written clearly on it. Whoever picked that ticket would be the one to make the journey up to the cavern and try to conquer the dragon. One of us would save Newbridge from a disaster.

The room fell silent, full of tension and foreboding, as we each picked. My hands were shaking when I chose my folded piece of paper. Please don’t let it be me, I thought.

‘Unfold your tickets, now,’ demanded Mrs Davies who seemed to have taken charge of the proceedings.

One by one, there were sighs of ‘Whew’ and relief all round. My parents’ faces were tight with worry. I carefully unfolded my ticket and as the cross revealed itself, I could feel the colour draining from my face. I held my ticket open to face to my mam and dad.

‘Oh no,’ screamed Mam. Dad just left the room.

‘I’ll think of something,’ I said, trying to reassure my mam. The villagers were starting to leave. ‘I’ll have to.’

That night, I thought of nothing but the journey ahead. I’d always hated violence of any kind so how could I defeat Dylan the Dragon? Dylan was at his most terrifying at the moment. What was I to do?

‘Nana,’ I said out loud. She’s always told me that if I’m ever in any trouble, I must go to her. I don’t care if all my friends think she’s strange. If anyone can help, it will be her.

I woke up very early and made my way down the lane to Nana’s cottage.

‘Hello, Bryn. What brings you here so early, then?’ Nana said. ‘Why the worried face?’

‘Haven’t you heard? I’m the one. I’m the one who’s got to save Newbridge from Dylan the Dragon.’

‘You can’t do that on your own, bach. I think you need something with special powers to help you.’

‘What do you mean ‘special powers’?

She went over to the sideboard and rummaged in the gold lustre pot that always took pride of place there.

‘Here. This was given to me by my great-grandmother when she found out I had inherited her gift for magic.’ She held up a gold and ruby ring which glowed when it caught the sunlight which was pouring into the room.

‘How can a ring help me, Nan? I’ll need more than that to defeat Dylan.’

‘Just you see, bach. If you are in trouble, you can use the special powers of this magic ring to help you – but you can only ever use it three times before the magic disappears.’

This has got to be one of those three times, if ever there was one, I thought. I’ll use the ring to get close to the dragon in the cavern but what I’ll do then who knows? Would I be able to slay the dragon? Certainly, I’d save all the youths from an inevitable death not just now but for future generations too. But, could there possibly be another way?

I was ready. I went back to the farm and set off on the journey of my life – literally. It was hard to say good-bye to Mam and Dad.

‘Promise me, you’ll stay safe, Bryn. Nana’s ring will keep you from harm, I know it will,’ my mother said, her voice wobbly with tears. My father was too upset to say anything at all.

In my pocket, I felt Nana’s magic ring, hard and cold, a talisman of whether I would live or die. I knew that the three times I rubbed the ring for help had to be chosen very wisely. Walking briskly along the narrow road which circled Black Mountain, I wasn’t really sure where Dylan’s cavern was but legend had it that it was about three quarters of the way up the mountain. The road rose steeply and after a few miles, I spotted a wooden gate barring a stony lane leading to a flat rock face. Both the gate and the surrounding grass showed evidence of scorching so I guessed this had something to do with Dylan. I decided to rub the ring gently between my thumb and forefinger.

‘Take me safely to Dylan’s cave, oh ring.’

And sure enough, my feet began to move in the direction of the gate, climbing each of the five bars and then walking to the left of the stony lane. I could feel the grass was spongy under my feet and I had no control over my footsteps. As I got close to the rocks, I could make out the shadow of a large cave which had to be Dylan the Dragon’s permanent home. Apparently, the dragon had lived here for ever and it seemed amazing to me that with all that had happened over the years this cavern had never changed.

I crept to the entrance of the cave, my heart pounding. Could it really be true that Dylan slept all day? Would it be safe to enter the shadowy darkness? My eyes grew accustomed to the dark and as I moved further into the cave, I heard a rhythmic breathing, almost like a loud purring from a gigantic cat. But this is no cat, it’s the dreaded Dylan, I thought. In the corner, I could just about make out a huge sleeping creature, covered in glossy red scales with elegant folded wings along his back and his long spiked tail tucked under his legs. His enormous head was gently resting on a flat smooth rock. It was at that very moment that I knew I couldn’t become a dragon slayer. I would rub the ring to help me deal with the dragon in a kinder way. Dylan stirred violently with a start but then snored back to his slumber. I knew I hadn’t much time so I rubbed the ring for a second time.

‘Give me some magic power to make Dylan a perpetual, gentle dragon who will never destroy people or places again, oh ring!’ I said, in a whisper. No sooner had I finished my plea when a small bag appeared in my hand. The label read MAGIC CALMING POWDER, especially for violent dragons. Directions: Sprinkle five pinches of powder into each ear of a sleeping dragon. Wait for the beast to wake and make a true friendship pact. WARNING: Do this before nightfall or the powder will not work due to dragons waking naturally at that time.

I suddenly felt confident that I could save the village and my friends. I opened the bag and sidled up to the sleeping dragon. I reached up onto tiptoe and sprinkled the powder, one pinch at a time, into each of Dylan’s ears. Dylan didn’t flinch so I sat about three feet away from him and waited. It was the longest wait of my life. What if the magic didn’t work? What if Dylan woke up in a rage? There’d be no friendship pact then – far from it. It didn’t bear thinking about.

After an endless ten minutes, one of Dylan’s eyes flickered and once he caught sight of me, he gently pulled himself up onto his haunches.

‘Who are you, boy?’ he said in a drawl.

‘I’m Bryn Jenkins, a local shepherd from Newbridge down there in the valley.’

‘Oh I know – I posted a notice there yesterday. Now what did I ask for?’ said Dylan.

I hoped that the magic calming powder had worked. I couldn’t believe that this dragon was the one who had been wreaking so much havoc. I decided to test his idea.

‘I’m sixteen years of age, a youth, at the prime of my life really,’ I said. Not a flicker of recognition. Dylan had obviously forgotten all about his terrible threats.

‘Look, Dylan. I know you are a friendly gentle dragon but some of the villagers in Newbridge are scared of you. Do you think we can draw up a True Friendship pact for me to take back with me?’

‘Of course,’ said Dylan. ‘I’m actually quite lonely so I shall be glad to have some friends at last.’

And so the two of us drew up a pact whereby Dylan the Dragon could live happily in his cavern on Black Mountain not bothering anyone. Every March 1st, on St David’s Day, he would come down to Newbridge and visit all the children to show that the red Welsh dragon is real. Meanwhile, he and I could meet at any time as true friends do.

I knew I had to get back as everyone in the village was waiting for news. I practically ran down the mountainside and noticed that the main street into Newbridge was lined with well-wishers. I was back safe and sound. I was no longer Bryn Jenkins, quiet local shepherd boy. I was Bryn Jenkins, brave hero, or that’s what everyone was chanting as I walked through the crowds. My parents were waiting for me to tell them how I’d defeated Dylan the Dragon but there was one person who would have every detail of my brave journey first, Nana. And I still had her ring to use one more time.

About the Author

A writer living in Cardiff, Jan Baynham joined a writers' group three years ago and began writing for her own enjoyment. It wasn’t until she joined a university writing class taught by a published author that she began to submit stories for publication. She is currently writing her first novel.

www.janbaynham.blogspot.co.uk

The Best of CafeLit 3

Congratulations to the following authors who have appeared in CafeLit during 2013 who will have their work published in the best of CafeLit 3. Well done!

Gail Aldwin 
Lindsay Bamfield
Trevor Belshaw 
Carol Bevitt 
Charlie Britten
Janet Bunce
Margaret Bullyement  
Steven Chapman
Patsy Collins
Julie-Ann Corrigan
Jacki  Donnellan
Susan Eames
Tracy Fells
Jo Fino
James Foreman 
Marie Fullerton
Debz Hobbs-Wyatt
David Hook
Dawn Knox
Daniel Lamb
Helen Laycock 
Roger Noons
Jenny Palmer 
Paula Readman
Elliott Sampford
Olivia Smith 
Angela South
Betty Taylor 
Laura Wilkinson

100 Worder Bluebell Wood

100 Worder Bluebell Wood

Helen Laycock

A flat lemonade, spilled

Like tinkling bells, the children’s laughter pealed in rounds and seemed to float through the spaces like pastel bubbles. They wound between the trunks which stood like wizened sentries, ancient and knowing, hunching aching shoulders and splaying weary limbs.

            Little Amy trailed behind, latching onto fleeting glimpses of colour. She was reminded of brushstrokes, ribbons and fairgrounds…

            Accompanying her, her right leg, the uninvited party guest, the hanger-on; she dragged it through the papery leaves and tried to pretend she was one of the group.

            The knuckled root clasped her ankle with bony fingers and pulled.

            Then she was gone.

About the author

Helen Laycock has written eight children’s mystery/adventure books, two contrasting collections of short stories for adults and collections of humorous poetry. She has had around thirty wins/shortlistings for poetry and short stories, successes including Words With Jam, The Ryedale Book Festival, Writing Magazine, Writers’ News, Writers’ Forum, Flash500, Thynks Publications, Erewash Writers and various online contests. She has a story published in An Earthless Melting Pot (Quinn Pub.), four pieces in the One Word Anthology by Talkback Writers (Alfie Dog Pub.) and has recently had several more entries included in The Aspiring Writers 2013 Winners Anthology (Blue Dragon Press). She is a regular contributor to 100-worders on the CafeLit website.

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