Unforgettable

Unforgettable

by A.J. Lawdring

weak tea

 “She’s in the activity room.”

“Thanks Betty.” Henry lingered a second.

“There’s been no change.”

“Okay, I was just hoping.”

“I know.” Betty went back to her paperwork.

Henry turned and made his way down the shiny hallway, sliding his hand along the worn handrail. The building had a lingering odor of bleach mixed with urine that didn’t match the cheerful decor. He turned the corner and stepped through the door to the activity room. He saw a row of wheelchairs lined up along the far wall. The activity director plunked a few keys on the old piano.

Henry walked over and tapped his hand on the top of the piano and the director looked up.

“Henry!”

“Hi Tabitha. How are you today?”

“I’m good.”

“How’s Roxie?”

“Same old.”

Henry sighed. “I was hoping.”

Tabitha pushed back the bench and stood, leaned her elbows on top of the piano. “We all hope.”

“I know.” Henry sighed. “Do you think she’d mind if I talk to her?”

“Only one way to tell. Edmond is right there, if you need anything.” Tabitha pointed to a strong man sitting behind a desk in the corner opposite the wheelchairs.

“Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

Henry started toward the far wall, then stopped, and turned back to Tabitha. He leaned in and whispered in her ear.

Tabitha thought for a second and then nodded. “Sure, but give me a second.”

“Okay, thanks,” Henry said.

Henry walked across the empty space to the wheelchairs and stopped next to a woman with snow white hair. The wheels of her chair were still. Her hands rested in her lap. The woman wouldn’t look at him standing there. He knelt down and took her hands in his. His thumb caressed her wedding ring. “Hi, Roxie. How are you today?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Tabitha, that lady over there by the piano, told me.”

Roxie studied the lady at the piano and shook her head.

“Would you like to dance?”

“I don’t know how to dance,” Roxie said.

Henry turned and nodded at Tabitha and then turned back toward Roxie.

“Are you sure?”

Roxie cocked her head, listening to the melody coming from the piano. Her eyes lit up.

Henry held out his hand.

“I think I can dance after all. “Unforgettable” was my Henry’s favorite song. Now that I think of it, I wonder what happened to him.”

And with that, Roxie pushed up from the wheelchair and into Henry’s arms.

About the author

 A.J. Lawdring writes feel good stories from the heart of Wisconsin, USA. Her stories have appeared in the Window, Carrier Wave, and Miracle anthologies published by Clarendon House Publications, Zombie Pirate Publishing, and at Spillwords and The World of Myth. Connect with A.J. at https://julieceger.wordpress.com/a-j-lawdring-author/ and on Facebook at A.J. Lawdring-Author.

 

The Phone Rang Twice

by Lynn Clement

bitter orange

The phone rang for a second time but I still didn’t get up. I’d left it in the kitchen after I’d dropped the pan of boiling potatoes all over the floor. My hand hurt even after running it under the cold tap and my toes looked like those pink shrimps from Iceland, that my mother used to buy for Christmas day. I’d had my cry and a scream but now I was drained, unlike the potatoes that hadn’t even made the colander. Yet one more incident, one more accident, one more rubbish thing that’s happened lately. I’m done.

No, phone, I am not going to answer you, and get a load of verbal about why I haven’t made it into work again or paid the car tax or made my doctor’s appointment or…. You can stay there and ring to your heart’s content. -  ‘Ring,’ it’s funny how we still say ‘ring’ even though most phones have totally different tones to a ring. Mine barks.

Freddy was so lovely. I adored that pooch with his floppy little ears and twitchy nose and the way he looked at me as if he understood everything I said. - Another bark – someone is persistent. ‘Get lost,’ whoever you are.

I look at the orange curtains, glowing like a furnace with the sunlight trying to get through. It’s stifling. I’ve not quite drawn them together well enough, as a small slice of light is playing on my glass coffee table. I push my iPad into the slash and it dulls.

My eyes are tired. It would be so easy to close them and go. I might see Freddy. Do I believe in all that? I don’t know. I don’t believe in anything much anymore. It’s too hard to keep trying.

My stomach gurgles the way a sink does when it’s emptying. I’m empty, yet my head weighs so much. I curl my legs up on the chair and lay my heavy head down on the arm. It’s not soft and my ear hurts.

A ping wakes me. I’m not moving; I know it’s the iPad. It’ll only be one more nasty comment. I don’t know why it chooses to let me know that someone else thinks I’m a bitch or a cow or an ugly f***ing dog murderer. 

Why are they called trolls? Big feet? Little bodies? Or something else?

The phone barks again. Closing my eyes I see Freddy under the wheels of the car. I’ll never drive it again. I’m sorry I reversed over him. I didn’t mean to hurt him, he was my neighbour. I kind of loved him. Grief does funny things to people; my mother always said it can send some a bit loopy. My neighbours are loopy. Loopy with grief for Freddy. So loopy they’ve turned into trolls.

One more bark and then it stops. I keep my eyes closed and wait for the dark.

About the author

Please see Lynn's page here. 

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.

About the author

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.

Elizabeth Harrison

by Amanda Jones

martini, shaken not stirred

Tiny, freshly grown, spring leaves formed a bright contrast to the ominous, dark clouds floating high above them. She lay spread-eagled below the crooked branches, gazing up at the distorted picture of sky sprinkled with this brand-new foliage. Occasionally a glint of yellow shot through a tear in the cloud, sharply breaking the fluffy, cotton wool effect and gloomy atmosphere created with the prospect of thundery rain. She memorised the snapshot of the picture in her mind as she blinked away the dazzling effect of the sun in her eyes and sat bolt upright, took her brush in her hand and began to paint.

Gradually the vermilion green blended with cadmium yellow oil paint to form the highlights and she mixed a careful paste of linseed oil with the cobalt blue to diminish the harshness of the shadows. The view was one of the vision she had caught in her mind with the delicate structure of fine branches creeping outwards over the paper, the fine dots and speckles of green, yellow and blue formed the mesh of leaves made over the sky and carefully applied strokes of white lined the edges of the larger, closer leaves caught in the light of the sun rays…

……………

“Ten thousand pounds! Anyone for ten thousand pounds? You, sir, any advances? Any advances on ten thousand pounds? Right, sold! Number 230, thank you sir!” The finality of the auctioneer’s hammer branded the price of the unique article for sale. It had been a popular piece, many buyers had opted in then dropped out only to dare to raise their hand or nod their head once again as the dazzling brilliance of the painting caught their attention once more and urged on their instinctive desire for individuality and quality. A small but highly decorative, standard card had been issued for the piece. It was carefully tied to the now, yellowed, fragile string which had once supported its heavy, oak frame, panelled with clear glass. Now it, like the painting was worn, old and tinged with the endurance of life, through the accidents, the brilliance of displaying itself to the world and through the stern, scouring of many eyes fixed on scorn and criticism. Its life had been a long one but from the year it had been painted in 1919 it had survived to show its worth and value of the well earned ten thousand pounds, signed, delivered and thanked for today. But the card only stated, bluntly and plainly: “Picture of a scene near Hyde Park, London, unusual viewpoint, captures a unique perspective. Painted by Miss Elizabeth Harrison, born 1893, died 1921.”

It meant a lot more to Alex. He was a lover of objects and he had known in the first moment that he had seen the painting amidst the cluttered array of the auctioneer’s exhibition that he had to own this piece of art. To him it was a valuable object to love and treasure, to display in his fine, elegant rooms and to add to his rich collection of possessions, an item to study and adore in all its glory. To him, it showed its true potential and gave him inspiration.

Alex suited the painting. With his soft, tawny brown hair flecked with blond and his moustache multi-coloured with blond, brown and a distinct glowing ginger he reflected the variety of tonal brilliance the painting offered. He was also vibrant, full of energy and life, even with the slight limp from a knee injury, scarred and damaged forever. Despite the appearance of age and slight disturbance of creases caused by light on the delicate paper the painting also was full of life and energy. The heavy, black scripted name of ‘Elizabeth Harrison’, lovely in its handwritten exquisite curves and lines seemed to catch your eye immediately after the painting had attracted your attention. Alex loved it, it was love at first sight, for him.

It hung in the living room amongst the clutter of vases, antique chairs and wooden cabinets full of delicate bone china cups and ornaments originating from the far east and displayed through the textured glass panelling. Alex thought it had settled in well. He identified with objects, unable to share the love he had of them with humans. He was totally void of any sexual desire whether for woman or man. His whole love and human compassion went into his objects. The intelligent common sense he possessed went into his work.

The living room was typical of any room in his small, two-bedroom semi. The objects lined the walls on sturdy, well fitted shelves. They grew out of the deep piled carpet with a seeming ferocity consuming the floorspace with ease. They even hung from the ceiling swinging to and fro on carefully repaired, brass fittings. Rusty hooks dangerously supported the lights, lanterns, wind chimes and mobiles. The objects crept up the stairs allowing room only for Alex’s footsteps, familiar with the route between antique bottles, vases and urns, draped with intricately woven rugs. Tapestry hangings were strewn over the handrails and covered some of the artificial flowers and grasses protruding from containers, they seemed to queue up the staircase in anticipation of some major event worth the endless wait. Every room had new, awesome displays of a cluttered array of the items he loved.

Travelling to the office Alex relaxed on the smooth ride on the tram. He couldn’t let the name ‘Elizabeth Harrison’ escape his mind. It was always there echoing in his memory and distracting the usual methodological approach he took to life outside of his objects. Even the straight lines of figures and the digital display of numbers and earnings did not cease the constant interruption of ‘Elizabeth Harrison’. He journeyed home distraught with longing; longing to see the painting which seemed to lure him towards it.

The painting was still there. It remained untouched, unmoved and seemingly happy in its new home. Alex decided to research into this ‘Elizabeth Harrison’ and discover some facts which could help relieve his mind of the worry of not knowing.

Worry, it did not relieve. After three hours in the local library, leafing through the lists of artists and newspapers in London from 1893 to 1921 Alex discovered the ‘Elizabeth Harrison’ aged 22, young and beautiful, six years before she died. Then he found more photographs, records of her life and family appearing in the newspapers and letters stashed in old wooden boxes in the library stores. Each article lead nearer to 1921 and that was when the shock came.

“Tragically, Miss Elizabeth Harrison was found dead this morning. Her life was cut short at the tender age of twenty-eight and she will be sorely missed by all who knew her,” said one personal entry from someone closely acquainted with her. Another had a less passively sensitive approach with “Shot dead at close range on the docklands, young woman killed.” Alex wandered what she was doing at the docks, then the extract told him.

“Seen to be associating with a group of young gentlemen, Miss Harrison was known to have been engaged to be married to a renowned murderer in the area. It is thought that it was he who delivered the final shot, though many bullets had been fired before she had died to ensure her suffering was made as painful as possible. Police are searching for the men in question but so far no-one can be found. Evidence is scarce and witnesses need to come forward, please.”

The plea for justice was ever present. Alex could not believe that an artist as good as she could have such a history. She had been from a respectable family. Alex’s interest in objects was flailing with Elizabeth to occupy his mind. He searched for more explanation, more detail for reasoning and found a letter signed with the hand he knew so well.

“Dear Edward,

I cannot tell you any other way but with a letter. I am being blackmailed and cannot afford to keep the deal. I know you are not respected and are able to relieve the circumstances. I trust you know what to do. We have discussed the matter many times and I am afraid I cannot keep on trying. My life is torn to shreds, father will now allow me to flee London and the man in question will surely do as he promised if I do not pay. Edward, I would rather you kept our arrangement now the time has arisen. I should never have painted that scene and written those words but now it is too late, it is found out and the secret is out! Please do as I ask. I love you, whatever they say,

Elizabeth”

So, there was a reason for her murder, blackmail! And Edward, he was the man in question, he was the murderer but by Elizabeth’s request. Alex was intrigued by the story he had uncovered but where was the writing, on the back of the picture? Someone would have found it. But the painting had been forgotten, hidden in a museum’s archives, perhaps it was still there, on the back of the painting, so many years from when it was written.

He tenderly peeled the frame from the paper, gently separating the fragile backing from the thick but detailed splashes of oil paint. It came away very slowly and the decay of the artefact was made more apparent as each particle clung to the place where it had belonged for so many years. It wasn’t the first time this had been done. Noticeable marks could be seen where the same separation process had been used before.

The same clear, scripted hand was revealed on the back of the picture, distinct and purposeful, uncovering the well-kept secret, despite the death which had succumbed to it. Alex let his eyes absorb the words and finally discovered the truth.

“Edward, Franciscus Wold and Elizabeth Harrison vow to this day that we shall be faithful to our purpose. This picture signifies the reality of our promise and sincerity to our country. I, Elisabeth Schmidt, alias Elizabeth Harrison, serve Deutschland, my country for the sole purpose of victory. My fiancé equally vows and we both promise secrecy. This information is classified and true. If any of our attempts to find information fail the ultimate sacrifice will suffice at once.

Signed Elisabeth and ‎Franciscus‎ 1919.”

Elizabeth was a German spy. Fully prepared for the espionage required from her, love for Edward would not stop her from writing an oath somewhere. She was true to her word and believed totally in her country, whatever it did, trained and brainwashed with belief for the good it would do. Alex understood now. The picture was one of peace capturing the moment she was alive for her belief. He studied the picture of the twenty-two-year-old. Did it really matter when you believed so strongly, grasping your role as though fixed in a stout religion, forever believing that that was your purpose in life. Yes, it mattered. It mattered that you got your beliefs right. It mattered that Alex’s beliefs were safe and Elizabeth’s were fatal. She had got it wrong and it showed in the painting so pure and appearing so innocent, capturing nature when it was meant to symbolise a belief in war and destruction.

As he gazed at the delightful beauty of the painting Alex felt closer to his objects than he ever would to this bizarre, crazy world which he could not keep faith in. It was his objects he lived for, just as Elizabeth had died for her obsession.

About the author

Amanda has been writing since she was a child with ongoing work in horror, poetry, short stories and non-fiction. Author of the Missy Dog series for good causes, her book ‘Missy and the Whitts’ is the first one, about her dog Missy who dreams about real history.

Missy’s Matters: https://www.consciouscrafties.com/handmade-gifts/missy-and-the-whitts-fun-illustrated-local-history-dog-story-book/
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/amandababer
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/amandababerauthor
Website: http://amandababerauthor.wordpress.com/

A Dream of the Years

by Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik

sprakling wine  

I wonder what freedom is,

I wonder if it’s something,

You can touch,

Something you can feel,

Something you can gasp,

Or is it something,

That you just gave to wait for?

And dream of for many years,

If you ever wish to attain it,

Is freedom attainable?

I do not know the answer,

But I do know,

With peace will come freedom,

And with freedom will come peace.

About the author

Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik is fifteen years old from a seaside town in the Isle of Man called Douglas. She is in Year 10 at the local secondary school and hopes to be a professional writer in the future. She started writing after she completed her English coursework in 2018. 

Gun in My hand

by Hannah Retallick

a bottle of something

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the gun in my hand. Weapon of mass destruction more like – well, it destroyed me anyway. Or was that the bottle hovering near my other hand? No matter.

Gawsh, that ceiling’s a mess. Cracks and webs and peeling paint, that’s great, just great – ‘her majesty’ will go ape. And it’s all on me, of course, because I’m No-Job Janet.

            I will get off the floor now.

            I will get off the floor now in a minute.

            Seriously, though, what is this crap all about? I say leave it as it is and then it can’t get any worse. Simple as. You know what she’s like, though, said Steve, before he fled to work this morning. Yes, I flippin’ well do, my love. She’s as pig-headed and anal as her precious son. It’s dust, Shirley, get a life! And you can sort your own ceiling, Steve!

            Well, that took a bitter turn.

            She’ll be here any minute and all I want to do is sleep. I hold the gun above my head, pointing it upwards. I tease the trigger with my index finger, gently, daring it to fire. Liquid squirts out and rains down on my face. You’re a demon, Dettol!

About the author

Hannah Retallick is a twenty-five-year-old from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home educated and then 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. She is working on her second novel and writes short stories and a blog. She was shortlisted in the Writing Awards at the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 2019 and in the Cambridge Short Story Prize. https://ihaveanideablog.wordpress.com/

Bird in a Tent

by Gill James 

prosecco

It might be a very young blackbird, she thought. It was fluttering a lot. Alice didn’t like it when birds fluttered in confined spaces.  

“The stories were of an extraordinarily high quality this year,” said the presenter. “We had to choose from over 4,000.”

The bird landed on the stage just in front of her. Tanya looked at the three young women seated there.  The regional winners, she supposed. Were they as scared of birds in confined spaces as she was?  

“I’m sure you’ll see what a difficult job we had deciding read the works of the runners-up on our web-site.”

Tanya cringed and stifled a whimper as the bird flew up from the stage and over her head.  

“I’m delighted then to invite our finalists, Janice Andrews, Tony Martins and Alicia Perkins to read an extract form their entries.”

As Janice read, the bird kept batting the top of the marquee. Obviously desperate to get out.  Other audience members looked up anxiously. So, maybe she wasn’t alone in being so irrationally scared of birds indoors.

By the time it was Tony’s turn the animal was frantic and was crashing into the wall of the tent.

“I think we’d better try and sort out this poor creature before we continue,” said the presenter.

Some of the marshals arrived and tried to get the bird to fly through the open doorway. The air just kept pushing it back. Finally it perched on a beam hear the ceiling.

“Maybe we can carry on now,” said the presenter.

Tanya held her breath Alicia stood up to read her extract. Her mouth went dry as the bird flew down to the stage again. She thought she would faint when it perched on the back of Alicia’s chair.

It just sat there, though, as though transfixed, as Alicia read her story.

There was not a sound from the audience either.

As she finished there was clapping and cheering.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the presenter, walking across the stage and beaming at Alicia “you will probably not be at all surprised to learn that Alicia Perkins is in fact our overall winner. Join me in congratulating Alicia.”

The clapping became louder and several people got on to their feet. The bird flew up from the stage, away from Tanya and out of the marquee, making one of the marshals duck.

The tension drained away. Now she could enjoy her partner’s success.      

About the author 

Gill James writes longer fiction for children and young adults, shorter fiction for adults, non-fiction, text books about writing and language learning and academic papers. She also conducts several writing experiments.

She is published by, amongst others, Tabby Cat Press, The Red Telephone, Butterfly, The Professional and Higher Partnership and Continuum. She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing at Salford University.

She has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing