The Green Hat

An Advent Calendar of Stories

December 07 2014

The Green Hat

Penny Rogers

Gin and bitters

Pandora coveted the hat. Its summer green brim matched, even enhanced, the butterflies in the Stella McCartney dress she had bought for the garden party at Buckingham Palace. After yoga she made sure she left the gym with Helen. Walking towards the car park Pandora casually remarked ‘I do like that hat of yours. May I ask where you got it?’

Helen smiled. ‘It’s a one-off I'm afraid. At least I think it is. I got it in a flea market in France. Cost me all of 5 Euros.’

‘What a stroke of luck.’ Pandora turned towards her Audi. ‘Could I buy it from you? I'd give you £30.’

Helen laughed. ‘No chance. I've got plans for this beauty.’ She climbed into her elderly Land Rover and chugged out of the car park.

In desperation Pandora offered to swop a pair of nearly-new Louboutins for the longed-for hat and upped her offer to £100. Helen shook her head and wore her hat at every opportunity. In the end Pandora had to make do with a Gabriela Ligenza.

Everyone went to the party on November 5th. All eyes were on the Guy. He sat on top of the bonfire dressed in a dinner jacket and jodhpurs, a scarf tied securely around his neck. But Pandora's eyes were fixed on his head, for there on top of the misshapen face perched THE hat

Orange tongues licked the distorted body, smoke enveloped the hat.  Pandora launched herself onto the pyre.

About the Author

Penny Rogers writes short stories and flash fiction. She was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize for flash fiction in 2013 and has had stories published in Writers’ Forum, Paragraph Planet and Bare Fiction.

The Shop That Isn’t There

An Advent Calendar of Stories

December 06 2014

The Shop That Isn’t There

Roger Noons

Mary Anne always enjoyed a bottle of stout – after she’d shut the shop, of

Course

I remember Mary Anne, the proprietress of our local corner shop. You could buy anything there; The Beano, hairnets, a pint of vinegar, a pound of spuds, firewood and if they’d had such things in those days, a toilet roll. She was an innovator; way before her time. She spent long days sitting on three cushions, atop a beech wood box by the till.

‘You can help yourself, young man, you know where everything is. Tell me when you’re done; I’ll tot up your bill.’

Her corner shop’s long gone; replaced by a self-service store.

About the Author

Roger Noons is a regular contributor to the CafeLit site, a prolific and talented writer and you will see a number of his stories here. He is also included in the Best of CafeLit series.

A Day Out

An Advent Calendar of Stories

December 05 2014

A Day Out

Allison Symes

Strong Irish coffee

Jamie slammed the front door. He must feed the Resington giant ducks. It was like jury duty – everyone had a go. Finally it was his turn. Still nobody said he had to rush to the lakes. So he wasn’t going to do so.

Jamie felt the giant ducks on Earth Mark 2 sought revenge for all the duck a la orange consumed on Earth Mark 1. Last week the news revealed the ducks raided a now deceased shopper and did terrible things with her Paxo.

At the oval-shaped lake, Jamie hoped the ducks would look friendlier after eating their meat.

About the Author

Alison Symes was published in Bridge House’s Alternative Renditions anthology (A Helping Hand) and long-listed in their Debut Novel competition. Writers’ News awarded second prize to Life is What You Make It. She has since been published by Cafe Lit (A Study in Magic and The Magic Flute) and also on Alfie Dog Fiction.

Legend

An Advent Calendar of Stories

December 04 2014

Legend

Susan Eames

a stiff brandy with a coconut water chaser

The finger bone was ancient.

I felt a prickle of anticipation. "Where did you find it?"

Sela pointed inland.

I hefted my rucksack of equipment. "Show me."

The track wove interminably upwards through old growth hardwoods. A light wind ghosted through the trees, carrying the cries of seabirds and the ammonia tang of guano. At the summit we halted on the edge of a glade skeined by ribbons of sunlight. Through the lattice of virgin forest I could detect the ruins of ring fortifications, although many stones had tumbled over time.

"Here," Sela said.

A depression beside a recent landslip exposed a discernible shape. I knelt, fingertips probing. Gently, gently. I felt the unmistakable curve of a cranium.

"Ah." I uncovered a skull.

"Who?"

"This is old, Sela. This is Lapita."

"The Spirit People?" He was wide-eyed.

"The Lapita were as human as you and me." I began to scrape and clear the soil.

"You will release the Devil."

I knew the legend: disturbance of Lapita remains would free the ensnared spirit. But I was no shaman and this skeleton was human, not devil. No juju to fear here.

"I will release a piece of your history, nothing more."

Sela moved aside, abdicating responsibility.

The wind danced in synchrony to my dance through the layers of time as I laid bare a three thousand year old secret.

The excavation was complete. The wind strengthened and the sky turned sulphurous.

"I think we should brace ourselves," I said.

Sela whimpered. The skeleton's feet were cloven.

About the Author

Susan Eames left England twenty-five years ago to explore the world and dive its oceans. She has had travel articles and short fiction published on three continents. After seven fascinating years in Fiji, Susan is moving to the Republic of Ireland.

Shopping

An Advent Calendar of Stories

December 03 2014

Shopping

Roger Noons

a large glass of Merlot

“Are you in ladies underwear?”

             I looked the woman up and down. “Err no, not at the moment, I’m …”

            “I’m sorry,” she smiled. “I thought you worked for M&S.”

            “No,” I replied, I'm standing here between ‘push up bras’ and the ‘T shirt’ variety, as my wife’s over there buying knickers.”

            “Oh,” she spat, as if I had uttered a four letter word, and strode away. As I stared after her, my wife arrived.

            “Was she trying to pick you up?”

            “I don’t know,” I answered. “It’s so long since anyone did, I’ve forgotten what it’s like.”

            “She had so much mascara on her lashes; I’m surprised she had the strength to flutter them.”

            I stared at Joanne, it was unlike her to be jealous, and show it. “Yes dear,” I said and took her hand.

            Like most men I guess, I never look forward to visiting a shopping centre, not unless I need socks or perhaps a new shirt. I always enjoy the moment when we exit the revolving door and step out onto the car park. My wife of course, is quite different. There is always something she needs, make up, underwear, stationery, a scarf to go with this, a necklace to go with that, and when the new season’s fashions arrive, she is eager to look.

            “I only want to see what’s in for the autumn,” she will say quietly.

            “Why not choose what you wear according to whether it’s warm, cold, dry or wet?” I pose.

            “You don’t understand.”

            “No, of course I don’t, I'm only a man.”

            Actually, it’s the Dogs Trust that I blame. Every time one of their representatives pushes a plastic bag through our door with FRIDAY writ large on the outside, my wife gratefully accepts the challenge. The reason she ’has nothing to wear’, is that most of her clothes have gone to the shop, to pay for bones and doggy chews.

About the Author

Roger Noons is a member of two writers’ groups and tries his hardest to write something every day. As well as CafeLit, he has had credits in West Midlands newspapers, The Daily Telegraph, Paragraph Planet, Raw Edge and a number of Anthologies.

Roger is a regular contributor to the CafeLit site and has had stories selected for the Best of CaféLit series.

The Getaway

An Advent Calendar of Stories

December 02 2014

The Getaway

James Leeder

A Sly gin

Mary heard familiar running. She covered the bowl of dough with a cloth and left it by the kitchen range to let the bread rise. The footsteps grew louder, the back yard door crashed open. Even before it had swung closed again, her son hurtled into the kitchen.

‘Copper!’ he gasped as he dived onto the sleeping shelf and hid panting behind the curtain.

The heavy sound of Constable Jackson’s boots went past and reached the end of the lane. Bob emerged and grinned, putting betting slips and money on the table.

‘He’ll catch you one day!’ she said.

About the Author

James Leeder grew up in the North East of England but now lives in London. After many years of work he is now spending more time on writing fiction, and trying to learn the piano.

The Bracelet

An Advent Calendar of Stories

December 01 2014

 The Bracelet

Alison Peden

Whiskey sour

Entering my younger sister’s bedroom I felt death hovering over her like a black shroud. I sat down and held her cold, sinewy hand.

The sun streamed through the window and something sparkled on her bedside table; it was our grandmother’s bracelet caught by the sunlight, a beautiful mixture of sapphires and diamonds. I had always resented that she had inherited it. Overwhelmed by a sense of righteous injustice, I slipped it into my pocket.

As I bent over to kiss her goodbye, she grabbed my arm, pulled me close, and with her last breath whispered, “Put it back bitch.”

About the Author

Alison Peden, mother of three, grandmother of one, writing from her wheelchair in Manchester.