Lucifer

by Anita Soupir

Bloody Mary

Yesterday my neighbor, Gideon, knocked on the door and asked a favor.  Of course I said yes before hearing what the favor was.  Why wouldn’t I?  The man makes my knees go weak with one smoldering glance, and don’t even get me started on that perfect, gleaming smile.  His hair is the darkest coal, eyes so smoky gray they’re almost black, always the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow and that one dimple that appears when he flashes those pearly whites.  Needless to say, I’ve had a crush on him since he moved into the cottage across the alley.

   Later, I would look back on that moment as the last time my sanity was completely intact, but in that instant when I first opened my door and Gideon stood gazing at me, I would have sold my grandmother if he had asked me.  I love the woman more than anyone else, but I would have taken a cute picture, written a clever sales pitch and shipped her off to the highest bidder on Ebay if he needed the money.

   Instead, he caught me off guard, dazzled me with his smile and then asked if I would watch his cat since he was going to be out of town for the weekend.  I blame my lack of focus on the fact that he was standing entirely too close in my little entryway and his cologne was doing a number on my senses.  To make matters worse, he invited me over to his place so he could show me where he kept all of Lucifer’s things.

   The cat’s name should have been a dead giveaway for what was in store, but I admit, I wasn’t really paying attention.  I was too busy watching Gideon walking in front of me.  He had a great walk.  Yes, I really should have been paying closer attention to something other than how great his butt looked in those jeans.

   He opened his back door and motioned for me to go first.  “After you.”

   When I stepped over the threshold into his kitchen, I was surprised by how tidy it was; definitely not your typical bachelor pad.

   “Lucifer, here, Lucifer,” Gideon called.

   A rather large cat with an ebony coat and orange eyes came trotting into the room.  I wasn’t a huge cat fan, having always owned dogs, but this guy didn’t look so bad.

   Gideon knelt down to scratch behind his ears and I could hear the rumble of a purr.  “See, he’s a sweet boy.  He won’t be any problem at all.”

   I crouched down, reaching my hand out to stroke his back.  Before I laid a finger on him, Lucifer arched, hissed and took off for parts unknown.  Yes, that should have been another clue that this was a bad idea, but then Gideon opened his mouth and I forgot to pay attention to the signs.

   “Sorry about that.  He’s a little shy when it comes to new people.  In fact, you might not even see him for the next couple of days,” he said.

   I think I mumbled something along the lines of, “That’s okay, not a problem, we’ll be the best of friends.”  I’m not really sure, though.  Gideon was smiling at me again, and I tend to forget how to speak when I’m around him.

   He showed me where the food was, gave me all kinds of instructions for his special kitty and handed over a spare key.  I almost fainted from sheer joy.

   “Thanks, Bethany, I really appreciate this.  Hey, when I get back, I’ll take you out for dinner as a thank you.”

   My head was reeling!  I’m pretty sure he just said he would take me out on a date. 

   I managed to plaster my most winning smile on my lips and somehow found a way to answer without giggling like a schoolgirl, “That would be great.”

   I pranced back over to my house, hoping all the while that he noticed how cute I looked in my tee shirt and yoga pants or how shiny my blonde hair was as it bobbed in a ponytail.  When I looked across the alley, however, his door was already shut.  ‘Damn!’ I thought.

*****

Saturday dawned and after downing my first cup of coffee, I decided I should go give Lucifer his morning dish of cat food.  Still a little sleepy, I trundled over in my pajamas.  Who was I going to impress, anyway?  Gideon was already gone.

   As I opened the back door, I called for Lucifer but didn’t see him or hear so much as a soft patter of feet.  I mistakenly thought that Gideon had been right, I wouldn’t even see the cat while he was away.  When I began opening the can of food, I realized the folly of those thoughts. 

   Lucifer must be trained to hear the crackle of tin, because he came flying from the living room, and without a second’s pause, began clawing his way up my leg like a demon bent on escaping from hell.  I’m fairly certain I have never felt pain like that before.

   The next part was probably my fault, as I didn’t handle it very well.  The cat had gotten three quarters of the way up my leg when the pain registered and I started screaming like a banshee.  (On the news later that night, I think I remember hearing that several bodies had been raised from the dead and I’m positive it was from my shrieks.  On second thought, I could have heard wrong.  I might have been hallucinating from all the pain I was in.)  When I started causing such a commotion, apparently I offended the delicate sensibilities of this “sweet boy” because he dropped to the floor and bolted out of sight.  Next thing I knew, there was a crash and a tinkle of breaking glass.

   I limped into the living room, feeling faint from all the blood that I was probably losing out of the million little holes in my skin, courtesy of Lucifer.  Flipping on the light, I immediately see what had been a beautiful frame now smashed to bits.  As I bend down to retrieve the picture before it is ruined by the shards, I hear the growl of a beast from hell.  (I’m now believe that this cat is really the devil, disguised as an innocent creature, bent on tormenting me.)  I looked under the side table to see blazing orange eyes filled with hatred.  I jumped back putting my hands down to steady myself, forgetting the broken glass, which is now jammed into the heel of my hand.  Crying out and cursing, I decide to clean up the mess when I come back to give the monster its evening meal. 

*****

   Later, after dousing myself in hydrogen peroxide and a downing a couple of glasses of wine, (okay, maybe a whole bottle), I tried to convince myself that I had overreacted.  Perhaps Lucifer wasn’t that bad.  He was just shy, as Gideon had said, and feeling threatened by an unknown person being in his home.  It wasn’t as if he had anything against me in particular; he was a cat and unable to plot evil things.

   By the bottom of the second bottle, I was able to tell myself that Lucifer was only reacting to my behavior and things would be better this time.  Armed with liquid courage, I marched back across the alley for the next round.

   At first, I was lulled into thinking everything was going to be okay.  I was able to clean up the debris from the picture frame without incident.  That was a bonus, but the victory was short-lived.  I was almost to the garbage when I stepped in something large, slick and infinitely disgusting.  My foot slipped out from beneath me and I landed in the nastiest hairball I have ever seen.  It was the stuff of nightmares and I barely kept from getting sick myself. 
   It was at this point that two thoughts crossed my mind.  One, I wasn’t sure that the promise of dinner with Gideon was worth all of this torture.  And, two, this cat was far more clever and vile than I had thought even remotely possible.  It knew that I was going to have to throw away the glass and hacked up its revolting surprise right in front of the trash can.

   I had to put out of my mind the disgusting mess clinging to my clothes long enough to open that damn can of food and get the hell out of there.  This cat was obviously planning my demise.

   Quickly I grabbed the food from the cupboard and opened it.  Just as I had a big spoonful ready to go in his bowl, the creature leapt from an unknown hiding spot and landed on the counter mere inches from me, hissing and growling. Scared half to death, I jumped causing the food on the spoon and the can to go flying.  Of course, I was the magnet for all things smelly and offensive with this feline so why wouldn’t it go all over me? 

   That was it!  The cat could eat the food it found on the floor, for all I cared, because I needed a shower and another bottle of wine.

   I don’t know which was worse, the stench rolling off of me or how scary I must have looked, but when I came home and saw my dog, he took one look, whimpered and hid under the kitchen table.

   Half an hour later after scrubbing myself raw and washing my hair three times, I emerged from the bathroom defeated.  After all of that, I could still catch a whiff of the cat food scent in my hair every time I moved my head. 

   While trying to recuperate on the couch, it hit me that I still hadn’t cleaned the litter box out yet.  Gideon had asked that it be done both days, but he would be lucky if I went back tomorrow to feed the beast, let alone scoop its droppings into a little baggie.  Then, I pictured Gideon’s face when he came home to find cat food dried on the counter and floor and a box overflowing with kitty bon-bons.  I could kiss that dinner goodbye, and wasn’t that the reason I had endured the trauma so far?  Honestly, why did the man have to be so damned sexy?

*****

   I woke up the next morning, having dreamed about dinner with Gideon and how I would wow him with my wit and conversational skills.  He would think I was so cute and charming that he would want to spend the rest of his life with me.  The cherry on top was that Lucifer was noticeably absent.  The smile on my face soon vanished, however, when I remembered that I had to go back and deal with the fiend from hell.

   This time around I tried to be more prepared by wearing my heaviest jeans and a long sleeve shirt.  I got ready to leave, but thought I should say a proper goodbye to Gunner, just in case I never returned.

   I knelt down and held his big, black lab head between my hands, looking deep into his caring eyes.  “Gunner, you’ve been a good and faithful friend, but I have to tell you something.  This may be the end of our friendship.” 

   He looked at me with sorrow-filled eyes, as if he understood every word I was saying.

   “I’m not sure what fresh hell that cat across the street has in store for me, but I’ve come to accept that he may actually succeed in killing me this time.  If I don’t come back, remember that I love you.”

   I hugged him and gave him a kiss on top of his head before bracing myself for the task at hand.  I could tell by the look on his sweet face that he was worried about me.  His brown eyes seemed to be wishing me good luck.

   I couldn’t procrastinate any longer.  Taking a deep breath, I headed across the alley to face my impending doom. 

   I managed to get through the door without seeing Lucifer, but I could feel his eyes on me.  I knew he was watching and waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack.  I decided to deal with the litter box first.  Might as well get that unpleasant chore taken care of right away.

   I grabbed the scoop and a plastic bag, but was almost knocked off my feet by the sight and smell that greeted me.  Did the cat ever stop pooping?  How could people live with these disgusting creatures?  Who did this on a regular basis?  My brain was trying to focus my attention elsewhere by asking a million questions as I scooped away.  Finally, I reached the end, tied off the bag and ran it out to the garbage can.

   In my haste to get back and wash my hands, I didn’t bother to look around for Lucifer when I walked back through the door.  That was a grave mistake.

   Had I been more careful, I might have noticed him on top of the refrigerator, anticipating the moment when I came close enough for him to strike.  Instead, I bee lined for the sink intent on scrubbing a fresh layer of skin off.  Then I wiped up the little bit of food that was left from yesterday’s fiasco.  I have to give it to Lucifer, though, he had done most of the work for me.

   It was when I walked to the cupboard that Lucifer saw his opportunity and took it.  Without any warning, I heard his growl and looked up in time to see a ball of fur and claws coming at me.  He dropped effortlessly on my head and dug in for the long haul.

   I promptly started screaming and dancing around, trying to get him off.  I’m sure I looked a bit like Carmen Miranda, but instead of a fruit hat, I had a crazed animal atop my head.  My fingers grabbed at him, but only came away with little tufts of fur as he gripped my scalp even tighter.  The pain was blinding and I thought for a moment I was going to pass out, or perhaps even die.  After all, I did see a white light and what I thought were the wings of angels coming to greet me.  (It turned out to be the sun shining very brightly onto the gleaming surface of the toaster, and the angels were only a couple of birds fighting over the birdfeeder just outside the kitchen window, but I still think death was near.)

   With every ounce of strength I possessed, I ran toward the living room doorway where I bent my head to the side and tried to knock him off.  Unfortunately, I misjudged slightly and smacked by forehead against the frame.

   Several minutes, or maybe even hours later, I woke up minus my cat hat, but with a splitting headache from the claw marks and the oak framing.  I stumbled back to my house where I crawled into bed for the next two days, dozing fitfully while maniacal black cats tormented my nightmares.

   I think I may be mentally scarred for life, though, because anytime I see a cat on TV, I have to switch the channel immediately otherwise I find myself waking up from the fetal position with dried tear tracks on my cheeks.

   I’m also aware that my sanity has suffered irreparable damage.  Proof of that sits across the table from me in the form of Gideon.  Here we are, only one week past my horrific experience, having a wonderful dinner when he asks me to cat sit again next month.  As I get lost in his smoky eyes, I am certain of only two things:  One, if I owned a cat I would become an alcoholic.  And, two, I need to buy more wine, because when Gideon smiled at me, I couldn’t say no.

Bio:

Anita Roberts Soupir was born in Missouri, but had a wandering soul.  She has lived in Connecticut and South Florida, but now calls rural North Dakota home, where she lives with her husband and two children.  She enjoys freelance writing and is currently polishing her first manuscript, The Dessert Club Series Book 1 -  Don’t Trifle With Me, as she searches for representation.

Her work can be seen in:  Crack the Spine Literary Magazine and Mused - the BellaOnline Literary Review Magazine, as well as Boston Literary Magazine, Literary Juice, 50 Haikus, 50 Word Stories, and SpeckLit.

To Russia with Gloves

To Russia with Gloves

by David Gower

moonshine  

Richard Lovelace wrote a poem in 1642 to Althea the last stanza begins ‘stone walls do not a prison make’.  I disagree with him.

In my case they made a prison from which I wished to escape. I am, as they so charmingly describe it, a ‘guest of Her Majesty the Queen’. Granted the conditions for such guests are preferable to those which might be extended to such as me in my mother country but I still wished to be outside those stone walls. I had a plan to do it which involves my prison companions including a – how do you English say? A defrocked vicar. What a strange and pictorial interpretation that gives.

Perhaps I should begin, as they say, at the beginning. My training in my homeland is as a member of our security forces. Sworn to protect the State against aggression from the outside, control internal plots and where necessary travel abroad to do these things.

After training and insertion I assumed an identity to undertake my mission in Britain. Strange that you English admire your Commander James Bond and his profligate killing and destruction yet it seems I am condemned as a spy. Truly, one person’s freedom fighter is another’s terrorist.

A random unplanned incident led to my incarceration. I was so close to him, almost at the doorway. My disguise as a repair man to place a device into the home of a dissident was perfect until a passing dog – belonging to one of your downtrodden masses who could not afford a lead or to train it properly – bit me. That moment of pain brought forth swearing in my mother tongue, the dissident heard me and his minders pounced. In the struggle my equipment was found and my cover blown. The ‘British Bulldog’ had struck. How the newspaper headlines enjoyed that moment. I am remanded and awaiting trial.

A fellow prisoner  - a defrocked vicar – has spoken to me whilst on the segregation wing. It is here that vulnerable or potentially problematic prisoners spend time. I am considered a risk for obvious reasons of security but he has self harmed several times due he says to feelings of guilt. He used his church funds to fund his gambling and bigamy. When this came out, although God is technically his employer, the Church was not as forgiving as might have been expected. He hoped to sell his story to a newspaper in an effort to repay the funds but struggled with where to begin. As a vicar perhaps he suffered Writer’s Flock!

People like to talk when they feel someone will listen. One of the skills of espionage is to listen and on occasion share crumbs of information in the greater cause. I became a listening ear and in that time snippets of the vicar’s life have been heard and filed away in my mind.  I know where he trained, who his friends were, something about church architecture and most importantly I know of another woman and child in his life unknown to Church and the Press. This came out is a tearful moment when it was I who seemed to hear his confessions. Irony.

This was more valuable than gold to me as we waited to go to our respective court rooms for early hearings. These are never long affairs but they offered an opportunity for my acting skills to be used. I had eaten some prison soap and spent the night hitting the soles of my feet with a towel. These are old tricks used by prisoners of war to imitate heart problems. When linked to my feigned collapse in court an ambulance being called and a trip to hospital ensued. My immediate guards were clearly used to the general run of prisoners and their manner of casual discussion betrayed their vulnerability and casual laziness. Until conviction prisoners wear their own clothes. Before transfer to Belmarsh high security prison I had to run.

In the confusion of the hospital lay my moment to break away. Just a second of inattention from my guards. My handcuffs had to be removed to allow examination and medics asked for privacy. The health professionals were shocked by my sudden recovery and my guards fell to quick blows. They were out of condition and unprepared.

Once into a maze of corridors there were trolleys to block pursuers and ambulances in the A&E bay. The keys hanging in the second one. I left the grounds quickly, what else would an ambulance do? The siren and blue lights parted the traffic ahead. How might my vicar friend say, just like the Red Sea.

The ambulance had to be abandoned quickly but the crew left some useful personal effects in the cab. A woolly hat covered my bald head, medical gloves have many uses and some sandwiches – cheese and pickle would have to do. Ambulances can be parked on double lines or in supermarkets without question. Into a supermarket and then call over the man washing cars. They would find him in the back unharmed.  Now I had a van and his money. Lose the van and then use the cash to buy a cheap bicycle advertised outside a house. No rush just a gentle pedal for a few hours away from the danger zone.

Onwards to reach the vicar’s secret woman and child in the guise of prison chaplain with news of the vicar.  Her unsuspecting chatter gave me more aid to evade the authorities. My tale was that I offered to call in on my way to see Salisbury Cathedral with some clergy friends. It is a very popular tourist spot and the last place anyone would find a spy.

A Pretty Girl's Plea

By Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik

Lucozade

You stand accused of the murder of two good men. You have pleaded not guilty. It would please the court if you could provide us with testimony.

The cruel wind cried harshly and rattled against the roof of the silver BMW filled with lashing freezing rain and odd disjointed lost screams from the beyond. The skies blackened heavily until the rough tarmac of the mountain road and its inky darkness almost merged into one, and it was rendered impossible to tell one from the other. My head grew heavy and began to slump permissively downwards as I drove as fast as I could up the mountainside, or at least until I found another path to cross onto. My sight grew ever dimmer as a looked forward, attempting to see which way the road was going next. My attempts were in vain. And yet still, I followed the flow of the inky black river that I found before me, desperate to get off this road while what little light remained still remained in the sky. I rubbed my raven hair out of my eyes as a saw what I thought was a hairpin bend up ahead. I do not know what happened. The front of my car harshly slammed against a huge impermeable object ahead that my sleepy eyes had not seen. A huge smack echoed all around and then a great hiss of the engine as it failed. My head slapped against the dashboard. I disappeared into a strange pool of everything and nothing as my mind zoomed in and out of consciousness. There was a strange feeling in my left arm.

Papier Mache Dreams

by Yasmine Lever

sweet sherry 

Last night I dreamed we got into a brutal fight.

Back at acting school. The same classroom arranged in the same way. Folding chairs stacked on risers. In the playing space a  plastic table pushed against the wall. Beside it a blue bookcase, bottles of colored liquid lining the shelves. Two twin beds standing side by side.  Only the signs that used to hang from the yellow walls were absent. “Trust your instincts.” “Risk failure.” “Don’t think." Instead they were graffitied in black and gold pen all over the olive-green bedspreads. In my dream I was eighteen, the same age I was then, but you were older than thirty-six.  You wore a Harley Davidson biker jacket, and a rainbow-colored top hat. We were doing an acting improvisation. but because the improv was between the two of us, no teacher sat behind a desk looking on, telling us to stop if things got out of hand. And things did get out of hand. The fighting escalated, I’m not clear what the argument was about, but suddenly I rose, I pulled a knife out of my navy pea coat pocket, and I attempted to stab you in the chest. You looked momentarily jarred. Then you laughed and slapped me clean across the cheek. It didn’t hurt. Not one bit. We wrestled. Even though I’m half your size I happened to be the stronger one. I pinned you to the ground. I pressed my Doctor Martin boot on your stomach. My boot happened to be sparkly red, the same color as the ones I bought my niece for her fourth birthday.

“I could kill you right now if I wanted to.” My tone. Altogether reasonable.

You nodded.

Then I screamed “Why?  Why? Why? Why did you let me go? Why didn’t you stop me from walking out on my future?”

I felt like I was acting in a soap. I threw the knife across the room and fell to the ground in a sobbing heap. You crawled across the linoleum floor and stroked my hair. And even though I threw the knife away and didn’t touch you, I noticed you were bleeding from the wrist. The blood streamed from your wrist down your palm but didn’t touch me or the ground.

You smiled at my startled expression. “It’s ok honey.”

“What’s ok?”

“Get up now and walk towards the door. I promise to stop you.”

“Why are you bleeding when I didn’t touch you?”

“Because you seem to need proof. Proof of how much I have always loved you.”

I must admit I have never been a fan of subtle gestures.

You motioned with you hand for me to walk.

“Now’s too late.” I said. “I’ve already wasted my life.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that time is simply a bourgeois illusion?

“The decades of self- harm? They never happened?”

“Yes and no.”

Your features transmogrified. Weight melted from your frame. Your messy, gray beard disappeared. Your red skin returned to a paler hue, and you joined me in becoming the ages we were then. Eighteen and thirty-six.  You, the teacher now sat behind your grey desk set at an angle dressed in jeans, a checked shirt and cowboy boots.  Brown, sad eyes, large, with longing, like a child waiting for a present that never comes. Me, the student, sat on a chair nearby wearing a leopard printed mini dress, my DMs black. We smiled at each other in the silence. The entire class oblivious to all the feelings passing back and forth.

Then you mouthed words at me. You mouthed them but I heard them as if you had enunciated them in crisp, clean diction. The exact same words my four-year-old niece with the red sparkly D.M. boots had said when she couldn’t find me in a game of hide and seek.

“You are such a good hider. Much better than me.”

And I looked at the signs once again hanging from the yellow walls.

“You are such a good hider. Much better than me.” These words written in bold black on every single sign.

The Life Coach

By Dawn Knox

energy-boosting green chlorophyll smoothie

It soon became apparent why the number of pupils attending the after-school Science Club had increased dramatically that week. 

“When’re we going to have the taste test, Mr Primm?” one of the new children asked.

Word had got out that the usual attendees had been growing something which they were going to eat this week. 

‘D’you think it’s going to be bacon?” someone asked. 

“Or pizza?”

Several children packed up and left when Mr Primm brought out the tiny cress plants. To those who were now gathered around his desk and who had planted the seeds the previous week, he explained about the miracle of germination and how plants feed themselves using sunlight.

“My grandad takes tablets for that,” Polly said.

“Is he infected with cress?” Zoe asked.

“Nah, stupid. He takes them to bring his chlorophyll levels down, if he didn’t, he might have a heart attack,” Polly said condescendingly.

“What d’you do if cress has a heart attack, Mr Primm?” Zoe asked. 

“That’s not possible, Zoe, cress doesn’t have a heart. Are you thinking of cholesterol, Polly? Plants contain chlorophyll. Humans contain cholesterol and it’s high levels of cholesterol in humans which can cause heart disease.” 

 “Possibly,” said Polly, who’d lost interest and was eyeing up the gold stars Oliver kept in his desk drawer. 

“Well, I think we’ll finish there, children. I expect your mothers are waiting for you in the playground.” 

No one mentioned that they were supposed to be taste-testing the experiment.

“They’re very green, aren’t they?” a boy muttered with a frown.

Polly took one long regretful look at the gold stars and left. 

Oliver glanced at the chart on the wall showing who’d earned the most stars. Polly had six so far this term. If she suddenly acquired more, he’d know where they came from. 

The headteacher’s PA, Alice Skipper, poked her head around the door, “Your cab’s here, Ollie,” she trilled, “Oh, and don’t forget you’re on playground duty first thing in the morning.” 

She smiled a knowing smile. 

This wasn’t how he’d planned his teaching career to go, but the All Saints’ Junior School Christmas Nativity play had put paid to any hopes he’d rise rapidly through the ranks and manage to avoid minor irritations like playground duty. 

And it would have worked too, if it hadn’t been for that stupid play and the headteacher’s amorous advances. 

Well, the ex-headteacher’s amorous advances. 

At least Miss Skate, or as the children had very aptly dubbed her Mistake, had abruptly left All Saints’, taking all her unwelcome opinions on running a successful, politically-correct school with her – much to his relief and to that of the other members of staff.

Unfortunately, Ruth Abraham and Laetitia Gibbons, his colleagues, simply wouldn’t believe that despite he and Mistake sharing a room at the Wickleston Arms on the evening of the Nativity Play, everything had been completely innocent. 

But it had been completely innocent. 

They’d both passed out after the landlady had liberally bestowed her powerful punch on all the patrons that evening, to make up for the fact that many of them were sheltering there because of the freezing fog. When they’d woken up in the morning, Mistake had apparently been feeling a little frisky but Oliver had hastily pulled his clothes on and left. 

He felt particularly aggrieved because Ruth and Laetitia had almost forced him to offer the headteacher a lift and then pretend his car had broken down, to prevent her turning up at the Nativity Play and now, he was paying the price. And the price was that he had to do more than his fair share of playground duty. 

He picked up his bag and went outside to the waiting cab. And that was another thing he had against Ruth and Laetitia – his car had never been the same since he’d pretended it had broken down, it was as if it was paying him back for casting aspersions on it when it was perfectly healthy.  

“Bad day?” the driver asked as Oliver got into the passenger side of the cab. 

Oliver nodded. He didn’t want to talk. He’d spent hours today, talking to children, who, if their comments about cress and heart attacks were anything to go by, only half-listened. 

“I’m Harris,” the driver said, holding out his hand, “I’m new.”

Oliver shook his hand, “Yes, I can see,” he said. Cab drivers usually just drove. They didn’t, as far as he knew, introduce themselves with a view to becoming life-long friends. Oliver looked at the identification card in front of him – Harris Tweed. 

Harris saw the direction of his gaze, “Good, eh? Harris Tweed. Sounds really posh, don’t it?”

Oliver agreed it did. 

“You know what you need?” Harris said.

Oliver could think of plenty of things but he didn’t want to discuss them with the driver. 

“What you need,” said Harris, “is some life-coaching.”

Well, that hadn’t been anywhere on Oliver’s list. 

“I do?”

“Yup, definitely. And it’s your lucky day because I can offer you some.”

Inwardly, Oliver groaned. 

“Now let me guess,” said Harris, “you’re not happy in your career?”

“Well…”

“Say no more. I’ll sort you out. Now, what d’you like doing? What’s the most important thing to you?”

“I like to make a difference.”

“Right, I’ve got the perfect job for you,” said Harris after only a moment’s thought.

“Yes?”

“Yep. Fork-lift truck driver. They make a difference. They move stuff from one place to another and make things look really different.”

Oliver glanced sideways to see if Harris was joking but it appeared he was serious. 

“I’m not terribly spatially aware, so I’m not sure that’s quite suitable. And I was thinking more of making a difference to people’s hearts and minds.”

“Oh, I see. Well, how about a doctor, they dabble with hearts and minds?”

“I think there’s quite a lot of training involved in becoming a doctor. I might’ve left it a bit late for that.”

“Never say never, mate! If that’s your dream, make it happen.”

“Yes, but it’s not my dream. I faint at the sight of blood. I was thinking more of helping people to be the best they can be.”

“I’ve got it!” said Harris, “Cheese-maker.”

“Why?” Oliver asked after a few moments.

“Everyone loves cheese. Lots of protein and calcium. Makes people strong – and happy.”

“When I said ‘the best they can be’, I was thinking more of helping children develop and grow into useful, well-adjusted adults.

“I’ve got it!” said Harris, “Why don’t you become a life-coach?”

“Well, to be honest, I’m not exactly sure what qualifications I’d need.”

“No, me neither,” said Harris.

“But I thought you said you were a life-coach.” 

“Me? Nah! I just said I could offer you some life-coaching. I’m an amateur. I throw my advice in for free with the cab ride.” 

“I see,” said Oliver.

The cab drew up outside Oliver’s flat. 

“Here’s one last bit of advice I’ll throw in,” said Harris as he turned the clock off, “whatever you do, keep your chin up, put your best foot forward and don’t let ‘em grind you into the dirt.”

“Thank you,” said Oliver, looking through his wallet to find a five-pound note as a tip. He didn’t usually give cab drivers that much but he felt Harris had been trying so hard, he deserved something extra. His own car was going to be delivered later, so hopefully, he wouldn’t need a cab again. And if he did, he fervently hoped it wouldn’t be driven by Harris Tweed – he couldn’t afford to spend so much on travelling to and from work. 

But, don’t let ‘em grind you into the dirt was good advice. Tomorrow, Oliver would assert his rights. He’d done nothing wrong, so there was no reason why he should have to suffer playground duty more than anyone else. He’d get Alice Skipper to alter the rota. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t simply insisted on that in the beginning. 

As he let himself into his flat, he was already planning next week’s science club. It would be about keeping fit and healthy and he’d make sure to emphasise there was an important distinction between cholesterol and chlorophyll. 

There was nothing wrong with teaching, he decided, nothing at all. And thanks to Harris Tweed’s life-coaching, he now knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life.

Links to previous stories in the series:
1) A Question of Timing: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/09/a-question-of-timing.html
2) In MaryWorld: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/09/in-maryworld.html
3) Knit and Natter: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/11/knit-and-natter.html
4) Mint Pink: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/03/mint-pink.html
5) Sydney Jugg’s Book of Grievances: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/04/sydney-juggs-book-of-grievances.html
6) Is there Anybody There?: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/04/is-there-anybody-there.html 
7) Going Freelance: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/05/going-freelance.html 
8) So App-ealing: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/06/so-app-ealing.html
9) No Saints at All Saints’: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/07/no-saints-at-all-saints.html
10) A Meal of Biblical Proportions https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/08/a-meal-of-biblical-proportions.html
11) It is Better to Give than to Receive https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/09/it-is-better-to-give-than-to-receive.html 
12) Superhero Worship https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/10/superhero-worship.html
13) Playground Justice
14) Politically Correct at Christmas https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/12/politically-correct-at-christmas.html

https://dawnknox.com 

About the author

Author of: 

“THE GREAT WAR - 100 Stories of 100 Words Honouring Those Who Lived and Died 100 Years Ago.”

“EXTRAORDINARY" Tales to take you out of this world.

“WELCOME TO PLOTLANDS” and “A TOUCH OF THE EXOTIC” - historical romances set in Essex.

“DAFFODIL AND THE THIN PLACE” YA adventure story.
All available on Amazon.co.uk  

Alien Abduction

by Gill James 

spring water

He took the lasagne out without oven gloves. I had noticed nothing like that in fifteen years.  

    "You've guessed," he said. "I'm not from these parts."

 His eyes smiled. His human form dissolved. A handsome a silver-furred elf replaced it.  

"Come, let me take you to Elgin, my home," he said. 

We travelled through the stars. 

"You'll never be the same again," he said. "Not now you've seen this." 

Elgin was full of soft woods and singing waters. My in-laws welcomed me, but found me a curiosity. I grew homesick. He said we should return. 

I awoke in a sweat. He slept on, breathing gently. I put my head on his chest. I heard no beat. I remembered Elginians had no heart. I traced my finger round the “E" tattooed on his groin. The silver hair sprouting all over his body came as no surprise.  

About the author 

www.gilljames.co.uk
http://www.gilljameswriter.eu/
http://bridgehousepublishing.co.uk/ http://www.chapeltownpublishing.uk/ http://cafelit.co.uk/ http://trtpublishing.co.uk
http://www.creativecafeproject.org/
http://www.thehouseonschellbergstreet.com/