The Princess

 by Michal Reibenbach

slush puppy

I was on my summer vacation when my stepmother approached me and said, “Anna, there’s a woman who wants you to come and visit her.” 

“Who is she?  Why does she want me to visit her?” I asked.

“It’s a woman who once had a little girl who sadly died, and she would like to once again feel the presence of a little girl in her life,” my step-mum explained.

“I don’t know, it sounds really weird to me,” I said.

“Why don't you try it; you have nothing to lose?” said my step-mum in an endeavor to persuade me.

I hummed and hawed for a little while; and finally said, “Well, alright then.”

The day upon which my step-mum and the mystery woman had agreed that I should visit her soon arrived. I shoved some pajamas and a toothbrush into a nylon carrier bag, while my step-mum gave me directions which she had written down on a piece of paper. Thus equipped and holding the piece of paper in my hand, I set off unceremoniously by foot into the direction of the woman’s house. After a short while I found myself slugging along a muddy path; the length of which grew a row of silver birch trees to my left side, and which cast down shadows over the path; to my right side lay open fields in which there were some horses, grazing. 

After about half an hour's trudge, I immerged out of the shade of the trees, and into a bright clearing. In front of me I saw a row of newly-built modern villas, and since the ‘mystery woman’ lived in the first villa I managed to find it straight away. I approached the door apprehensively and knocked on its door hesitantly. It was opened by a slim, elegant woman, who wore her prematurely greying hair scooped up into a bun.

“You must be Anna?" she said, "Welcome; I’m Edith, and I’m very pleased to meet you, please come in”.

I felt greatly relieved that she seemed to be a pleasant lady; I stepped over the threshold and followed her through the luxury villa.

“Come… I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping,” said Edith.

We climbed up some winding stairs and arrived at a small, very white, clean room.

“Do I have to remain in this bedroom all the time?” I asked her.

“No, you can go wherever you like,” she answered, and then added, “My husband has gone to fetch a princess for you to play with.”

I was extremely surprised at this information, and thought to myself, ‘A princess!  What sort of a princess?’ The picture which conjured itself up in my mind was of a beautiful woman, clothed in exotic flowing garments and wearing a crown on her head.

Out loud I asked, “What sort of a princess?”

“She’s a wonderful person, you’ll see,” replied Edith, then she withdraws from the room and left me to my own devices. I placed my pajamas on the bed, and put my toothbrush into the drawer of the bedside table. The house looked so costly and clean, which made me scared that I might break or soil something; so I decided to remain sitting on the bed with my legs dangling over its side. I turned on the radio which stood on the bedside table and twisted the knob around until I found some pop-music. As I sat there listening to the music, I felt quite excited at the prospect of meeting a princess!

About an hour later, Edith appeared at the door of the bedroom, “Anna, please come with me; our wonderful princess has arrived,” she said. I turned off the radio, jumped off from the bed, and followed her down the stairs and out of the house in curious anticipation. She then led me to the end of the garden. There on the gravel driveway next to some bushes stood a windowless van. I wondered to myself, ‘what sort of princess remains to hide in a dark van?’

I followed Edith around the van to the part of it which was hidden from view (from the neighbors) by some bushes, and to where the sliding door of the van was open; I peeped into the van in happy expectation, however, what I managed to see from out of the darkness was a fat girl sitting in a wheelchair and to my amazement she was completely covered in hair, saliva drawled from her mouth and her eyes stared blankly back at me. She reminded me of an orangutan.

“This is our beautiful princess, her name is Anna just like yours; I would like you to be friends, and for you to play with her,” said Edith.

Well, I just stood there in complete shock; I was unable to move or to speak… I was after all merely twelve years old and I’d never seen anyone like her in my life before. I was desperately trying to work out in my mind, “How do I play with her? What shall I do?”

After a short while, Edith became exasperated at me and flew into a rage.  She began to scream at me, “Don’t just stand there gaping at her; talk to her, play with her… after all, this is her beautiful house, not yours- for God’s sake!

Well, now I was also in a panic because of her hollering, so I bolted back into the direction of my own house. I completely forgot about my pajamas; I just ran as fast as my legs could carry me--I splashed back down the muddy path, all the while thoughts thrashed around inside my head like a storm. At first, I felt guilty for running away and for hurting ‘the princess’s' feelings and came to the conclusion that I was a nasty person. However, I also began to feel angry at Edith for shouting at me; for lying to me about her daughter by claiming she was a wonderful princess-- and what she had said about ‘the princess, having a beautiful house- The fact that they were rich didn’t entitle her to make me feel like poor trash!  

As I continued to flee I became quite short of breath. After a while I began to feel sorry for Edith; for she was a mother who was ashamed of her daughter, who lied to everyone by telling them that her daughter was dead, and who hid her out of sight from her neighbors. I realized that for a while she had wanted to replace her daughter with me; perhaps she’d suddenly had a bad conscience, and regretted her decision. That was why she’d sent her husband off to fetch her daughter ‘her princess’, from the institution where she was looked after, and to bring her home.  Why hadn’t she explained ‘the princess’s’ true condition to me before I met her, prepared me?

Finally, I got fed up of so many thoughts thrashing through my head and decided that grown-ups and the whole incident with the ‘princess’ were issues just too weird to bother my head about; having come to this conclusion, I stopped running and walked the rest of the way home at an easy pace. Upon arriving back at our house I let myself in quietly by the back door but my step-mother heard me, “Back so soon, did you enjoy yourself?” she called out.

“Yes,” I lied as I hurried up the creaky stairs to my untidy bedroom.

About the author

The author did military service for two years, was a model, a florist, a nurse and did ceramics.

In her twenties when she was five months pregnant she became a paraplegic as the result of a car accident.

She has two sons and six grandchildren.

She lives in Jerusalem.

Cider

by Lynn Clement

cider

Petey snuggled up next to Mae’s skirt. She stroked his soft brown hair.

‘Thanks for coming,’ she said.

The shouting continued outside and Mae heard a crash.

‘So how’s your day been?’ she asked him.

Petey was quiet. They sat in silence for a while.

‘I’ve had another crap day,’ Mae eventually said. Petey sat back and looked at her.

‘Yeah, late again and a detention for not having the right coloured shoes on. They’re all full of bull at that school. What do they know about shoes? My black shoes pinch my toes and my trainers are the only other ones I’ve got.’

Petey looked at his own un-shod feet.

A bottle hit a wall and it sounded like a thousand pieces fell on the tiled floor. Petey sniffed. Mae could smell the gin.

‘Not nice is it? I tasted it once, it’s rank. Gave me a headache in the morning but I slept well. Missed school that morning too.’ She laughed, ‘I’ll stick to the cider I think.’

Mae was cold so she pulled the blanket over her arms. She was glad she’d remembered to bring it this time. She tucked the threadbare cover around Petey. He looked up at her with shiny eyes.

‘Ok?’ she asked.

Mae opened her book and adjusted the torch so that the words were illuminated. She read Petey a chapter from The Amber Spy Glass by Philip Pulman.

It was about 10 o’clock by the time the noise had subsided. She had learnt to judge the time by the silence. They’d be asleep. Mae would be sure to creep up to her room avoiding the creaky stair.

Petey had long gone. He’d taken the cheese and gone back through the hole to feed his family.

Mae stretched herself through the open door and stood up. She winced and twisted her back, left and right.  Picking up the blanket, she quietly closed the cupboard door and headed up to her room, stepping over the tell-tale stair.

About the author

Lynn has now been writing for pleasure for five years. She particularly enjoys writing flash fiction with a twist or a slant.

Frank's Phobia

by Alex Womack

 Theakston's Old Peculiar

“Do the thing you fear and the death of fear is certain.” was Frank’s new mantra, thanks to Ralph Waldo Emerson, and he would.  It was time to get over it. It had seemed feasible, with friends - well, friendly colleagues. They thought him a bit odd, the usual side effect of his phobia. They didn’t know about it of course. He couldn’t bring himself to explain how his claustrophobia dictated life. 

    He worked in the warehouse. That was o.k.. It was huge. He could handle being there.

He didn’t go to pubs or cinemas: too closed in. On the plus-side it saved money but made him seem a bit anti-social.  He went fell-running. They groaned at that. 

    So he amazed them by joining in the plan for a Halloween party. He hadn’t mentioned Emerson, naturally, but that was how he came to be in a coffin propped in a corner of the Tan Hill Inn. Wearing white sheets and shreds of gauze to be ghostly. It was tough, he felt sick, desperate. He felt ghastly.  He just had to wait until everyone was there, then the fun could begin, they said. They were the lads in the warehouse and the fun was when the girls were all there too. Then he could jump out, scare them and enjoy the party.  Fears conquered. 

    To stop himself from leaping up and spoiling it all, he thought of work. Collating and packing orders, heavy things like granite mortar-and-pestle sets. Anxiety ground into his head and his throat.  Routine easy plastic things. Panic squeezed his breath. He thought of sheep-dog trials with Granpa, so patient and determined.

    The cue he was aching for came suddenly and he leapt out shrieking. He wasn’t kidding. Waving his arms, yelling ‘Aaararragh’, very near to tears, he howled his way to the door and dived out. And ran and ran. When he ran out of breath and began to stumble over lumps of wet grass he slowed to a halt, gasped air into his lungs. 

    He became aware of being in the dark, with cold sleet passing at an angle, on a wind guaranteed to give him hypothermia. Now he was afraid in a different way.

Told himself to get a grip, he couldn’t be far from the Inn, just needed to locate its lights and head back.  His feet got him onto a smooth surface and he plodded along it, finding it easier going and hoping it was the road to the Inn.

    A bright light dazzled him. He felt a surge of hope.  He heard an engine. Then he was next to a tractor and a face under a woolly hat was mouthing something.

The door opened and the face yelled ‘Get in!’

He didn’t stop to assess the space, simply scrambled up into the cab. 

The driver, a young woman, said ‘What d’you think you’re doing, up on the tops half-dressed?’ She seemed angry, in a jovial way. His teeth chattered. She shouted ‘Coffee’, and handed him a flask. It must be Heaven I’m in, he thought and almost laughed at such a daft idea. She drove while he drank the lukewarm coffee and he shivered less and managed to say ‘Thanks’ in almost his normal voice. When the tractor stopped, the woman got out and said, ‘Get out’.  He followed her into a house. It was very quiet and warm. A couple of collies got off a sofa and sniffed him, wagging their tails. He liked dogs. This was clearly another part of Heaven.

About the author and the inn

The Tan Hill Inn, Swaledale, is the highest inn in Britain at 1,732’

Alex Womack  is a  a northern  Briton living on the south coast.

Jeopardy in Pink

by Penny Dale

Bloody Mary

The wipers lazily cleared rain from the windscreen of the big Mercedes. Ruslan left the motor running, she’d find out soon enough that he had guessed what she was up to and he didn’t care if she saw him in the square. In fact he didn’t care about much, except for money all of the time and for sex and cocaine on a sometime basis.

            The doors of ‘Exquisite by Allia’ opened and Luisa emerged. When she’d asked him if she could do some shopping and have some beauty treatments he’d agreed. He liked her looking good; he was going to do some business in Panama in a few days. Her looks could be very useful.

Then she’d said ‘Darling, would you mind if I’m late home? I’d like to go and see my mother.’

At the time he was distracted, concluding a deal with the Venezuelan security services. There was a lot of money involved and he didn’t trust them. He’d nodded ‘Don’t be too late.’

            Later, the deal completed and the money safe in a Swiss bank account, Ruslan considered the sudden mention of Luisa’s mother. They’d been together for eight months and she’d never once alluded to any family, let alone her mother living in the same city. His suspicious mind started working. What was she up to? Who was she meeting?

It wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye on her.

It was easy to watch her cross the square. Her magenta umbrella bobbed above her head, undulating slightly as her high heels accommodated the uneven cobbles. In the gloomy afternoon rain it shone like beacon, lighting up the grey square and protecting Luisa’s lovely face and immaculate hair from the weather.

She was heading towards the district where there were lots of bars and restaurants.

‘Her mother won’t live there’ Ruslan snarled to his empty car. ‘She’s meeting someone.’ He banged his fist on the steering wheel and began to think about what he’d do when she got home. He must be careful; he wanted her to look good for Panama.

His sadistic fantasies were halted by the realisation that the bright umbrella had stopped in the far corner of the square. Every day of the week and in all weathers a woman was there selling flowers. She did good business especially in sunny weather and on days when there was a wedding in the Town Hall. Ruslan briefly recalled his own sham marriage. Flowers, an obligatory kiss for the photograph and then his bride – what was her name? – whisked away forever.

Ruslan watched as the flower seller left her stall and walked towards the now distant umbrella, she appeared to be carrying a large bouquet of pink roses.

            ‘So what the hell are you doing leaving your pitch? Don’t you know there are criminals about?’ He smirked and watched with interest as the woman handed over the flowers without appearing to say anything and, as far as he could see, no money changed hands. He saw the woman return to her display and Luisa vanished into the steady rain, swallowed up by the hurrying crowd. 

           

            Out of Ruslan’s sight on the other side of the square Luisa was glad of the shelter of her umbrella. She wished she’d had some time to talk to her sister, they rarely saw each other. She didn’t want her unpredictable lover to know anything about her family. It was safer for them if he didn’t even know they existed. She’d had to tell him about her mother, otherwise he’d have been suspicious when she was late back from the salon. His controlling jealousy was frightening, but he could be generous, especially when she was ‘nice’ to his business contacts.  Luisa had debts to clear, so she went along with his demands and irascible temper.

She pulled the umbrella closer to her head and reached into her bag, fumbling for her phone. Balancing bag, umbrella, roses and phone wasn’t easy but she managed a brief text.

‘Sylvie gave me roses for Papa; we’ll go to the cemetery together. Ruslan knows I’ll be late.’

Dry inside his Mercedes a red mist gripped Ruslan. No one cheated on him and got away with it. He revved the engine hard, reversed without even a glance in his mirror and accelerated the wrong way down a one-way street. The two-timing bitch deserved all that was coming to her. He’d find another babe to take to Panama. That gaudy umbrella wouldn’t be any protection from what he had in mind.

           

The Return

by Janet Bunce

Witches' Brew

Every Halloween night I come by this house.

It opens up its windows to me and slams its doors.

When I creep inside I feel welcome.

I breathe in to feel the connection with days past.

I exhale the memories of people I have known. Their images dance on the walls of each room.

I breathe back in those I have loved, leaving only those that have done me harm. Their numbers are diminishing.

I ask for forgiveness knowing that it is a futile cause.

A witch even one that has worked for good will always be hated in Salem.

About the author 

Author bio: Janet lives in the old market town of Saffron Walden and loves the history of the place. She works too much and finds it hard to find time to write but when she does finds it really fulfilling.

About a Blue Car

by Gill James

builders' tea

It was oddly quiet at the Parkinsons’ semi in East Oakham. Sal had just come back from the pub with fiancé Matt and was astonished that her mother and father were not back from the cricket match. It was getting dark now, despite it being the middle of June. They’d left the pub because the landlord had called last orders.  

“I wonder where they are,” said Sal.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” said Matt. “Probably having coffee with someone or something stronger. Especially if they won.”

He was probably right. After all, her dad was vice-president of the Crockley cricket club. Crockley was where he worked.  They were playing East Oakham so this match had been considered rather significant. 

“I’m not really worried.” But she was tired and couldn’t understand why. “And now that I’ve sat down I can’t move.”

“All right.  I’ll put the kettle on, shall I, and make a cup of tea?”

Sal nodded. She closed her eyes. She could hear Matt pottering about in the kitchen. The noise became fainter and then she woke with a start. Well, she hadn’t really been asleep but she’d sort of had a dream. A bit vague really. Something about a dark blue car. She wasn’t really sure what. But she could remember the number plate: MEM0 775 D. That wouldn’t exist, would it?    

“Here, drink this,” said Matt as he placed a tray down on the table.

Sal took one of the mugs of tea and one of the digestive biscuits then picked up the TV remote.

She found a programme about mind-reading.

“You’re even better than this guy,” said Matt as she got question after question right.

“It’s just daft,” said Sal. “I’m only guessing. I feel nice and relaxed, though.”

“More tea?”

She nodded.

They’d just finished their second cup and the credits were beginning to roll when Sal heard the key in the lock.

“Sorry we’re so late,” said her mum. “Only we stopped to help this old lady who was run over.”

“Oh dear,” said Matt.

“Oh it was all right. The car was going very slowly. But she was a bit shocked and so was the driver of the car.”

“We couldn’t make him understand a word,” said her dad. “I think he was foreign. Maybe the car was as well. Had a funny number plate. MEMO 775D.”

Sal shivered.

“Which side was the steering wheel on?” asked Matt.

“Good point,” said Mr Parkinson. “You know, I didn’t notice.”

“It was a blue car wasn’t it?” said Sal. “And it was backing out of that alleyway next to the hairdresser – you know where them mucky kids used to play?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Parkinson slowly.

“Bloody hell, what are you saying, Sal?”  Matt’s eyes were round and open. 

“I saw it when I fell asleep when you were in the kitchen.”

Nobody seemed to know what to say.

“You know, you’re getting good at this clairvoyance malarkey,” said Matt as they got ready for bed later. “Perhaps you should make a career of it.”

“Mmm,” said Sal. It hadn’t been much use, though had it? It had been a bit of fun with the TV programme. And she hadn’t really been worried about her mum and dad and even if she had been, having that vision or whatever it was hadn’t really told her a lot. Still, it had seemed to happen because she was so relaxed and having Matt make her tea and feed her biscuits had been good. “As long as you keep on supplying the digestives and as long as you promise to make them chocolate.”     

       

   

 

 

                  

The Guest House

By Lynn Clement

 a full-bodied Malbec

There was that fluttering again. She wasn’t sure if it was in the room, or her heart beating in her ears. She looked up to the loft space in the attic, not that she could see much, now the power had failed. Where was the proprietor with the promised candles? The only light was from her mobile phone.

This was just typical of the day she’d had. She’d given a crap presentation to the brewery company, the hotel she thought she had booked had no record of her reservation and now here she was in this ramshackle B and B in the middle of nowhere - with a power failure. She thought about checking her phone to make sure it wasn’t Friday the 13^th .

There were footsteps on the stairs.  Great, Mr Brown the owner must have found the candles. The footsteps stopped…but no knock at the door? She heard a latch being drawn back in the corridor and almost a whoosh as something dropped, but it didn’t hit the floor.

She felt almost blinded by the darkness. Now her other senses were heightened. There weren’t even any street lights to help. Her breathing became rapid and she struggled to control it. She decided to phone Derick and tell him what had happened and where she was, hearing a human voice would help.

Beep, beep…beep, was the only sound she heard - her mobile had run out of battery. Oh no, please no. She moved away from the window. The dark was now all consuming and she was disorientated. Hitting her leg against a chair, she cursed her luck again. She knew she shouldn’t have used the phone as a sat nav. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have found this ‘god-awful’ place and the battery wouldn’t be out of power too.

The fluttering was there again, this time directly above her. She realised she must be under the loft hatch. Maybe a pigeon had got in there and couldn't escape?

Beads of sweat formed on her top lip. The salt worked its way into the corners of her mouth. The fluttering she thought was in her ears was now a pounding. She tried to find the door. Feeling for the chair she knew the bed would be next, her fingers touched the duvet. Okay she thought the door is opposite the bed. With arms reaching out, she slid one foot in front of the other, in the direction of door. It seemed like an age but she found it. Exhaling, she quickly turned the brass handle one way, then the other. She rattled the door, pushing and pulling it at the same time.

Behind her she heard the loft hatch being slowly slid back and that familiar whoosh from the hole in the ceiling.

She screamed.

Banging on the door, she yelled to be let out.

At the back of the room there was flapping, followed by the sound of feet landing on the carpet. She turned to the sound but could see only black. A warm trickle made its way down her legs.

She was sure she was still screaming but there was no response to confirm it.

She felt a cold breeze heading towards her. Her back was against the door. Her eyes wide, searching, but she saw nothing.

It was upon her in an instant. She put her hands up to her neck but strong talons prised them away. Its evil looked her directly in the eyes. The drumming in her ears became louder. The screaming stopped. She fainted.

There was a guttural gurgle, as its teeth tore at her throat, it opened her trachea and that hiss was her final sound.

Sated, it left her to be disposed of like the others. It unfurled its wings and ascended the loft ladder, pulling it up behind.

Mr Brown; its alter ego was practised at covering its tracks and playing the innocent with the police - if he needed to. They had done this several times before, and in a couple of months, they would move to another town, find a little county guest-house and bide their time; when he knew his urge would come again.