You Didn't Notice Me

by Mari Phillips

brandy

You didn’t notice me. Your mother was in the bed opposite mine and I guess we were both engrossed in our family tragedies. Mine was a stroke, and it was touch and go; that’s what the doctors said. “Hope for the best but be prepared for the worst. Is that what they said to you?”

Both unconscious, wired up to machines and drips, all tubes and beeps, like noisy traffic lights at the crossroads of life. I sat and held her hand for hours and chatted as they tell you to do; sometimes whispered in her ear with a snippet I thought she would want to know. Her eyes didn’t flicker; her life trickling away, like a stream drying out in a hot summer. Days that felt like months.

You tried to do the same, but I watched you struggle and saw your frustration. Trying to chat to someone who didn’t respond; waiting for death; oblivious to the last fragments of life. You buzzed about, always tidying, fussing and checking, but I’m not sure you were really there. I sensed your pain but couldn’t help. When she died, and the doctor apologised, you cried but not for long.

 “I have to get back to work,” you said.  

I thought it strange that the breathing tube had slipped!

Full Disclosure

by James Bates

pink lemonade

I have to be honest. Growing up in the fifties my heroes were television cowboys who used guns and other firearms to solve their problems. There was no such thing as reasoned discussion among those guys. No way. Got a problem? Let's meet out in the street. Compromise? No one knew the meaning of the word. Violence was the norm.

            I can name a number of politicians who come from that same era. They are egotistical men spewing hatred and malevolence with derisiveness ruling their every waking moment. It's sickening see, and it's apparent they never grew up past the fourth grade mentality prevalent in the boys back then.

            Fortunately, most of us did. But that was long ago, and these days it's obvious many didn't - the deed was done and the die was cast. It's almost as if we've reverted back to those my way or the highway, uncompromising wild west days of my youth.

            Almost.

            In her bedroom, my granddaughter and her friends play quietly with dolls and stuffed animals using their imaginations to create elaborate games usually based on what they observe in everyday life. I listen and hear as problems are solved by talking and reaching a common middle ground. When the girls argue, it's respectful. You can tell they'd rather solve whatever the issue is between them and keep playing together, than not, and end up alone. They play for hours like this. They're only seven years old. They're smart, compassionate and it's delightful being around them. I can't help but thinking...maybe there's hope for us yet.

 

About the author 

Jim counts himself as a lucky man because he has his grandchildren in his life. His stories have appeared in CafeLit, The Writers' Cafe Magazine, A Million Ways, Cabinet of Heed and Paragraph Planet. You can also check out his blog to see more: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

New Leaf

by Lynn Clement

sweet tea

  ‘I’m turning over a new leaf,’ I say to my mother. She looks at me with sadness in her eyes.

‘No I mean it mum, this time it’s for real.’

She kisses my cheek and waves as she gets to the door.

   Flopping back on my pillow, I am exhausted at the pretence of it all. Closing my eyes, the old pictures come. I was in a pink frilly frock, or was it purple – lilac maybe. We were in the back entry to our two up two down in the heart of Salford city. Five years old and happy as Larry, whoever he is? Why do people say that, ‘Happy as Larry?’ It’s a good name though, short for Laurence, nearly as good as the one I picked.

   Another memory flashes in my mind, that one where I was with my cousins Kathleen and Frank. We were playing by the river Irwell. Frank was showing off as usual. I adored him. He was my hero in a way and I wanted to be like him. After that day, I wanted to be him.

   We were mucking around at the water’s edge and the dog fell in. I didn’t know any of us knew how to swim. We didn’t have lessons and I don’t remember our parents taking us swimming either. But Frank loved that dog and he wasn’t about to let him drown. Frank dived in, well belly- flopped really with an almighty splash that sent the water splattering over me and Kathleen. He was a big lad Frank. And he was strong. He got the dog, Laddie to the side where he could scramble out. Me and Kathleen managed to drag Frank half way up the bank where he was able to grab some roots and pull himself onto the grass. He lay there flat on his back, panting, a bit like the dog. Laddie had recovered quickly and was now licking his privates and I remember laughing out loud. Breaking the tension I said, ‘Don’t you do that Frank!’ I think Frank swore at me, but in that moment I fell in love.

   The love wasn’t for Frank as such, although I liked him a lot; he was my cousin after all, but for what he was. I hadn’t dived in. Kathleen hadn’t dived in but Frank had. Was that when I realised I was wrong? Something was wrong. I’m not sure really. It’s taken me forty years to know.

   The nurse interrupts my thoughts.’ Hello Frankie,’ she says. ‘How are you feeling today?’ She reaches for the medication as she speaks.

‘I’m ok,’ I say. ‘Just had a visit from mother,’

‘How’s she taking it?’

‘The usual,’ I say, ‘trying to put a brave face on it.’

‘It’s a big thing for her,’ says Nurse Downing.

‘It’s a big thing for me,’ I say.

   She tells me the surgeon will be here in a little while and gives me my pre-op medicine. I’m hoping it will calm the nerves. I am so scared but now I know, I need this. This is my new leaf. No more depression. No more suicide attempts. No more longing to be someone that my body says I’m not. The real me revealed.

   I begin to drift off and I can see my mother’s sad eyes saying goodbye to her little girl at the ward door.

He Didn’t Recognise the Mona Lisa

He Didn’t Recognise the Mona Lisa

by Hannah Retallick

water-turned-wine

They knew they were in the right place. Crowds draw crowds, but the boy was a drawer not the drawn; notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other. A serious frown. Wondering.

The painting of a woman. Imprisoned by bullet-proof glass, half-mooned with a wooden barrier, and protected from the pilgrims by guards with our swinging identity badges. Heads, endless heads.

The boy turned.

The Wedding Feast at Cana rose above him, biblical in subject and scale. A chaos of colour. It covered most of the huge wall. Maybe the boy’s jaw dropped, maybe it didn’t, but he didn’t move for a good long while. Floods of celebration, guests basking in the water-turned-wine; musical instruments and animals and rising stone pillars. Christ was in the centre.

The boy turned back, smiling.

            Mum, look at this!

            Hang on, gotta get a good photo.

            His smile dimmed, forehead crinkling. She lifted up her camera, moving it from side to side until she found a gap between heads. They were all at it, always are. Zooming in.

            Drumming the pencil on his drawing book, the boy waited for his mother to see. A serious frown. He sat down on the floor, crossed his blue-jeaned legs, and began to sketch.

About the author

Hannah Retallick is a twenty-five-year-old from Anglesey, North Wales. She is working on her second novel, writes short stories and a blog, and would love to be a professional writer. She studied with the Open University, graduating with a First-class honours degree, BA in Humanities with Creative Writing and Music, and is studying for an MA in Creative Writing.

Blog: https://ihaveanideablog.wordpress.com/

The White Lily in the Woodland

by Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik

mountain spring water  

 

Dusk. Secluded. Remote. A clearing in an otherwise desolate forest provides a hidden home for a large opulent structure towering tall to the fast blackening sky. Starless. Birds do not seem to fly above this place. An uncomfortable, unnatural stillness breeds, unbroken in the dewy chill. The grey skiescloak the unspoken secrets of the woodland; a subtle mist seeps in from the glass shards of mountainous rock behind, shrouding whatever may’ve call this clearing its home. A sense of movement where there should be none.

The thinning grass lay somehow dry despite the light fog swirling and waltzing above. Seemingly untouched and untrodden by those of the world of the living. Brown, orange and copper crisp leaves lay thickly in patches, uninterrupted by the gentle breeze from an unknown source. Beneath the sticklike grass, dusty fine hazel mud, weather-beaten and sickly. Nothing good could grow here.

Surrounding, many small withered trees of oak, elm and maidenhair with thin phantasmal forms and branches with there dead brittle leaves bronzed as if painted in liquid metal piled around beneath them, oddly unmoved by the whispering wind. They form a barricade against the skies; emitting no light from the distant horizon.

Obscured by the branches, a house, untouched by its surroundings. Bright white. With a shallow crest raised higher than all the trees as a herald to the heavens. Seven windows with large crystalline panes shine in the mundane darkness. All with thick sweeping ivory curtains tight shut. They hang in creases. Unmarked. The huge doorway has a Brobdingnagian white peak with columns preceding it. The entrance to the house seems as the entrance to a temple. The blackened stone beneath the thick white paint coating the structure is cold and unforgiving. The black fencing over the proud balcony above stands imperious and foreboding.

One tree of maidenhair stands proud, taller than all its fellows, directly ahead, almost blocking the house from view. Its trunk is gnarled and has tiny green shoots sprouting out into the twilight air. It curls up and up until it towers over the scene below. One branch protrudes out further than all the others: It appears something obscured from view is attached to it, what that could be remains presently unclear.

A singular miniature lily in perfect white emerges from the disfigured trunk. Innocent and unspoiled. With beautifully soft inner petals in bloom at last. Nothing else lives here. Adjacent, an inky black shape, a shadow, is suspended silhouetted, floating upon the ground, hanging from the branch. Motionless.

The Coyote

by James Bates

cappuccino

It was a lazy Saturday morning in Brentwood Estates. Roland Hathaway sat in his silk bathrobe in the family room, reading the Wall Street Journal and sipping his cappuccino all the while eyeing a nearby hot buttered croissant. Life is good, he was thinking to himself.

            He casually looked out the second story window into his manicured backyard, and that feeling of goodwill disappeared in an instant. "Jesus Christ!" he yelled, slamming down his paper. "Ellen, come in here. Quick. It's a damn coyote."

            His nine year old son and eight year old daughter ran to see.

            "Look, Dad," Lyle pointed, "It's got something in its mouth.

            "Ew. Yuck," Emily said, covering her eyes and, then, unable to help herself, looked again.

            Roland's wife hurried into the room. "A coyote? Where is it?"

            Roland pointed out the window, "Right in our backyard. Damn thing. Call animal control. Now. It'll probably start killing everybody's pets." While his wife excitedly peered into the backyard and didn't immediately respond to his orders, he barked more loudly, "Hurry up. Now! Chop, chop!" He clapped his hands together.

            Ellen fought back an urge to tell him off, but didn't when she noticed the kids were watching them. She took a deep breath, gritted her teeth and said, "All right. I'll get my phone."

Outside, oblivious to the commotion in the Hathaway house, the lean coyote trotted quickly through the pristine backyard, avoiding the swimming pool and tennis court. He knew he'd ranged too far from home, but he'd had to. He was on a hunting trip for his mate and their three young pups. The rabbit he'd killed was his reward, much needed food for his hungry family. But the smell of humans frightened him. A few miles ahead lay the rolling hills that marked the edge of the Minnesota River Valley and his home territory. He trotted faster, the rabbit secure in his mouth. He was never coming back. The human scent scared him too much, so he'd stick to hunting in the river valley. That was his home. That's where he belonged.

            Ellen took her time walking to the front hall desk where her phone was charging, thinking, to hell with Roland. She leisurely unplugged it and did an unhurried search for a number to call. While it rang she walked to a side window and looked outside. She saw the coyote trotting across their lawn and smiled, thinking what a beautiful animal it was. You didn't see them too often around the suburbs. Well, never, actually.

            Watching the coyote triggered a sudden, unexpected connection. It was deep and sensual, something she hadn't felt in a long time, not since she'd been a young girl growing up on her parent's farm in central Minnesota. Back then, whenever she'd seen a coyote it had made her happy. Many in her part of the state wanted to kill them on sight but not Ellen. She was drawn to their graceful beauty and wild spirit. In fact, at one time she'd wanted to become a wildlife biologist and study animals, like coyotes, and find ways to help them survive and flourish and live in harmony with humans. That was before she'd met Roland. Back then...well, back then he'd been different than he was now.

            A voice spoke over the line, interrupting her thoughts, "Animal Control. May I help you?"

            Ellen didn't have to think. "Oh, it's nothing," she responded, politely. "Sorry to have bothered you." She hung up and watched as the coyote gracefully leaped their property line fence and disappeared from view. "Be safe," she whispered.

            From the family room Roland yelled, "Ellen, damn it. Did you call somebody yet? It's getting away."

            Ellen sighed and took a moment, reliving another memory: The time she'd seen a female and two pups running along a gravel road when she'd been riding her horse. The mother had looked back once before leading her young ones into the protection of the underbrush. To this day, Ellen would swear she and the female had made eye contact, a primal bond forming between them, just before the family had disappeared from view. It was a moment she'd almost forgotten about until now.

            Making herself return to the present, Ellen called back, "Don't worry. It's taken care of."

            "Good. Now come join me for a croissant. They're delicious"

            Ellen sighed again, in no mood to hurry off at his command. Instead, she continued looking out the window, thinking back to when she'd been a young girl living on the farm, back to when she'd had a connection with coyotes and a sense of wildness in her heart. Where had it gone, she wondered, that wildness? Could she ever get it back?

            A few minutes later Roland yelled, "Ellen, what are you doing? Get back in here." But he had no way of knowing his wife couldn't hear.

            "Dad, look," Lyle suddenly exclaimed, pointing out the window. "It's Mom."

            Roland hurried to his son's side and looked. His mouth gaped open in dismay. He watched as his wife walked calmly across the lawn to their property line, where she paused only a second before nimbly climbing the fence and continuing on through their neighbor's yard.

            "Where do you think she's going?" Lyle asked, watching in wonder.

            Roland stared out the window, speechless. Finally, he shook his head, utterly perplexed, and whispered, as if to himself, "I haven't a clue."

            Ellen was smiling. She had the sun on her face, the breeze in her hair, and she was happier than she'd been in a long time. As she walked she kept her eyes peeled, looking past Brentwood Estates toward the forested hills of the distant river valley, hoping to catch a glimpse of the coyote. Just once more, Ellen thought to herself, walking faster before breaking into a spirited trot. Please let me see that beautiful wild animal just one more time.

About the author  

Jim has a soft spot in his heart for wild animals living on the fringes of society, and he counts it as his lucky day whenever he is fortunate enough to see a coyote. His stories have appeared in CafeLit, The Writers' Cafe Magazine, A Million Ways, Cabinet of Heed and Paragraph Planet. You can also check out his blog to see more: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

Beyond Illusion

by Stephanie Simpkin

Stolichnaya Vodka

The Lear jet 35, sat waiting, on the tarmac, at Orly Paris, destination, London City airport.

A beautiful blonde, wearing, a very fitted, navy Channel suit, stood chatting, with two, young men, in uniform, at the top of the stairs.

A tall, slim, very attractive man, in his forty’s, ran up the steps of the plane, closely followed, by two men.

Body guards, she thought. She’d done her homework.

"Good morning, Mr Akhmedev, my name is Anoushka, welcome aboard. Our chief steward, Harry, will show you, to your seats. Beluga, chilled Stolichnaya, served neat, as soon, after, take-off as possible!"

"Thank you, Anoushka, perhaps, you will join us," he said, smiling.

God, he is attractive, she thought

"Mr Akhmedev, you, need to be in London by 12.45. The time, is now 11, Sir!" She smiled

"Anoushka, indeed I do, please, call me Anton."

"Well Anton, I, am, the pilot, and we can’t miss our slot, so please, excuse me!" she said, slightly sarcastically.

I like her, I really, like her, he thought.

The plane landed on time, she was at the door.

He took her hand. "Thank you, I hope, this, is not goodbye," Anton said smoothly, "I feel a strong sense, of, serendipity, will you, join me for dinner, tonight, please?"

"Love to, but, I am hosting, a rather special, charity dinner, tomorrow, at Cliveden, and I, have to make sure, everything is tickety-boo!"

"I am, attending that dinner, how are you getting there," he asked?

"Euro copter.  I am the pilot." She laughed. "Tomorrow?"

He leaned in, kissed her fleetingly, on the cheek, her heart, skipped a beat! Tomorrow, he replied.

The charity dinner, for a hundred guests, she, was, aiming to, raise five million pounds, for Crisis the homeless charity. Many, people, said it couldn’t be done, she, would, show them.

Royalty, both British, and foreign, stars of the stage and screen. it was rumoured, an ex-President, and his famous wife, would attend. Guests had all responded. People were clamouring to get an invite. Only one couple had been unable to attend. They had generously sent a hundred bottles of vintage Dom Perignon, and all, of the fine wines. 

A silent auction, one guest had donated a Picasso, Michael Bublé’, Take That, Adele, Jools Holland, the cabaret, David Blane, for the magic, all, performing, without fees.

It had, taken a year to organise. She was excited, apprehensive, nervous,. Cliveden, was very special to her.

Saturday morning, she awoke early, had a double espresso, a croissant, sat down, to read the email.

Anton Akhmedev, a complex, and unusual ancestry. American passport that stated, (much to the bemusement, world-wide of immigration officers) Holder born on an airplane. 

Ten miles, south of New York. (airspace or water, Jus Soli) (Right of Soil).

He held a Russian passport. His father descended from the Romanovs. His mother’s family, included, a distant ancestor, Electress Sophia of Hanover, the grand-daughter of James the First. Her mother was English, grand-daughter of Sir Harold Wernher, who had inherited huge diamond mines in South Africa, her father was French, rumoured to be, the illegitimate son, of Charles De Gaulle

He holds a British passport, and French. 

Wow! She thought. She read on: Eton and then, New college Oxford, two firsts. He ran the family’s, diamond mines. A few years ago, a book about him, an unauthorised biography, suggested, he’d laundered billions, from Mexican, and Bogota drug cartels.

He’d sued in the High court, won, three million, in damages, which, he’d donated to charity. The author had vanished.  Rumours were rife. He was an enigma, some people, thought him, a latter day Robin Hood, others, a very clever, devious villain.

Single, Forty-two. Handsome, Bon Viveur, billionaire. Womaniser, playboy, reckless, racing driver. International Polo playing, philanthropist. Elegantly dressed, adventurer. Always, accompanied by two ex - special forces, bodyguards. He always, gets what he wants, including women! 

She made sure the email was deleted.

Her thoughts turned to Anton: charming, very attractive, intelligent, interesting, the first man she’d fancied in ages, unattainable, off limits, at least, to her!

The hotel manager came in. "Anoushka, this package just arrived for you. Looks rather interesting, special courier."

She unpacked, the beautifully, wrapped parcel. A stunning, Valentino evening dress, 

matching, diamond necklace, bracelet, and earrings.

"Who is it from?" asked Charles, the manager, she’d known since childhood.

She opened the envelope, a hand written card.

Can’t wait, to see you! A

"Charles, please return these gifts. No message, thank you."

"Are you sure Anouska?"

"Positive," she replied.

Everything looked perfect, the tables, the fabulous flowers, donated by one of the guests, the stage, professionally lit, the food would be exquisite, the finest of wines.

Private. No photos. Guests could. let their hair down. All mobiles were banned apart from the security, which was, immense, but appeared very understated. 

She dressed very carefully: her mother’s Balenciaga gown, the family jewels, her hair, and make- up perfect.

She went downstairs, checked every thing again.  Jools Holland’s jazz quartet were playing in the background. The guests were drifting in. Shee socialised, introduced people, chatted as she sipped, the wonderful Champagne,that helped to calm her nerves.

Time to be seated, the table plan, very, strictly adhered too (it had taken, the team, five days to get correct) she hoped! She took her seat, she saw Anton, three places down. He raised his glass to her. If only, she thought.

The dinner over, guests mingled in the hotel, and the grounds, Anton, sought her out.

"You look, amazing, stunning. I am, so very sorry for my crass attempt to gain your attention with my thoughtless gift."

No, Anton, I am sorry. It was very rude of me not to have thanked you!

"Anoushka, tell me about you. Where do you live? Is there any one special in your life?"

"I live here."

"In the hotel?"

"No!" She laughed. "I live in a beautiful cottage, in the grounds, close to Heathrow, and as you can see, the car park is full of helicopters. Very handy. I am Lord and Lady Astor’s grand-daughter. This was their home, and I have no time for any one, special!

"Ah! I understand. What a wonderful family you have. Sad, that you have no time for love. "I must confess, I could find out very little about you. "I did try."

"Wonderful family. I think not, at least, not all of them. The Profumo scandal, Hitler-loving, fascists. My charity work is to try and make amends."

She kissed him. Now, time for some magic. She excused herself.

I want her, she’s perfect, he thought.

The curtain went u: David Blane, a huge box, a large saw. “Anoushka, please, join me on stage, as my magic, assistant”

"Who will start the bidding, on being, sawn in half, by the wonderful Anoushka! Which one, of you, very lucky people?"  

Hands were raised, Anton stood up. "I will do it!"

"Well Anton, your donation, for charity?"

"One million." .

"Thank you, Anton. Is that one million for each half?" Anoushka, asked.

"Yes!" 

He went on to the stage, too much, applause, he lay in the box, “it’s like a coffin” he hissed, she picked up the saw, a drum roll, a fraction, of a second, a puff of smoke, and there in the box, was Anoushka!

The applause was tremendous, no curtain, no sleight of hand, how? Why? They, were all amazed. The evening was a huge success, congratulations all round, seven million, for Crisis.

She kicked off her shoes, punched the familiar number, into the phone, sipped her champagne. “Beyond illusion, magic, in plain sight, smoke and mirrors, cargo on its way” she, said.

“Well done, a very, tricky cargo, but until the Americans, confirm, eyes wide open, ” said M.

She, walked slowly to her cottage, thinking what might have been with Anton. She lay on the bed, she was elated, happy, but tired, and, sad. She sat up. A card fell to the floor, she turned it over, just one word.  Serendipity!