Sweeping Out the Garage

by James Bates

hot choclate

The old man spent more than a few minutes at his task. Taking his time, in fact, as if there was nothing more important to do on this cloudy December day other than sweep out the garage. He used a push broom - a long wooden pole with worn, bent, black bristles that he pulled toward himself instead of pushing, making you wonder why he did it that way. And he was methodical, that was for sure, starting at the far right hand corner and working his way across the floor to the left. He had the entire two car space to sweep, getting rid of sand and gravel and grit, all accumulated during the last few weeks; weeks when it had snowed, then rained, and then been followed by this unseasonal warm-up. He called the stuff he swept "debris." There was a lot of it on the floor, and he was sweeping (or pulling, rather) the broom over the cracked and stained concrete surface with a deliberation that, after a while, made you begin to admire him for being so conscientious.

            He was tall, thin and bearded, slightly bent in the back, and he seemed to carry there a lifetime of physical work and stiffness as he paused to rest and adjust the hat he wore; the wool stocking hat his wife had knit him for Christmas three years ago, just four months before she'd died. It gave him a sense of more than warmth, something closer to security, knowing that though gone from this world she was still with him in so many little ways; little ways like this treasured hat, knit for him by her knowing fingers using wool she had dyed herself, it's heathery-orange a color that he loved.

            Above him, in the rafters, a red squirrel has taken up residence. And what a nuisance that rodent has been, scattering chewed up black walnut hulls and pulverized shell powder all over the place, adding to the debris on the floor. This particular red squirrel has acted like he owns the garage, or at least the space in the rafters, secreting nuts up there like it was his own private storage facility. "What a mess," the old guy thinks to himself, unscrewing the brush part of the broom from the handle and using it to sweep off his work bench, unfortunately positioned directly below where the majority of hulls seem to be strategically stored. Hulls that, as he sweeps, now come tumbling from the bench onto the floor bouncing and rolling with an entropy all their own. When he finishes he sighs as he puts the broom back together and continues with his sweeping, thinking he should probably do something about that damn squirrel. We'll see. Maybe next year. For now it's just him and his task, pulling the broom instead of pushing, stepping to the left and pulling it some more, working his way across to the left hand wall. Then, shuffling in his work boots, he slowly and stiffly makes his way back across to the right hand side of the garage to start the process all over again. Almost like a dance, it looks like, this old man and his broom.

            He doesn't notice but up in the rafters the red squirrel is watching. Normally a loud, aggressive species, it is content to complacently look down on the old guy, choosing not to chatter and scold. The squirrel can wait. It has stored hundreds if not thousands of black walnuts up in the safely of the rafters. It has a whole winter ahead and lots of nuts to crack open, lots of debris to scatter. The squirrel is warm and safe as it watches, becoming hypnotized by the way the old man works, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; sweeping and sweeping and sweeping. After awhile it's eyes grow weary. Then heavy. Then, too heavy to watch anymore, the mesmerized squirrel falls into a deep sleep.

            The squirrel can have no way of knowing, of course, but It has been like this for a few years now, this obsession of the old man with cleaning out the garage. Ever since he'd lost his wife to cancer in the spring two and a half years ago he has felt compelled to keep things clean; both inside the house (the home they'd shared for over forty years) and outside. This compulsion of his is strong. This overwhelming desire, or need, really, to keep things tidy. To be honest, she had been the one to do the inside work and he the outside during the years they'd been married; a silently agreed upon splitting up of tasks and division of labor. It served them well. But now with her gone he has taken it upon himself to do both: the work inside the house and outside. One could insert the word "try" here when it comes to the inside cleaning. For he will never measure up to her standards when it comes to cleaning and dusting of course, but he has tried. He has done his best. But it is the outside work, like taking care of the gardens or cutting the grass or, for sure, like sweeping out the garage, that he has felt in his best element. Felt he really shined. So that's what he does now. And he does it with a care and a passion that, if you took the time to watch and think about, is really quite remarkable.

            Remarkable maybe or, at the very least, touching; this old man, living by himself, sweeping out the garage on a mild winter's day. Watched over by a sleepy red squirrel as he moves across the floor, working with his broom, sweeping back and forth, back and forth, as if time had no more meaning to him than this. This sweeping and cleaning all the while as he remembers the past and all those good years he and his wife spent together. Those good years and their life long bond and how they had enjoyed working together and taking care of their home, both inside and out.

About the author

My website/blog is: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com

I live in Long Lake, Minnesota. I enjoy walking, gardening, bird watching, reading, writing, bicycle riding and playing with my four fantastic grand kids. I'm retired after working many years as a sales and technical development and training instructor. I collect old marbles, vintage dinky toy race cars and YA books from the 1900's. I'm also a passionate yo-yo player. Life is good. I am a fortunate man.

 

Colours of Life

By Marilyn Pemberton 

mead 

 

I sit on my favourite park bench under a large oak tree, whose ancient canopy both shelters and camouflages me. I am close to the lake and I watch with pleasure as the ducks waddle intently from bread crumb to bread crumb as if it is their last meal. The late afternoon sun no longer penetrates my corner; no-one breaks their step to glance at me, it is as if I am myself a shadow.

I continue to sit as the birds begin to roost and the families leave for home. I wait in the gloaming and then she comes. A young woman in her mid-twenties, trying unsuccessfully to restrain a chocolate brown labrador puppy from pulling her arm out of the socket. She stops at the railing that prevents her from actually being dragged into the water. She loops the lead over one of the spikes and sternly commands the pup to “sit!” Surprisingly it does and the woman rewards it with a pat to the head and something tasty extracted from her pocket. She then takes a plastic bag from the same pocket and starts to throw lumps of bread over the fence into the lake. She laughs as the ducks come from all directions fighting each other for their supper, having seemingly forgotten that they had just been settling down for the evening. The woman is completely enclosed by an aura of pale green, the colour of a new leaf about to unfurl; fresh and vulnerable.

She points to a bird whose gorgeously coloured feathers shine in the dying sunlight. “That, Bella, is a male duck. The males are, quite unfairly to my mind, always more beautiful than the females, which are usually a dull brown and very plain. I am sure that the males love them, nonetheless.” Bella sits with her head to one side, as if listening to her lesson, but her eyes remain firmly on the prey just out of her reach. “And those big birds are geese. We need to make sure that they don’t get all the food. And that little black bird is either a moorhen or a coot, I can’t remember.” 

“It’s a moorhen.” So intently has the woman been feeding the birds and educating her dog, and so intently have I been watching her, that neither of us has noticed a young man arrive and stand nearby, accompanied by a shaggy dog of indeterminate breed. “The moorhen and coot are cousins, but the moorhen has a red beak and the coot has a white one. My name is Arthur, by the way, very nice to meet you.” He puts out his hand. Even though I can only see the woman’s back I can sense the blush that colours her cheeks. She touches her hair nervously but gives his hand a firm shake and tells him that her name is Elizabeth, but her friends call her Beth. He is a good looking young man with a charming smile and it comes as no surprise to me that he moves nearer and starts to give the correct names to the flock of birds that I and the woman have merely categorised as ducks. As the humans tentatively get to know each other, so too do the dogs, in their own inimitable way. I watch, unnoticed in my gloomy corner.

They come to the park most evenings, as I do. I watch with interest as their friendship flourishes, just like the flowers in the well-maintained beds. Over the next weeks and months I watch Beth transform from a young, lonely woman with only her dog as a companion, into a woman confident in herself and in her beloved. They only have eyes for each other and even as the leaves turn and fall, leaving my corner exposed to those with the sight, I know they will not see me. One evening when a full year has passed and it is spring once more, I notice a ring on Beth’s finger that sparkles brighter than the sunlight on the water. Her aura has matured into a bright yellow like a fully open sunflower, joyous and hopeful.

I always know when Beth is coming for the surroundings light up as if a hundred spotlights have been switched on. I prefer it when just she and Bella come; I enjoy her ridiculous conversations with her dog, who still yearns to chase the ducks but knows she shouldn’t. Even if the day is overcast and cool, her aura warms me and melts the coldness of my heart. When he accompanies her, however, his body casts long black shadows in the brightness and there is a coldness in the air that makes me shiver.

Summer has segued effortlessly into Autumn and they do not come to the park for a fortnight, but I sit on my bench patiently, knowing that they will return soon. When they do, both slightly tanned, I glimpse a gold band nestled next to her engagement ring. She looks so happy and still has eyes only for him, although I cannot but notice that his glance wanders sometimes as other young women stroll past. His smile is as charming as it ever has been, but his eyes lack warmth.

As the weeks pass I notice that her aura is turning to a contented hyacinth blue, and I know that under her winter coat her belly is gently swelling. He, however, has the look of a trapped animal and his eyes are forever searching, for what I know not. Then, two months before Beth is due, there is a whole month when my evenings are empty. I am filled with apprehension. I feel as if I have swallowed a canon ball and I dread their next visit.

I see her aura before I see her, a vast cloud of blackness that almost engulfs her. She shuffles rather than walks and rests heavily on Arthur’s arm. The two dogs walk quietly by their side, sensing the grief that threatens to devour her. But not him; I can see the relief in his walk, in the glint of his wandering eyes. Her melancholy does not lift and her aura remains an impenetrable veil such that I can hardly discern her slender body. My anger mounts as each evening goes by and he supports her less and less, and criticises her more and more for not “getting over it.”

Then one evening she comes alone, but for the two dogs. I long to go to her and wrap my arms around her but I know it is a battle she has to fight on her own. She continues to come each evening, as if the habit is the only thing that is keeping the strands of her life together. It takes many months, maybe even years before her aura turns from black to charcoal grey, to silver, just like the strands in her hair. She turns to look in my direction sometimes and my heart breaks for the sadness I see in the downturn of her mouth, and the emptiness in her dark eyes.

The years pass, as do both dogs, but she continues to come and I am pleased when she arrives with another puppy straining at the lead. I am even happier when I see that her aura, silver for so many years, is tinged with pink. Her tread is lighter and I see the ghost of a smile. She teaches the new pup the names of the birds, learnt all those years ago. Then one evening she turns up with another man. I am surprised at how old he looks, but I count back the years and realise that Beth must be well into her forties by now.

There are five years of quiet contentment. Her aura never brightens to the shining yellow of her youth, but it remains a steady apricot colour. They marry, but no honeymoon breaks their daily routine and my heart grows heavy as I see how tired she now becomes by the time she reaches the lake, and how she has to rest for longer and longer on the railing. She starts to use a walking stick, and the paleness of her face haunts me. Her husband remains faithful and loving and offers the support and comfort she deserves. He now pushes her in a wheelchair, as effortlessly as if it was empty, so frail has she become.

It is a cold Monday evening in January. There is no-one else by the lake except myself. My heart flutters in anticipation. I hear his steady step and the crunch of the wheels on the gravel. The dog is now old and pads slowly by his mistress’s side. She no longer has the strength to throw the bread but she watches him follow the ritual, a gentle smile hovering over her lips. He screws up the paper bag and carefully puts it in his pocket. He continues to look out over the still water until she says something quietly to him and he turns towards her. I am shocked by the anguished expression on his face. He bends to kiss her gently on the lips, then takes the small pillow from behind her head. 
I can almost feel the satin pressed firmly against my own nose and mouth; I smell the faint scent of lavender and I remember the absolute relief as my breathing dwindles to nothing and my aura glows pure white.

About the author

Buy "The Jewel Garden" now at https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jewel-Garden-Marilyn-Pemberton-ebook/dp/B079ZY877T  or https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-jewel-garden/marilyn-pemberton/9781912582037

Website: https://marilynpemberton.wixsite.com/author
Member of the Society of Women Writers & Journalists
Member of the Historical Novel Society
Member of the Society of Authors
Blog: writingtokeepsane.wordpress.com

Swant's Service

By James Bates

cola

"Well, thanks for meeting with me. It was good talking to you." The realtor took out a business card and gave it to Charlie Swant who glanced at it, already having forgotten the guy's name. 

            Then he aggressively extended his hand and Charlie reluctantly shook it, "Well...Okay then," Charlie said, not knowing what else to add. He certainly wasn't going to lie and tell the realtor that, "Yeah, it was good to meet you, too." Or, "We'll talk soon. Thanks for stopping by." Or any other pleasantry that most people would have responded with.

            The realtor just looked at Charlie, getting the hint. The old man was nuts anyway. Who wouldn't want to take the one and a half million dollars he'd offered to buy the decrepit gas station the guy owned? Swant's Service. What a stupid name. No one he knew ever took their cars there anyway. Why trust their precious Porsche or BMW to a grease monkey like Charlie Swant when they could just as easily go to one of the luxury car dealerships ten miles down the road? The realtor waved and turned away. "I'll stay in touch," he said over his shoulder while stepping into his Cadillac, "But I'm never bringing my car here, no matter what," he muttered as he drove away.

            Charlie watched him speed off, noting the almost inaudible high pitched squeal in the engine that was probably a bearing in the water pump starting going out. Good riddance, he thought to himself, and turned to go back to work. He had an oil change and a tune-up waiting and the day wasn't getting any younger.

            Swant's Service was built by his dad Clarence in 1942, the same year Charlie was born. Clarence suffered polio when he was young and was unable to serve in World War II so he decided to do the next best thing, serve his country on the Home Front by doing all he could to keep America's cars and trucks running. "I'll provide my customers with the best service I possibly can," he said when asked about the name of his gas station, "We'll sell more than just gasoline. We'll sell reliability and dependability. Our customers will never be dissatisfied with the service we provide, I can promise you that. In fact, they'll probably tell their friends." Which they did, and Swant's Service was off and running.         

            The station stood on a small piece of property on Willow Way, a quiet shady street that was one block off Orchard Boulevard, the main road through the small town of Long Lake. Across the street from the station was the cozy, well maintained home Charlie shared with Martha, his wife of fifty-two years. He had a good life: a home that was paid for, a wife he stilled adored and a business that was all his own. Plus, he was doing work he still enjoyed. Why would he consider changing things right now by selling out to some fly-by-night realtor with a fancy car and too high an opinion of himself?

            Well, his daughter Janet could think of a few good reasons, telling her dad he should get rid of the station and use the money to, as she put it, "Retire or travel or something." Charlie Swant couldn't see himself doing anything like that. Not on your life. Not right now, anyway.

             He had just entered the service bay when his phone buzzed. It was a text from Larry, his oldest son. Kids on the way. Charlie texted back that he'd be waiting for them. He went to his work bench and checked his tools. Everything was in order. The Kids were a group of eighth graders from Riverside Middle School where Larry was assistant principal. It was located twenty five miles east in downtown Minneapolis, and they were considered high risk students, having had trouble adjusting to life in Minnesota. To try and help them Larry and Charlie came up with a plan: Charlie would mentor the kids. He'd also teach them about taking care of cars, sort of like the automotive maintenance shop classes that used to be offered in junior high schools back in the fifties. Times were different now. Budgets were tight and shop classes weren't around anymore. The kids were attending by their own choice, having given up a study period to learn what went into taking care of an automobile.

            In the beginning Charlie was under no illusions about what he was getting himself into. He knew most of the kids just wanted to get away from school and Hang out, as they were apt to say, sneak cigarettes, and goof off. But from day one Charlie wouldn't have any of it. Not on your life. Twelve had started the class. He was strict but fair yet a few just couldn't handle the discipline. He was down to nine now, having weeded out those who wouldn't abide by his simple rules: treat others with respect, work hard, and don't be afraid to ask questions. He didn't admit it very often, but he thoroughly enjoyed being with eager students, giving the kids a two hour block of his time every week. During the first meeting he'd written their names down. In retrospect he was glad he had because he'd needed to refer to his list often in those initial weeks. It had been challenging back then, but he'd worked at it. Now, of course, he knew them all by heart: Abshir, Amir, Cabdulle, Daleel, Fuaad, Gaani, Idiris, Kaahi and Kamal. They were young Somali's living in a high rise housing complex in the heart of Minneapolis. Today they'd help him with the oil change and then he'd supervise the project they were working on, restoring a 1957 classic Chevrolet, getting it ready for Long Lake's Fourth of July parade. Charlie would drive and the young Somali's were going to ride with him. They were excited and so was he. It would be fun. He couldn't wait.

             Charlie whistled to himself, using his shop cloth to wipe down his tools. Sell his service station for a million and a half dollars? Never. Not on his watch.

            A beeping horn interrupted his tool cleaning. Charlie turned and saw Jerry Larson the school bus driver pulling in to drop off the kids. Charlie grinned and waved and walked out to greet them. Jerry opened the door and Fuaad and Kamal and the rest of the kids tumbled out. Charlie called out, "Hey, guys. How's it going today?"

            A chorus of voices came back to him, all on the order of "Just fine, Mr. Swant, " or some variation thereof.

            "Good to hear it," Charlie says, "Ready to get to work?"

            "You bet," came back another chorus, this time more eager than the first.

            "All right, then," Charlie turned and led his young students toward the service bay, "Let's get to it."

About the author 

theviewfromlonglake

www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com

Fictional stories written by Jim Bates

 

Sydney Jugg's Book of Grievances

By Dawn Knox

Campari (Nice and bitter!)

Sydney Jugg was a man who bore a grudge. Actually, he bore many. Ever since he’d been a small boy, he remembered his mother telling him to ‘stop bearing a grudge’. At first, he wasn’t sure what a grudge was and Ma’s explanation when he’d enquired, hadn’t really enlightened him.

“Don’t be so cheeky!” she said and swatted him round the head. 

Over the years, he’d worked out that bearing a grudge was a justifiable reaction to the injustices that life threw at him. And there were many. For example, his brother, Toby, could charm and beguile anyone. His decorating firm was successful despite Toby’s lack of practical skills. And women! Toby’s face could best be described as unfortunate, and his body was shaped like a barrel. But women were attracted to his ridiculous patter in a way they’d never been to anything Sydney had to say. 

And as for business acumen, Toby had none. Sydney, on the other hand, thought up so many business ideas his head spun, but none so far had amounted to anything. 

But this time, he had the King of Ideas. Now all he needed was a rather large bank loan. 

He arrived at Bboyds Bank ten minutes before his appointment with Mr. Harbottle, dressed in his best suit and shiny shoes. 

 “Mr. Harbottle won’t be long. Would you like coffee?” the personal assistant asked. But before he could reply, the bank manager appeared at the door. His shoulders sagged when he saw Sydney.

“Ah, Mr Jugg, isn’t it? Please come in.”

Roland Harbottle steepled his fingers and resting his chin on the tips, he surveyed Sydney who was sitting on the edge of his chair on the other side of the desk.

“Another King of Ideas, Mr Jugg?” Roland asked.

“Yes, but I think you’re going to like this one. It can’t fail.”

“Hmmm. Well, it’ll have to be better than the edible chopsticks. Or the magnetic dentures.”

“Yes, this is guaranteed to succeed.”

Roland sighed, “Well?” 

“You know how everyone loves the smell of bacon…”

“Vegetarians probably don’t. But I agree it’s a popular smell.”

“I’d like to develop a men’s toiletries range…”

“Please tell me you’re not proposing an aftershave smelling of bacon!”

“Well...”

“I really don’t think so. Have you done any market research?”

“No, I use common sense. People like the smell of bacon. It’s bound to work.”

Roland pressed the button on his intercom, “Milly!”

“Yes, Sir,” said the tinny voice through the intercom. 

“Milly, if you could pick an aftershave for a man to wear, would you pick one that smelled of sandalwood… or perhaps, bacon?”

“Bacon?” said the tinny voice, “Sorry, Sir, I thought you said bacon!” Peals of laughter could be heard through the intercom. 

“I rest my case,” said Roland showing the palms of his hands in a gesture of resignation, “Milly has spoken… Now, Mr Jugg, if I were you, I’d forget your get-rich schemes and concentrate on your plumbing business. Your brother’s just done an excellent job redecorating my house. You’re a perfectly good plumber. Isn’t that enough?”

The bank manager got to his feet and held out his hand.

Sydney’s interview was over. But before he could leave, Milly poked her head round the door, “Oh, Mr Harbottle, while you’ve got Mr Jugg here, the radiator in the ladies’ toilet is leaking. I wonder if he could fix it.”

Sydney stomped out to his van to get his overalls and tools. 

What did the bank manager know? Or silly Milly? He wouldn’t give up. He’d try elsewhere.

As he worked, he committed the conversation he’d had with Mr Harbottle to memory so that when he got home, he could record it in his Book of Grievances. The bank manager had turned down several requests for loans and consequently, he had a whole page to himself in Sydney’s Book of Grievances. This further insult would be added. Keeping a record each evening assured that no slight, however small, was forgotten. Milly would be added as well. And in the meantime, Sydney thought as he whacked the radiator valve with a wrench, he’d charge the bank an arm and a leg for this job. The valve parted company with the radiator, allowing a spout of rusty water to gush over his shiny shoes. 

Sydney wanted more from life than scraping a living tinkering with toilets and taps. He not only wanted more, he deserved more. 

But how? 

Yet again, he’d been compared to his brother, Toby, and been found wanting. As he walked past Mr Harbottle’s office, he noticed a poster on the notice board. A young couple posed with dumbbells raised as if they weighed nothing, well-defined muscles beneath shiny, tanned skin and their smiles revealing gleaming teeth.

Be The You, You Always Wanted To Be,

Muscle Bounders Gym

Book your first session now!

Sydney had once been quite fit. Fitter than Toby, anyway. And a toned body would give him confidence. Yes, he’d sign up with a personal trainer for a month at Muscle Bounders Gym. 

“I am Vilya Chekarova,” said the personal trainer in a heavy accent. She towered over him, bulging muscles straining her Lycra top and leggings and she shook Sydney’s hand, almost wringing it from his wrist, “You must be Syderney.”

“Err, it’s Sydney.”

“That is vot I said… Syderney.”

Sydney dared not disagree. 

“Now, let us see vot you are made of, Syderney.” 

Sydney showed her what he was made of.

“Hmm, ve have a lot of vork to do, eh, Syderney?” 

As he limped out of Muscle Bounders Gym an hour later, she called after him “Do not vorry, Syderney, I vill turn you into a man of steel.” 

His muscles screamed as he gingerly climbed into his van, eased into the driver’s seat and slowly drove home. He was too exhausted to make more than a cup of tea and certainly too tired to write in his Book of Grievances. But tomorrow Vilya Chekarova, Mistress of Sadism, would also have her own page along with Roland Harbottle and Silly Milly. And he would cancel his next training session.

The following morning, he ate his breakfast standing up, his joints having locked rigidly overnight. Ahead of him was a full day, plumbing in a bath in a rather small bathroom, and if he was finding it hard to bend down now, how was he going to squeeze himself into whatever shape was necessary to get to the waste and pipes? 

He phoned the gym before he left for work. 

“Hello, Muscle Bounders Gym, Betty speaking, how can I help you?”

He explained he wouldn’t be able to make his next training session because of work pressure.

“I’m sorry you can’t make it, Mr Jugg! Never mind, I’ll tell Vilya and she can bring round a few weights to your house and do your training session in your home—”

“No!”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s no problem. Vilya’s used to it. You’d be surprised how often this happens. Have I got your address? Oh yes, here it is. Well, I’ll tell Vilya to be there at seven. How will that be? Goodbye now! Have a good day!”

He thumped his mug down on the table, groaning at the pain that radiated throughout his body. He would add Betty to his Book of Grievances. Stupid woman. Why hadn’t she minded her own business?

Vilya arrived the following week at seven o’clock with a bag of weights and equipment. 

“Good evening, Syderney. You are ready to vork?” she asked holding out an exercise band which was wrapped round both meaty fists like a garrotte. 

“A cup of tea?” he asked in desperation. 

“Water vould be good please. It is important to keep hydrated.”

“Yes, yes!” he said rushing into the kitchen. How long could he spin this out? He turned the tap on very slowly.

She followed him and stopped at his liquidiser. “Vat is this?”

“I’ve been experimenting. It’s a salad smoothie.”

“I may taste it?”

“Oh yes, indeed!” 

Before Vilya had arrived, he’d been considering what to eat and had decided he didn’t have time for a meal. One thing led to another and he’d wondered about developing smoothies for busy people on the go. A search on the Internet told him someone had beaten him to it but he’d had another idea. Suppose he blended the starter, main course and dessert together? Many people appreciated gourmet meals but didn’t have time to sit down and eat one. With his Three Course Smoothies, they could enjoy a complete meal through a straw while they were on the go. Disappointingly, his fridge had only yielded some wilted salad, a tiny piece of Brie and a large onion. He’d liquidised the lot. When he’d removed the lid of his blender, the smell had hit him like a punch on the nose. He was writing his shopping list for the next day, when the doorbell rang and Vilya had appeared with her rubber garrotte, bringing his mind firmly back to the present.

Now, she removed the top of the blender which Sydney had rammed back on earlier. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she dipped her chunky finger in the brown sludge and sucked it. 

“Mmm,” she said, an appreciative expression on her square face, “I may have more of it?”

He almost tripped over his feet in his rush to get a glass and disregarding the smell, he poured the entire smoothie into it. 

He managed to stall for fifteen minutes, while she drank and he told her about his idea. Nevertheless, it took a week for his muscles to stop complaining and he was dreading his next session. There was no point trying to cancel; Vilya knew where he lived. 

Then Sydney had an idea. He’d arrive at the gym two hours early with some tools hidden in his gym bag. Once he’d gained access to the boiler room, he’d make a few adjustments to valves, thermostats – basically, anything he could twiddle. With no water and with soaring temperatures in the gym, they’d be forced to close and he’d offer to fix the problem, but by the time he’d finished, it would be too late to train. All he’d have to worry about then, was his final session, the following week. How he’d get out of it, he had no idea. Perhaps he’d catch the plague. Or move house. 

“Mr Jugg, you’re early! I’ve been phoning you,” said Betty when he entered the reception, “I’m sorry but Vilya’s resigned. Would you believe it? Just like that! Apparently, she’s got some hotshot new business idea and she’s setting up a new company. Three Course Smoothies or somesuch. I’m sure I can find another personal trainer for you though...” 

Sydney was too stunned to answer. That square-jawed, sadistic monster had stolen his idea! 

“Mr Jugg?” Betty said, “Are you okay?”

He nodded.

“You can have a refund if you’d prefer. Oh, and I wonder if you’d leave your business card please? My shower’s not working at home. If you have time, perhaps you’d come and look at it?”

He nodded, unsure whether his relief that Vilya had gone was greater than his fury at her stealing his idea. There would be plenty to write in his Book of Grievances tonight! He might even buy a new notebook dedicated to Vilya Chekarova.

“Mr Jugg? Your card…?”

He handed one to her silently. Yes, there would be plenty to write on the subject of the personal trainer. Perhaps he ought to have a page for Muscle Bound Gym too. After all, they’d sent her round to his house. In fact, it was Betty’s fault. She already had a page and he’d be sure to add this insult.

If you could come round tonight,” Betty said, “I’d really appreciate it and I’ve made Shepherd’s Pie, if you’d like to stay for dinner…”

She smiled shyly.

“D…dinner?” he spluttered.

“Well, only if you’d like…” she was now blushing.

“That would be lovely,” he said. Perhaps he’d been a bit hasty putting Betty in his Book of Grievances. He’d tear her page out when he got home… later… after dinner at her house.

About the author

Dawn’s third book Extraordinary was published by Chapeltown in October 2017. She has stories published in various anthologies, including horror and speculative fiction, as well as romances in women's magazines. Dawn has written a play to commemorate World War One, which has been performed in England, Germany and France. www.dawnknox.com

Assumptions

By Pat Gallagher

champagne limoncello

I was not going to dress up. Leggings would do. Plain tee shirt. Maybe just a chunky necklace though, and those matching earrings.Hair: Loose? No, tied up. No, loose. Loosely tied up? Either way, it would be the first thing she’d notice. “A glorious dying sun,” a boyfriend once said of my hair. We parted company when I replied that his resembled a sad dying badger. No compliment should reference death.

First impressions count, don’t they. Well, she was engrossed in a vacuous glossy magazine that matched her vacuous glossy appearance. Not even looking out for me. I was mad to think we might have got on. I turned around, walked straight out of the cafe and back into the bleak high street. Coffee was needed now and food. I would just go somewhere else instead.

                                       

The route back to my flat an hour later took me past the cafe again. She was still there. Still reading the same magazine! Clearly she had a brain the size of a pea. I should have stayed at home, saved some money, finished my essay. Someone should tell her what a selfish cow she was, wasting my time, getting my hopes up. Sitting there reading junk, not a care in the world.

I  barged through the door, anger propelled me towards her table.

“So you thought it was ok to give me away? To walk into the sunset and just abandon a baby?”

I was ablaze and she gazed back at me, cool and impassive. 

Then she spoke.“Well you were very ugly.”

I nearly walked out again. What sort of person would come out with that? What sort of person?

To my surprise I found I did actually want to know what sort of person.“So that was it,” I said slowly. “And I suppose my hair clashed with your sofa.”

“Nightmare. That’s why your father had to go too.”

We paused. Something softened in her face and she put her hand to her mouth, like a naughty child.

“I'm often told I have an inappropriate sense of humour.”

Wow.“Me too.”

Suddenly I was being enveloped in the warmest embrace I had ever experienced. My shoulders began to shake. Then hers. We continued to laugh longer than was reasonable.

Later, her eyes circled with smudged mascara, she no longer looked glamorous. And she told me I was beautiful. No dying sun nonsense, just beautiful. I told her I was studying astronomy and she was like a procyon, which is a bright star. It’s also a racoon.

I’ll tell her that next time.

About the author

Pat has recently returned to writing fiction. She has just started a local writing support group and looks forward to sharing the pleasures and occasional pains (but mostly pleasures) of the writing process

Leatherwork

by James Bates

builder's tea

Ernie Schaefer undid the twine and rolled out the leather onto his worktable. His practiced eyes scanned the surface noting some prominent stretch marks, deciding at that very moment to incorporate them into the project he was starting. Before he began, however, he took a moment to think about the cow whose hide he now had in front of him. The animal had once been alive, and if it hadn't spent its time strolling imaginary fields munching on sweet, fragrant clover, at least it had once been a living breathing creature of the earth. He felt in his heart a reverence for the animal, and he bent his head for a moment in a silent prayer of Thanks. Then he began to work.

            He was a retired shoe repair man, or cobbler, as he sometimes let slip if the moment was right. Working with leather was in his blood and he'd been working with it all his life; which might be considered odd, since he grew up in the city, far from any farms or ranches or small towns that may have fostered his craft, but that's the way it was. Ernie was first exposed to leather crafting in junior high shop class back in the late fifties. His first project had been a bookmark and by the time he was finished he was hooked. His parents, sensing his enthusiasm, bought him a Tandy Leather Making Kit for Christmas that year. He fate was sealed by the tools of the trade: a swivel knife for craving, stamping tools for creating intricate designs and a multiuse rawhide mallet.

            In high school, while others got jobs at restaurants or gas stations, Ernie found work at a Xavier's Shoe Repair in downtown Minneapolis. Xavier Dukakas, the owner, was a second generation immigrant from Greece. He was a robust man, short in stature and long in enthusiasm, who took a liking to the skinny kid who happened to love working with leather as much as he did. Mr. Dukakas (the name he preferred to go by) taught Ernie everything he knew about the craft of shoe repair.

            "Here, you hold the shoe firmly but gently," he told Ernie more than once when he was learning to finish the edge of a sole of a shoe on the burnishing wheel. "Like an egg," he said, pantomiming massaging  one in his hands. Then he laughed, "Or your girlfriend," he added grinning, watching his young protégé's ears turn red.

            Ernie eventually got the knack, learning from the older man that most things worth doing well in life required practice, and practice required patience. In truth, Mr. Dukakas was much more than an employer; he was a mentor, and Ernie worked for him until old age forced his retirement. Mr. Dukakas sold the business to him for a fair price and Ernie continued to run it until he retired at the age of sixty-six. He then sold the shop to an industrious young couple who wanted to use the space to start their own micro-brewery. Life went on.

            Shortly after he retired, Ernie was outside working in the garden he and his wife Emma maintained with loving care. He was just transplanting some hosta when she came up to him.

            "Look what I came across in the storage room. Your old leather kit."

            Ernie stiffly got to his feet and wiped his hands on his overalls. "I haven't seen this in years."

            "You know you could set up a work space in the furnace room" she said. "You always enjoyed doing your leatherwork."

            The moment he took the lid off the box memories came flooding back: the projects he'd made, the aroma of the leather, the smell of the dye and feel of the hide. He smiled at his wife, not having to be persuaded further, "Good idea."

Ernie's had his workshop now for five years. He has a website where he sells his Creations, as he calls them: purses, journal covers and cases. He gladly accepts orders, like the one he is working on today, a case for an iPhone 6s. He takes a tag board template he has made and uses an awl to mark out an outline on the leather. He uses a razor blade knife to cut out the pattern. Then he trims the edges with a skiving tool and punches out holes so he can eventually hand lace the case together. Today's work ends with him dying the leather deep violet, the color the customer requested. Tomorrow he will apply neatsfoot oil and the following day he will finish it with caranuba cream and hand stitch the case together. Then he will ship it to the customer. He loves the steps in the process and he loves working with his hands. He loves the feel of the leather. He loves the aroma in his workshop. He loves it all.

            He is setting the piece aside to dry when the back door opens. He hears voices and he starts to smile. Then there are footsteps hurrying down the stairs and he turns to greet his grandson.

            "Caleb," he says, eyes bright with affection, "How's my boy?" Caleb is eleven years old and has been helping Ernie for over a year. He's shown the same love of leather Ernie had at that age. Amazing but true, in an age of electronics, is this kid who likes to work with his hands.

            "I'm good, Grandpa," Caleb says, and then spies the cell phone case, "New project?"

            "Yep, it came in today." Ernie can't help but notice the disappointment in Caleb's eyes.

            "Oh... I wish I could have helped."

            "You can," Ernie grins and watches as his grandson's eyes light up, "You definitely can. The order was for two."

            "Yea," his grandson says happily.

            Ernie tells him, "In fact, I've been thinking about something. You helped me long enough. I think now it's time for you to make this one on your own."

            Their eyes meet, each of them knowing that something special has just taken place. They don't  have to say anything.

            Then Caleb's expression turns serious. He carefully selects a piece of leather and lays it out of the worktable. He runs his hands over the hide and closes his eyes and is quiet for a few moments. When he is ready he looks at his grandpa and smiles. Then he begins to work.         

           

           

Tiddles

 Roger Noons

a saucer of milk

 

The cage is empty. Joey’s blue-tinged down lies at the cat’s feet. A rough pink tongue laps fur; whiskers twitch.

    ‘Hello Boss,’ Tiddles squawks.

    ‘Oh no!’

    Mary will kill me, the budgie was her fortieth birthday present, along with a brand new cage.

    I grab for the cat’s tail, but she is too quick for me. Heading for the flap, she probably believes she can fly.

 

About the auhtor:

Roger has been a regular contributor to the site for many years, with over 100 pieces published. Chapeltown Books has recently poured his Slimline Tales.