Advent Day Eight 2015

Advent Day Eight

December 08 2015

Sue Cross

Orange Juice

Orange Juice

Caroline had always been uncomfortable in social situations and so the thought of the office Christmas party was causing her to have sudden palpitations whenever the thought crossed her mind. She had managed to duck out of it the previous year, feigning a virus infection but she could hardly repeat that excuse again.

Scott had worked for Jagger and Smythe Accountants for only two months and was also dreading the office Christmas party. While his colleagues were talking about it with enthusiasm, bordering on hysteria in his opinion, he was wondering what excuse he could make to avoid going. He liked nothing better than spending his free time star gazing with his telescope or, when the weather permitted, going off alone bird watching. After careful deliberation, he decided to attend the party but leave after an hour.

This year the boss had decided that it would be a good idea to have a secret Santa draw, stipulating that no-one should spend more than a fiver. Caroline went into her local bookstore and purchased a literary classic, just the sort of book that she would have devoured with relish.

            Scott visited the same bookstore the following day and purchased A Handbook of British Birds.

Soon the last day before the Christmas break arrived and little work was accomplished. At five o’clock Caroline tidied her desk before making her way to the ladies’ room. Inside there was much giggling as Caroline’s colleagues stood in front of the mirror, primping, perfuming and preening, so that the air smelled like that of a harem. One of the girls was having a problem with some false eyelashes that seemed to have a will of their own and did not wish to stick to her eyelids, while another was putting on a pair of red stilettos.

            ‘Hey Caroline – staying for a drink this year? Do you good to get plastered!’ Jan, a large girl with a larger personality joked and Caroline felt the colour rise in her normally pale cheeks.

            ‘I don’t drink. Excuse me.’ She nudged her way forward in order to wash her hands, carefully avoiding looking at her reflection in the mirror.

            ‘That’s all right. I’ll drink yours,’ Jan boomed while the other six girls fell about laughing. Caroline suspected that they’d already had a few.

Someone had pushed the desks back in the communal office, which was festooned with garish decorations, and some rock music was blaring out, making any conversation impossible. Caroline had never enjoyed this type of music, preferring the classical variety. The booze was flowing and Jan was sitting on her boss’s lap, flirting outrageously, while he seemed mesmerized by her overflowing bosom, which resembled a couple of wayward blancmanges.

Meanwhile Scott was sipping his orange juice and trying to hide behind a pillar. He glanced at his watch and couldn’t believe that the party had only been going for twenty minutes. It seemed like hours and he could feel one of his headaches coming on.

            ‘Time for secret Santa,’ Mr Jagger, red faced and blustering, announced as he rubbed his hands together. “Come on Jan – you do the draw.”

            Scott took his ticket out of his pocket. Number thirteen. The irony did not escape him.

            ‘Number seven,’ Jan called out.

            To her horror Caroline realized that she was the first to go forward to claim her present.

            ‘Merry Christmas.’ Mr Jagger kissed her on the cheek much to her dismay.

            She muttered a quick thank you and scurried away.

            ‘Open it. C’mon we want to see what you’ve got!’ Jan shouted from the other end of the office.

            Caroline wished that the floor would swallow her up as she ripped at the paper. Inside was a pair of men’s socks emblazoned with a holly design.

            Everyone burst out laughing.

            ‘Next is number thirteen.’

            Scott shuffled forward, adjusting his thick spectacles and Jan handed him a parcel wrapped in silver paper. On it was a tag.

            Jan started slow clapping and chanting, ‘Read it out, read it out.’

            Soon the whole office was joining in, so that Scott’s embarrassment was palpable.

            ‘Something for the weekend,’ he muttered.

            ‘Can’t hear you,’ Jan shrieked.

            ‘Something for the weekend.’ His voiced sounded hoarse.

            ‘Go on, open it. Although we all know what’s inside. Ha, ha.’

            Scott fumbled with the wrapping paper, dreading what was to come next but, to his relief, he pulled out a book of crosswords. He rushed to the further corner of the office where he examined the carpet, not daring to look up.

            ‘I like crosswords, do you?’ Caroline found her normally elusive voice as well as sympathy for her shy colleague. It was only as he smiled at her that she realized that she had never spoken to him before.

            ‘Not that much. I prefer sudokus,’ he replied.

            ‘Want to swap. I’ve no use for these socks.’

            ‘Good idea. Would you like another orange juice?’

            ‘I would but I don’t think I can bear another moment at this party. I hate parties.’

            ‘Me too.’ He smiled again and Caroline thought that he had a kind face.

            ‘I live just around the corner. Would you like to come round for a cup of tea or something?’ Caroline could not believe that she had said this, and wondered if by some miracle his acute timidity had given her a newfound boldness.

            Scott hesitated, but not for long. ‘That sounds very acceptable. Thank you. My name’s Scott by the way.’

            ‘I’m Caroline, Caroline Platford. Here take the socks.’

            ‘Ah yes. Thank you. And here’s something for the weekend.’

About the Author

Sue Cross has published two novels, Tea at Sam’s and the sequel, Making Scents. She lives in the Cotswolds and Spain and likes to use her experiences living abroad in her writing. Please visit her website http://www.suecross.com

Advent Day Seven 2015

Advent Day Seven

December 07

Alan Cadman

A Christmas Card 1914

A glass of cloudy lemonade

Dear Uncle Freddie,

Please excuse the soppy card; it was the only one I could afford. I treasure the wooden rattle you bought me before you were called up. I was going to whirl it above my head when our team scored, but I have not been to a football match since you went away. I pray it is not all fighting over there. I hope you will play a game yourself before this year ends; perhaps it will be on Christmas Day. When you score a goal, think of that spinning rattle.

Merry Christmas from your loving nephew,

George

About the Author

After being diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 2000, Alan took up creative writing as a hobby. He has been writing short stories for nine years. Before that he was the editor of a civic society newsletter for a short while, but had to give it up due to health problems.

n 2011 Alan made the short list for one story and became a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the same best-selling UK magazine for writers. In 2014 a story of his was included in an international anthology of twenty ghost stories; published in paperback and e-reader. Alan doesn’t write as much as he would like to, due to varying issues, but hopes to continue for as long as he can.

Advent Day Six

Advent Day Six

December 06

Penny Rogers

Scarf Girl

Tap Water

Once upon a time a little girl called Alina was born in a small town somewhere on the eastern edge of Europe. She had an idyllic childhood, playing with her dolls in the lovely garden around her house and skating on the lake in winter. But all this changed the day her father went to work and didn’t come back. When Alina asked her mum where daddy was, her mum got very cross so she didn’t ask again. They had hardly any money, and the little girl no longer had new toys to play with. Instead she had to help her mother who took in other people’s ironing to make ends meet.

Then one day, when Alina was fourteen, Mum brought home a new dad for her. Nico was not at all like her real dad and Alina didn’t like him one bit. When he had been in the house for about six months he started to do very bad things to her when her mum was out. Alina was frightened and didn’t dare tell anyone. Nico said that it was their little secret and that if she told anyone he would kill her. Alina didn’t know what to do.

            One day her mum asked her why she was always grumpy, so Alina took a deep breath and told her what Nico was doing. Mum was very angry and called her a liar and all sorts of other really bad names. She told her to go and never come back. She would not listen to her Alina’s pleading, so all the girl could do was pack a few things in a bag and leave the house for good.

She travelled for many months across Europe. Sometimes she slept in barns, sometimes in bus or railway stations. She raided bins for food and begged for coins on street corners. Once she got a job cleaning up in a café, but the boss wanted her to get into his car with him after work. She did this once, and found out that he was as bad as Nico so she ran away again.

            All this took a very long time, and Alina was tired of living on the streets. She wanted a proper home, with a fireplace and a cat just like she used to have when she was little. She had heard that if you went to England they would give you money, a place to live and a job. How she got to England is really another story, but I can tell you that she did eventually get there and she arrived in London two days before her sixteenth birthday at the end of November.

It wasn’t at all like she’d been told. It was cold and dirty and no one even took the time to be horrid to her. She did get some money, but it wasn’t enough to find anywhere to live and it was quickly gone on food and bus fares. Without anywhere to live Alina couldn’t find a job and without a job she was worse off than she had been in all the other countries that she’d been through.

            The people hurrying to and from the train station where she begged weren’t usually downright rude. Some were, they directly commented on her dirty face, her scruffy clothes even her attempts to speak English. But mostly they ignored her, rushed past her as if she simply wasn’t there and avoided any eye contact that might have breached some of her loneliness.

            The police could be a problem. Mostly they just ignored her, but sometimes they moved her on from a sheltered doorway just as she had got comfortable. One young policeman once gave her some money for a hot drink and on one occasion another suggested she should find a hostel, but mostly they left her alone.

As Christmas approached the crowds increased and seemed to get even more frantic. Alina didn’t even look at the food in all the shop windows, she ignored the bulging bags everyone was carrying and refused to think about the warm and loving Christmases of her long lost childhood.

            Then she got a job.

            A man called Mr Smith gave her a suitcase full of brightly coloured scarves. If she could sell them he would pay her for each item sold. He made it quite clear that she would have to pay for any that got lost or stolen. He would send his friend Duwayne round every day to collect the money.

            But no one was interested in her wares; no one listened to her pleas to “Buy my beautiful scarves.” One woman even shouted at her, “Go away scarf girl.” The police took more interest in her now; they kept moving her on and demanding to see her licence. Duwayne changed from being friendly to threatening as every day she told him ‘No scarves sold.’

            As another hopeless day drew to a close Alina realised that nothing would change. Sadly she took her bag of scarves into the yard behind a closed-down shop. There she made a little house out of cardboard boxes and a few empty crates. She tried to eat a piece of bread she had found, but couldn’t. So she spread some of the scarves on the concrete and wrapped the others around her. As the rest of London celebrated Christmas she drifted off to sleep.

            Then a miracle happened.

            As she lay there sick, tired and cold her father came to her. He picked her up and carried her gently back to her home. In front of the fire her mother sat roasting chestnuts, the cat asleep at her feet. There was no sign of Nico, just a table covered with delicious food. She smiled happily. Safe at last.

            And that’s how the security guard found her on Boxing Day, wrapped in gaudy cloths, her head on a bag of rubbish, and a smile of peace and serenity on her cold, stiff face.

About the Author

Penny Rogers writes mainly short stories and flash fiction. You can find out more about her at www.pennyrogers.wordpress.co.uk

Advent Day Five

Advent Day Five

December 05 2015

L. F. Roth

Aristotelian, Is It?

Shandy

This is what happened: there were Leonard and Sheila and Brenda and Stuart, and me, naturally, or else I wouldn’t know what transpired, would I, the fifth wheel, that’s me, but that’s not what this is about, I’m used to it, and we were drinking and enjoying each other’s company as per usual, chatting about this and that—a deli that had opened recently off King’s Road, on the expensive side, a restaurant somebody’s friend had tried and wouldn’t set foot in ever again. But then, I don’t know how, but in all likelihood it was Sheila’s doing, they got onto a different subject altogether and started talking about some interview they’d seen, the four of them, with Jonathan Franzen, on a channel I don’t have access to, and really went for him. You should have heard them. ‘In Freedom,’ one of them said, ‘the parents are straight out of Dickens, if not worse, and their kids end up misfits because of how they’ve treated them.’ ‘It’s not true to life,’ Sheila chimed in, and Stuart who most likely hadn’t read the book, he’s not much of a reader, Stuart isn’t, well, he nodded, as I knew he would, he just can’t help himself the way Sheila’s been leading him on of late, while Leonard, bless his socks, missing the point, blurted out: ‘And far too long.’ He put down his glass for emphasis, which luckily was empty or it would have made a right mess, and it was Brenda’s turn to nod. I can play your game too, was what she meant, siding with Leonard, but didn’t have to say in so many words: Stuart would know regardless, even though rumour has it that they no longer sleep in the same bed. And they went on, the three of them, with Stuart backing them, tearing the book apart, all five hundred pages of it--I have seen it if I haven’t read it and it must be that or more. A lot of words, I tell you. ‘It’s the kids’ own doing,’ said Sheila, as if she was one of the parents who’d been blamed for the effect that they’d had on their brats and Stuart, getting bold, joined in: ‘Yeah.’ ‘So you’re saying,’ I cut in, opening my mouth for the first time, unable to contain myself, ‘that parents don’t? That they don’t have an influence?’ They looked at me as if to say, Where did you come from? But I didn’t care. ‘Mine certainly did,’ I told them. ‘If they hadn’t had children, I’m bloody sure I wouldn’t.’ That shut them up.

About the Author

Stories by L. F. Roth have appeared in competition anthologies published by Biscuit Publishing (2011), Earlyworks Press (2012, 2012-13, 2014), and Bridge House Publishing (2014), as well as on the web (Segora, 2012). They focus on relationships, gender issues and trauma--at times all three.

Published December 05 2015

Advent Day Four

Advent Day Four

December 04 2015

Jenny Palmer

Fatal Mistake

Cold cocoa

Mona was on the point of waking when the phone rang. She was still tired, having been up half the night, gazing at the super moon. This one was special. It was combined with a lunar eclipse. When the earth passed between the sun and moon, the sun’s rays cast a red glow, turning the moon ruby-red. It was a chance in a lifetime. Well, in her lifetime, that was for sure. It wouldn’t happen again for another thirty years.
As she lay there gazing at the moon from her bedroom window, she had been filled with a warm feeling. Perhaps the tide was turning on the planet after all and people would stop all this fighting and start working together for peace for a change. It was high time.
‘Hello. Microsoft calling’, the man said. ‘I believe you’ve been having trouble with your computer.’
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I have,’ said Mona. ‘I’ve been getting an awful lot of spam lately. I’ve been practically tearing my hair out over it. How did you know?’
‘We have our means,’ said the man, joking. His voice was warm. For some reason she felt she could trust him.
‘It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I block the spam emails or mark them as spam, they just keep on coming,’ she confided. ‘My computer man is off sick at the moment and my service provider haven’t been much help either. They just tell me to change my email address but I’d rather not do that, if at all possible. It’s such a nuisance. I can’t do without email. I live out in the sticks, you see. I rely on it to keep in touch with people.’
‘I understand,’ the man said. ‘Turn on your computer and I’ll see what I can do.’
 It was a pity she hadn’t had time to get dressed but she had to get this thing sorted. Before long she found herself following his instructions. He scanned through her files and showed her the ones that were corrupted. There were over thirty thousand of them!
‘But how could that have happened?’ she said, incredulous.
‘Your computer has been taken over by various websites who are using it to spread their propaganda. Look.’
He showed her the corrupted files. He highlighted the files from the suspicious websites. It was horrific. There were some which dealt in pornography, others that were paedophile sites and others coming from a terrorist organisation.
‘My God,’ she’d found herself saying, under her breath. ‘To think I have been helping these people carry out their dirty work.’
 ‘But how do I know you are from Microsoft?’ she had the presence of mind to ask.
‘The logo is there on the page,’ he said.
Sure enough, there was the Microsoft logo on the top of the page.
‘Look,’ he’d said, clearly noticing the hesitancy in her voice. ‘Don’t worry. We can fix it for you.  I’ll pass you over to our senior technician and he will guide you through.’
 ‘But….’ she started, her mind full of images of horrible people doing unspeakable things in her name.
 Another voice came on the phone, sterner this time.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I can fix your problem but first you will need to hand over the control of your machine to me.’
‘I don’t want to do that,’ she said, boldly.
‘Look,’ he went on, ‘if you don’t, we will be forced to lock down your machine. You will never be able to use a computer or send emails again. And we will have to report you to crime squad.’
‘Well, alright,’ she said meekly. ‘What do I have to do?’
First you need to give me a few details. What is your address and area code? Do you have mobile phone?
Oh, he was good alright. She had to give him that. She’d found herself trotting out her details, one after the other: her name, her address, her area code, her mother’s maiden name, her age.
He’d made some comment when she’d told him her age.  He’d said her voice sounded younger. His attempt at flattery. She hadn’t like that.
Then he’d shown her pictures on Google of the founder of her antivirus provider who was currently serving a prison sentence. Her provider was a fraud, he’d said. He was responsible for passing on her details to these websites.
‘How much do you pay for your antivirus?’ he asked. ‘I can set up a new one for you. It will cost £200 but it will be a one-off payment for life. And I’ll get a refund for the old one. If you’ll just give me your bank details, I can get it paid straight in.’
 ‘I don’t do internet banking,’ she said. That seemed to floor him.
‘Why are you lying to me?’ he asked. She knew for sure now. It was a scam. Her heart was pounding. Her head was spinning. Was it too late to get out of this? Had she given too much away? How could she stop it?
There was only one way. She put down the phone and switched off the computer.
She realised she was still in her pyjamas and it was nearly twelve o’clock. She must have been on the phone for hours. She would go upstairs, get dressed and start the day again, compus mentus. How could you tell person’s age from their voice? It was just plain silly.
As she was coming back downstairs, all hell broke loose. The landline was ringing, both upstairs and down. The mobile was ringing. Her computer was flashing.  She picked up the landline slowly.
‘What happened?’ he said. ‘You realise we will have to cut you off permanently now and report you to the crime squad.’
But she wasn’t worried. He couldn’t get at her any more. She had won.  He had made one fatal mistake. Saying that thing about her voice. It was a cheap trick. Did he really think she would fall for that?



About the Author
Jenny Palmer returned to her native Lancashire in 2008. In 2012 she published her childhood memoir called Nowhere Better than Home about growing up in rural Lancashire in the 1950s and 60s. She continues to write short stories, poems and articles on local history.  s to something longer soon!

Published December 04 2015



  

Advent Day Three

Advent Day Three

December 03 2015

Janet Bunce

The Artist Returns

Absinthe

Candice unlocks the door to her new home and rushes to the cellar – soon to be her studio.

She was drawn to it and cannot wait to begin its transformation. Eagerly she opens a crate left behind by the previous owner. Sepia photos wrapped in a 100-year-old newspaper fall out.

Excitedly she examines each one in turn.

The backdrop clearly is the cellar where she now stands.

In the foreground a slim girl poses for a portrait.

Only the model is seen in the first few photos.

The next one captures the smiling artist. She gasps, 'its me!’

  

About the Author

Janet lives in Essex and enjoys writing. She loves writing short pieces but really hopes to progress to something longer soon!

Published December 03 2015

Advent Day Two

Advent Day Two

December 02 2015

Susan A. Eames

Sex and Socks and Rock ‘n’ Roll

Glass of chilled Singha Beer

“You want see Ping Pong Show?”

“Good grief, no.”

Maud hurried to find Alfie. He was rummaging through packs of socks on a market stall. In the notorious Patpong area of Bangkok, surrounded by Go-go Bars featuring skinny girls in white bikinis gyrating to rock music, Alfie had nevertheless been distracted by socks.

            “Look at these, Maud. Five pairs for the equivalent of a quid. Do you think I should buy some?”

            “Forget the socks, it’s time to go. I’ve just been propositioned.”

            “Really? Do you want me to thump him?”

            “It was a ‘she’.”

            “Really? How… interesting. Was she, um… pretty?”

            “You’re disgusting sometimes.”

            “Maybe she was a lady boy?”

            “Hardly. She was a middle aged, bandy-legged crone, and she asked me if I wanted to see a Ping Pong show.”

            “And… do you?”

            “For heaven’s sake, Alfie. Why would I want to see girls doing unnatural things with ping pong balls?”

            “Well, you know. Just out of curiosity. We said we’d explore the local culture after all.”

            “Don’t be absurd. That isn’t culture.” Maud fixed Alfie with a hard stare. “You want to go, don’t you?”

            “Maudie, Maudie, I’d say you are just as inquisitive as me. And you’d have quite a story to tell when we get home.”

            “Good grief, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

            “What happens in Bangkok, stays in Bangkok?”

            “Whatever would people think of us?”

            “OK, we won’t tell your friends at the gardening club. Where’s the show?”

            “Slow down, Tiger, I haven’t agreed to anything.”

             “Come on, Maudie-kins. Admit it. A little bit of titillation never hurt anyone.”

            Maud frowned. “We’re too old for this lark, Alfie.”

            “No, I won’t accept that, Maud. The day we admit we’re too old for a bit of slap and tickle is the day we may as well lay down and die.

            Maud looked at Alfie, shocked. Then she unexpectedly laughed. “All right, let’s do it… but you must promise not to tell.”

            “Don’t fret, old girl, I won’t tell a soul.” Alf suppressed an excited giggle. “Hang on while I buy these socks.”

About the Author

Susan A. Eames left England over 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 several fascinating years living in Fiji she has relocated to West Cork in Ireland .

Susan blogs at: http://susan-a-eamestravelfictionandphotos.blogspot.ie

Published December 02 2015