Rose Tinted Glasses

by Linda Payne

mock champagne

Aah, my two lovely boys, Nick and Sean. I’m looking forward to seeing them today. Just waiting for my girl Rachel then we can go in together.

Nick’s dad was tall, dark and handsome. He takes after his dad.

Sean’s dad was smooth, smart, sophisticated and when my boy flutters his eyelids he looks just like his dad, or at least I think they both take after their dads. I mean how well do you remember people after a few drinks on a one-night stand.

I remember Rachel’s dad well enough though. He hadn’t long come out of prison and, well, you know how it is, every man needs his comforts now and again so I just comforted him. In fact, I comforted him a few times.

He did do the honourable thing though, he did offer to marry me when he heard I was pregnant but when I learned that he murdered his second wife that put me off a bit. They don’t know what happened to his first wife. Hasn’t been seen for years. She seems to have disappeared somewhere. Probably doesn’t want the attention.

Why I’m visiting my two lovely lads in prison I don’t know, I mean take Sean for example, so he was caught with his hands in the till. I reckon that if they’d paid proper wages instead of this zero hours nonsense he wouldn’t have done it. Treat people well and they’re okay. Alright, so he wasn’t working for the company he stole from at the time, but he might have been.

And then there’s Nick, I mean what millionaire surrounds their houses with razor wire? My poor Nick didn’t stand a chance when he slipped and fell on it. Scarred him for life that has. He was only trying to help some old lady get her cat back.

Caring and considerate is my Nick. Anyway the shotgun he was carrying didn’t belong to him. He was looking after it for a mate. He didn’t know it was loaded when he shot that policeman in the leg.

I just think the policeman held a grudge. My boy wouldn’t hurt anyone on purpose. That policeman had it in for him, all the police had it in for both my boys. That’s the only reason they’re both in prison. Very kind-hearted boys, my lads.

Take Sean, he spent a whole morning collecting money for the wheelchair that the policeman now needs and what thanks did he get for that? None. I remember that night he took us all out for dinner, it was at a posh restaurant up west. He said he’d treat us all to a celebratory meal for his having raised so much money. Bought me a lovely outfit from Harrods for the occasion.

Everyone’s always picked on my two boys ever since they were in the juniors. All the local shopkeepers banned them from their shops. Said my boys were stealing. Why tempt kids with interesting stuff and put them where kids can easily reach them? That’s only asking for trouble.

Okay the boys had to go to the back of the counter for the fags, but I blame the shopkeeper for that, he should have served my boys instead of answering his landline. Only had himself to blame, should’ve used a mobile. My boys are good boys; they are always looking after their mum.

As does my daughter, Rachel. Good girl she is. The neighbours say she is cheap, they even went so far as to say that she is a bit of a tart. They’re only jealous. One nasty old crow said my Rach earns her money at sex parties. I told her straight I said if my girl can earn enough money to pay for a penthouse and a Ferrari by selling frilly knickers to people in their own homes it just shows what a good saleswoman she is. That shut her up. I can tell you.

Only a couple of minutes to go I hope Rachael won’t be much longer. Oh good here she comes. Cutting it a bit fine but never mind she’s here now that’s all that matters.  We can go and visit her brothers now.

The Longest Drive Home

Alan Cadman

 

Water

As Ray approached the water cooler, he heard two colleagues chatting. ‘Have you seen Ray? I need his help.’

            ‘No. He might be sorting out a few problems elsewhere. You’ll find him soon. He always works late on Fridays.’

            ‘Good old Ray.’

            Ray cringed. He’d had enough of being known as “good old Ray”. He waited for them to leave and phoned his wife. ‘Jean, I’ll be—’

            ‘You’ll be working three hours over tonight instead of the usual two?’

            ‘No I won’t. I’ll be home in less than thirty minutes.’ He heard muffled voices and the front door closing.

Time for a Change

by Allison Symes            

iced lemonade

 

The dragon yawned.  Faced one idiot with a sword, faced them all. The latest one matched the usual profile. He was young, handsome, and looked keen. No doubt the fool had been promised a king's ransom.

The only problem with that, the dragon thought, is you have to live to collect it. I know nobody has in all the years I've been here. This is so boring. Still, one quick blast will take care of this and then maybe, just maybe, I'll live in peace for a bit. I wish they'd leave me alone. It's all I want. I don't eat their women. Just the odd sheep or cow every so often. And humans eat them so they can hardly moan at me!

The dragon stared. The young man had not rushed towards him. Indeed the human was pointing some sort of box at him. There was a click, a quick flash of light, the dragon blinked, and then saw the man beaming.

'I hope that didn't startle you. You are a magnificent specimen. The noblest dragon, yes?'

This made a change. The dragon had not come across flattery before - abject fear, yes; tremendous courage, yes - but not this. The dragon padded slowly to the human. The human stayed still. That was different too. Some of them could run at an impressive speed for bipeds. Not that any could outrun flame.

'I know you can understand me,' the young man said. 'I've studied the legends about your kind. You can talk?'

The word 'Yes' left the dragon's mouth before he could stop it.

The young man smiled. 'Look, we could do a deal here. Can you see the crowd on the hill behind me?'

The dragon nodded. He'd smelt them first, of course. Some humans didn't like soap much. Yuck!

'They need to see me chase you away. I know a place where you can live in peace, away from them, with plenty of water and food. Deer, that kind of thing? I would like to study you in detail. I'm a naturalist, see.'

The dragon didn't see. The chap still had his clothes on.

'I like to understand animals, plants, and birds. See how they live. Try and persuade my lot to treat you better.'

'You've got your work cut out there,' the dragon said quietly.

'Money helps. Our lot can be bribed to do the right thing sometimes. Course you could just kill me now. I only brought the sword to look the part. I couldn't tell the king what I've just told you.'

The dragon nodded. This sounded good and if the guy lied, he'd die. 'You get the reward and come back to this place you spoke of?'

The man nodded. 'Up for this then? I'm afraid I will have to wave the sword about just for the look of the thing.'

'Naturally. On three, you shout, I'll run, and game on. What's your name by the way?'

'Attenborough, the name's Attenborough.'

About the author

Allison Symes is published by Cafelit, Bridge House Publishing and Alfie Dog Fiction.  She is the author of flash fiction collection, From Light to Dark and Back Again (Chapeltown Books). She is a member of the Society of Authors and Association of Christian Writers.  Her website is www.allisonsymescollectedworks.wordpress.com and blogs for Chandler’s Ford Today - http://chandlersfordtoday.co.uk/author/allison-symes/

A Summer Outing

                                                     By Linda Hutchinson  

lemonade  

“Vertigo?”

“Yes, it’s a film. Haven’t you heard of it?”

I hadn’t and I had no intention of admitting this to Suzy. We had been good friends at school but recently she had developed the habit of making me feel small and foolish.

 I jumped up.” Come on.” I said. “Let’s go. We want our swim before the sun goes down.”

  Suz rose slowly to her feet. As she turned I noticed grass stains on her white shorts. “I’ll tell her later.” I thought. “No point in spoiling her day.”

 We made our way to the cliff edge and began the long descent to the pool. The azure blue water sparkled in the sunlight. The effect was hypnotic and enticing. The water looked cool and deep. Our path was lined with tall, purple flowering plants. The majestic bell-shaped appendages hung from the slenderest of stems.

 The downward trek became ever more difficult requiring the sure footedness of a goat. The view was lost from sight and then unexpectedly it greeted us in all its splendour. The vista resembled nothing less than a painting sprung fresh from the artist’s brush.

  This was the final day of our holiday and I knew the memory of this place would last forever.

About the author:

Avid reader turned writer. This may sound clichéd but it is true. I joined a creative writing class for a bit of fun and emerged a fledgling scribbler. Thank you Alyson Faye."

This is only my second piece to be published on line- the first being a piece sent in for Christopher Fielden's Adverb Flash Challenge Volume 4 -https://www.christopherfielden.com/writing-challenges/adverb-writing-challenge.php.

 

Parker's Tale

                                                            by Alyson Faye

orange juice

                                            

In the annex room just off the oak floored hall at 9.20am on Tuesday, Miss Evans, Head of Year 8, was squaring up to a tiny undersized boy, wearing no obvious school coat or sweatshirt. Miss Evans stared over the top of her half moon glasses at her regular nemesis.

 “Parker, you are late! This is the third time this month. It’s just not good enough.”

 Parker’s cheeks were flushed pink except for two sooty black smudges. “Miss, sorry ever so. It weren’t my fault Miss.”

 “Was not Parker.”

 “You what Miss?”

 “It was not your fault.”

 Parker beamed. “That’s right Miss. It weren’t.”

 The Head of Year sighed. It was always hard work with Parker. The boy was small but slippery. Eels in a bucket came to mind.

“Why are you late on this occasion?”

The silver plated ink pen hovered over the gilt inlaid ‘Lates Books’ like a dagger positioned for the kill. Parker eyed it swallowing hard. His full name, Benjamin Nathaniel Parker, appeared in the hefty tome far too many times. He was doomed. He rubbed his nose with his sleeve. Then stopped when he spotted Miss Evans’ frown.

 “Well you see Miss. It’s Harvey. He’s dead.”

 Miss Evans counted to five, very slowly, in her head.

 “And Harvey is whom exactly?”

 “Me hamster Miss. He died last night. Well it’s worse than that. He topped his-self.”

 Parker’s eyes were like saucers. They were shiny as though on the verge of tears.

 “You’re telling me your pet hamster committed suicide Parker? That is what you wish me to write in the Lates Book?”

 Parker’s face lit up. “Yes please Miss.”

Relief poured out of him. At last they were making progress. He felt he should add more details to his story.

 “He threw his-self off the top of his Ferris wheel and cracked his head. Splat! Like a nut.”

 Parker smacked his hands together on the word ‘Splat.’ At the hand clap Miss Evans dropped her pen and a spray of violet ink spattered across the cream linen page.

 Parker stared sadly at the ink drop pattern, “Bit of a mess that page Miss. Perhaps you could tear it out?”

Parker’s Tall Tale

 Miss Evans watched the tips of her fingers turn purple. Her left eye began to twitch. Parker gazed up at her like a spaniel she’d had as a pet years ago. Hopeful and friendly.

 Taking a deep breath Miss Evans made her decision. “I’ll overlook it this time Parker. Fresh start, clean slate.”

 “Really Miss? Thank you Miss.” His smile split his face in two.

 Miss Evans watched Parker jog off, his shirt tails hanging out of his trousers, weighed down by the bulging satchel on his back. Miss Evans made a mental note to speak to the Drama department on behalf of Parker. He had the makings of a fine actor.

END

Self Assessment

 by Peppy Barlow

double espresso

Rosemary is sitting in the doctor’s surgery.  He is a very personable young man, she thinks.  Not tall dark and handsome but he’d do. He’s twisting a pencil in the fingers of his right hand.  Not looking at her.

            Outside there is a man working in the garden.  He has dark hair and a colourful waistcoat.  A large pair of sheers in his hands.  He is pruning with abandon.  He reminds her of someone but she can’t see his face.  What’s wrong with her today?  Eighty four and still eyeing up the talent.

            The doctor is saying something. She must pay attention.

             ‘Did you hear what I said?’

             ‘Not really, no. I was somewhere else.’

             ‘Yes, well, that often happens.  That’s why I wanted you to have someone with you.’

             She hadn’t thought to bring anyone. Only children need someone to take them to the doctor. ‘Did you say I was going to die?

                  ‘Something like that, but not yet, maybe not at all.  You can never be sure.’

                  ‘I think that’s probably something we can all be sure of.’

                   ‘Well, yes, ultimately but you know what I mean.’

                    ‘I do.’

            Now he is looking hard at her.  Trying to hold her gaze.  Are they trained for this, she wonders?  Are they told you must look a dying person in the eye? He looks so young and vulnerable.  She wants to get up and put her arms round him. She doesn’t.

                  ‘How long do you give me exactly?’

                  ‘I can’t be exact.’

                  ‘Roughly, then.  I’d like to know what I have time for.  Have I time to go on holiday?  Time to throw a party?’

                 He looks away.  The pencil is on the move again. ‘Six months, a year, maybe more.  Could be a matter of weeks.  It’s difficult to predict.’

                ‘Then I’d better go home and sort things out.’

                 He looks up. ‘There are other avenues we could explore, experimental programmes.’

                 She watches as the man in the garden cuts the head off a rose.  She smiles. ‘No, doctor.  Don’t you worry yourself about me.  You’ve done your best.  And, I hate to tell you this, but one day you are going to die and no one will be able to save you.’

            She gets up to leave. The pencil stops moving. As she shuts the door he turns to his computer and puts the pencil down.

            And now she is nearly home.  She turns her small car into the street.  Stops by the house she’s lived in for the past thirty years.  Gets out and goes to the door.  A small black cat comes round the house to greet her.  Rubs himself against her leg. She looks down.

‘I should have taken you with me.  He wanted me to have a friend.’

            She unlocks the door.  There is post on the mat.  She picks it up and moves down the hallway.  There is a gallery of family photos on the wall.  Pictures of herself as a child, her parents, her brothers and sisters, her children, her grandchildren.  She stops at a photo of a man standing beside a vintage sports car. Taps it and speaks. 

‘Not long now, you old villain.  You better not have another woman with you when I get there.  You hear me.’

            She moves to the kitchen. Puts on a kettle.  Drops a tea bag in a mug.  Goes to the table and looks at the post.   Mostly junk mail.  A postcard from a friend in Greece on holiday.  She glances at it.  ‘Think you’d like this place.   Lots of drink and dancing.  Come with me next time.  Sue.’   Also a letter from the Inland Revenue.   She opens it. It is a self assessment form.

‘Good lord.  Do they really know what they’re asking?’

            She makes her tea and sits at the table with the form.  The cat jumps on her lap.  She strokes him. Talks to him. ‘Now let’s see, what do they want to know?  I was good at school. Did quite well really.  Went to university.  Fell in love more times than I can count now.  Only one man really mattered but then you don’t know that until afterwards.  Couple of kids.  Don’t think I was a very good mother but they seem to be alright so perhaps I didn’t do too much harm there. Sometimes remember my grandchildren’s birthdays.  Sometimes take them to the sea and let them run wild.  Isn’t that what a grandmother is supposed to do?  Bit of travelling.  Bit of teaching.  May have had some affect.  Not very nice to my parents I don’t think but don’t suppose they noticed.   Or if they did they probably blamed

themselves.  Isn’t that how it works?   Plenty of people I would like to have slapped at the time but that’s all gone now.  We all harbour hidden resentments which mean nothing to the other person.   I wonder if this is what they want.  And which part of the form to put it on?  Wonder what my friends would say about me?  Is there a section for that as well?  Somebody to speak up for me…. ' 

            The door bell rings.  She puts her mug down.  Goes to the door.  The man from the doctor’s garden is standing outside.  The man from the photograph.

             ‘Oh, didn’t expect you just yet.  Haven’t finished filling in the form.’

              He smiles.  She reaches for her coat.

              ‘I hope you know the ropes...   Must admit I was a bit rattled when he told me… but there we are…. nice of you to turn up…’ 

            The man stands back to let her pass. The vintage sports car is parked in the drive.  Rosemary laughs.

‘You’re not still driving that flash car.  God, will you never grow up?’ 

            The door closes. The cat mews and moves to the closed door.  We hear the car start up and move off.  The cat turns.  Moves back into the kitchen where Rosemary’s body is slumped over the table. 

 About the author

Peppy Barlow is a founder member of The Woven Theatre Company and a lecturer in Creative Writing at the Ipswich Institute.  Her latest work is a site specific play at Landguard Fort in Felixstowe on the life of Philip Thicknesse, Governor of the Fort 1753-66. www.woventheatre.co.uk

 

And here is the video to go with it: https://vimeo.com/575323425  

Virus-free. www.avg.com

The Morning After

Robin Wrigley

a large Pimms 

Charlotte opened her eyes slowly and felt the space to her left side where James would normally be still fast asleep. The grope revealed nothing other than bedding. He was not there and it was obvious once she sat up and looked at his side of the bed he had not slept there.

     ‘Oh Christ,’ she said out loud ‘Don’t tell me we are going to have one of those bloody days again.’

     She got up out of bed and walked naked into the bathroom and sat on the toilet recalling the argument they had after Jane and Robbie left. Standing up, she flushed the toilet, moved to the washbasin and cleaned her teeth purposely avoiding her face in the mirror. She didn’t need confirmation that she looked like she felt – crap.

     Pulling on her towelling bathrobe she walked towards the lounge surprised to hear the radio playing a local station. As she opened the lounge door; she screwed up her face at the volume of the music. It heralded the start of a lurking headache. Just what she needed.

     She quickly switched the radio off but not before smiling to herself that the tune playing was a sixties hit by ‘The Animals’ – ‘We Got to Get Out of this Place’. In the newly acquired silence she mouthed the next line of the song under her breath, ‘if it’s the last we ever do.’

     Collecting the empty glasses from the glass topped coffee table she noticed the newly opened bottle of J & B whisky was all but empty. ‘Jesus James you really tied one on last night she announced to the empty room,’ She briefly scanned around to see if there was any collateral damage to match the presumably rat-arsed state of her husband. Thankfully nothing appeared out of place.

     Carrying the empty glasses into the kitchen she came to her next surprise; the patio doors were wide opened. Placing the glasses on the draining board the light in the garage caught her eye through the kitchen window.

     ‘Just what the hell is he up to now at this time of the morning?’ she asked herself as she walking angrily out onto the patio and yanking open the garage side door.

     James was hanging naked from the cross-beam by a length of thick ship’s rope pulling his neck backwards at a painfully unnatural angle and facing away from her. Below the eerily motionless figure lay a white plastic garden chair on its side. His left foot was caught on the corner on of one the upturned legs of the chair.

     Charlotte did not break out in a hysterical scream as played out in television dramas. She calmly walked towards the body of her husband carefully avoiding looking at him but simply reaching blindly to touch the back of his bare torso.

     The coldness of the touch told her all she needed to know. She retraced her steps back into the kitchen picked up the telephone and dialled first her sister and then the emergency services, speaking quietly and briefly to both parties.

Back in the garage James pushed himself with his left foot around to check that he was alone. He reached up to the beam, pulled himself upwards and undid the cable that held the rope in place. He silently thanked his lucky stars that she came when she did. He was chilled to the bone.

    

Eric Burdon was right.