Palvine Part 4

 By Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik

hot cranberry juice

 

After it was all over, we held each other and kissed silently for what seemed like both our entire lives and no time at all. It was heaven. Just to have him hold me. As we lay there in the darkness, I found myself remembering fondly that first night we had spent together. How we had first kissed and then made love and how I was not half so happy once he was gone. As time ticked on, I watched as dawn broke out over the sea and the misty pearly clouds that had previously threatened the ship’s passage to Brittany port has sunk into the sea. We were in France. The new world. Him and me. Together at last.

We grabbed my things and dressed promptly as we bumped against the side of the pier. Sylvester took my hand as he had the night before and led me out of the cabin and into the crimson-carpeted narrow deck that we had passed through. He was so gentle with me. It was so strange to think that just the day before I had been crying his name permissively into the wind as if it’d somehow bring him back to me. And it had. He was mine. We disembarked the vessel still with our fingers intertwined, our hearts wishing our naked bodies could touch again, and they would. I knew it.

We walked a while down winding narrow dimly lit streets and wondered over bridges until we finally arrived at a small train station which appeared to me as if it wouldn’t have even a small local train leave it, let alone a train that stopped in Paris Gare du Nord and would continue through the night until it reached Marseille. But there it was. On a small light up board. Our train. The locomotive was painted midnight blue with small specs of brown dirt from smog around the chimney and pure white billowing smoke swirling into the city air. The doors creaked open as the smartly dressed guards pulled them and Sylvester, quiet as ever, helped me and the bag on board. We found ourselves two seats together in a small compartment right at the back end of the train. We waited for a few moments and the train began to steam up and chug off into the distance to Paris. The city of light. He began to whisper to me of the life we would have and he told me all of The Artists’ District of Paris and all the wonders that I was soon to encounter. 

hot cranberry juice

The Fairy Tale King of Bavaria

by Susan Willis

a glass of Bavarian Beer  

Jenny walked through the throne room staring up at the turquoise domed ceiling. It was beautiful.  

The tour guide, Geoff, called her name. ‘Jenny, come back you can’t go over there!’

They were in the fairy tale Neuschwanstein castle in Bavaria. Geoff had just finished telling them King Ludwig II’s life story and how he had built this castle on the top of the hill for a place of refuge and secret retreat. Jenny loved to hear the human-interest stories behind famous people, it made her want to jump back in history and step into their world. 

Ludwig and his brother, Otto, were born in Hohenschwangau Castle in which his father, King Maximilian II, and his mother Queen Marie, were obsessed with the legendary world. Most of the walls were covered with fairy tale drawings and tapestries. Ludwig was an immensely good-looking man, and because at an early age, Otto was incapacitated by mental illness, it was his role in life to marry and carry on the Bavarian monarchy. Unfortunately, it was other men Ludwig wanted to be with, not women.

She’d wandered over to the corner of the huge throne room which was so full of gold-bling it made her head spin. With big Lapis Lazuli blue pillars, she stood with her mouth open gaping at the splendour of it all.

In front of her was a small spiral staircase. The thick rope that was usually on private areas was not stretched across the opening to the stairs and hung limp from its hook.

She stood still and glanced furtively over her shoulder. Jenny licked her dry lips, where was Geoff now? Could she slip up the staircase without him knowing? Was there time?

She noticed that he was shepherding the group out through the far door into the next room. She swallowed hard, when would she ever get another chance to pry into a secret place in the castle that no one had ever seen? It’s now or never, she thought, just go for it.                                    

She skipped up the first step then hurried up the small spiral stairs with her heart hammering. What would be at the top? Probably a castle official, she thought, shouting and shooing her back downstairs. But as she rounded more stairs, she could see an opening ahead with daylight and the blue sky above.

Suddenly, a man’s head popped around the top of the last stair. It was him! She gasped. It was King Ludwig or, someone dressed up to look very much like him.

He looked about twenty and his lovely melancholy face broke into a small smile. ‘Come up,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t let them see you or they’ll arrest you!’

The hairs stood up on the back of her neck and she gaped at him. It couldn’t be him. He’d started this castle when he first came to the throne in 1866? Her mind was playing tricks and she shook her head vehemently to rid herself of the apparition. But he was still there so she hurried on up to the top.

He was standing by the side of the tallest turret dressed in his long black shiny boots and eminent bright blue military jacket. The chain of gold medals around the red sash over his jacket shimmered in the direct sunlight.  

She had to look at him directly because they were very high up on the roof and she wasn’t good with heights. The third rung on a ladder was usually her limit. Don’t look down, she chanted to herself while creeping towards him.

She whispered, ‘Is it really you?’

‘Yes, yes, it’s me,’ he said. ‘Have you brought someone to make me marry the princess of Austria?’

She shook her head. ‘Em, no, it’s just me, Jenny Wilson from Scotland.’ She realised how stupid it sounded. But, there again, how could he think she was from the 18^th century when she was dressed in white jeans and a T-shirt?

‘Ah, Scotland. My father told me about your Edinburgh castle.’ 

Jenny filled with pride at the fact that the old Bavarian King had known their castle and she smiled. ‘Yes, it’s quite magnificent. We love it, just like you love this one.’

‘You haven’t brought Queen Victoria here to make me get married, have you?’

Jenny rubbed the back of her neck and frowned. ‘No, of course, I haven’t.’

‘Because I just can’t do it,’ he said. ‘I can’t lie with a woman and consummate the marriage. I just can’t…’ he put both his small hands out to her, and she grasped them between hers. She squeezed his hands and gave him an understanding nod.  

His face was beautiful. His skin was smooth with a small-button nose and pink sweetheart lips. Thick black eyebrows held such dark-hooded sad eyes that she couldn’t help but stare at him. ‘Hey, it’s okay,’ she said trying to reassure him. ‘Don’t upset yourself, we’ll sort something out.’

His eyes filled with tears. ‘I can’t sleep,’ he said. ‘I hide away up here in this huge castle. But I stay awake all night and read. I’m reading a whole book every night because if I close my eyes, I’m tormented, and the devils come to get me in the dark. I find it easier to sleep during the daylight.’

She remembered what Geoff had told them about his sleigh rides in the night and how shy and lonely he’d been. She sighed feeling his hands tremble in hers. ‘Is there no one here that can help you?’

He shook his head miserably and bit down on his bottom lip. ‘No. I’m going to the devil when I die because I’m not normal. I’m not a strutting ram wanting to bed one woman after another like my father was, but I just can’t help it!’

Her heart went out to him in his torment. She knew he’d visited and loved Versailles, in Paris, especially, King Louis XIV, and she could tell he would be much happier in those surroundings. He was theatrical, loved music, especially Richard Wagner, and highly imaginative trying to stage his kingship in magnificent ways. But all she could see was a deeply unhappy man.     

She heard Geoff’s footsteps charging up the stairs and his voice calling her name.

‘Sorry, Ludwig,’ she whispered. ‘I have to go.’

The sun was streaming into her eyes and she squeezed them shut. When she opened them again and put a hand over her eyebrows to shield the sun, he’d disappeared behind the turret. She looked around the side, but he was nowhere in sight. 

She staggered back to the top of the stairs and saw Geoff’s head appear.  

‘What are you doing up here, Jenny. You’ll get me into trouble!’

She grinned. ‘Sorry, Geoff, but I saw him! I saw King Ludwig.’

‘Yeah, right,’ he sniggered. ‘I think you’ve had too much sun!’

Maybe he’s right, she thought, and stepped down onto the first stair to follow him downstairs. She turned ever so slightly and saw Ludwig’s face peep back around the short turret and wave at her.

She waved back knowing she’d been part of one of King Ludwig’s fairy tales from Bavaria.  

About the author

www.susanwillis.co.uk 
Follow me on Twitter @SusanWillis69

Facebook: m.me/AUTHORSusanWillis  Instagram: @susansuspenseauthor

 

Loves and Leaves

by Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik

pumpkin spiced latte

 

Why may not I be loved?

Why must always it be this way?

O’ why does the wind blow?

Why do the leaves decay?

Why must I be punished for

My transgressions against love?

Be reminded of my trespasses,

Tears fall with the cry of the dove.

O’ love does not love me,

Else, it would not treat me this way,

Yet the wind still does blow,

And the leaves do still decay.

Palvine Part 3

By Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik

spiced warm red wine

It was strange to see him outside. In the night air. He seemed happy, though I knew it must now be common place for him to be outside I suppose I didn’t really appreciate the feel of the chilled night air upon my skin and the soft sea breeze in my hair. As we walked further and further down the hill we talked more and more as we warmed to one another, he told me of his apartment on Rue de Liberte and of his new piano and of how he’d missed me so. Sylvester’s voice was soft and wanting. It was then that I asked the question I had been longing to ask; had he met anyone else? This I asked in a subtle whisper and was answered with a permissive story of Marius Chevallier and Camille Douchant who lived around him and I found myself smiling over the idea that Sylvester had friends. He told me that the former had lived in Brittany but had moved to Paris in his late teens to sell his paintings and that the latter did not know what she wanted to do with her life so she currently worked at a bar by the Seine and made extra money in the evenings. I was not sure if I liked the idea of my Sylvester meeting with women of the night but I said nothing. He seemed so happy in his new life as a Parisian pianist.

The life he lived without me.

As we approached the docks, a cool salted scene breeched my nose. The waves were fairly calm tonight though a few black storm clouds floated calmly above as if waiting to strike the boat as it crossed the ocean to our destination. Brittany. Then onto Paris by train. It was then that I noticed that Sylvester had taken hold of my left hand in his right and was gliding his thumb up and down my flesh gently. I looked at him for a moment and he spoke to me as he used to; “My dear, when we embark, may we make love?” he whispered in a tentative voice as if broaching a question best left unanswered. A question he was frightened of asking for he perhaps feared the answer. Why? Of course, I wanted him, of course, I love him, and how could he not know? Had he not felt love’s keen sting as I had- have?

He took my hand in his a little tighter as he lead me up the ramp to board the boat and helped me get my case up over the step. We looked at each other for a deafeningly long moment before we began with the other passengers along the narrow crimson-carpeted corridors and up the steep steps until we reached our cabin. Sylvester slipped the key into the golden lock, as he turned his wrist the key clicked, and he pushed the wooden door open. He looked at me again as he closed the door and I stared back almost blankly “I feel like a little girl on the voyage to the new world.” I whispered with a slight smile.  “It’s awfully cold,” I continued, attempting to seduce him somewhat.

“It is isn’t it?” H smiled “I shall have to keep you warm,.” he said with a short directed nod. “I know ways of keeping young ladies warm…” he murmured, his lips coming towards my ear. 

I took him in my arms and he began to kiss my pale neck and whispered sweet muffled words into my skin.

“I love you,” he whispered. 

I repeated him and found myself falling backwards against the door half slumped, awaiting his body to lead mine. He saw his chance and took it, in a deft sweeping motion he pulled my dress off over my head and pulled his shirt off and knelt down. He reached his hands under my exposed thighs and lifted me up to his shoulders. What happened next was a blur of happiness, love and him. Only him.

Darkness Descended

by Phyllis Souza

ruby port

 

1921—Southern California, ten miles east of the Pacific Ocean

Ten-year-old Laura posed for a photograph. To her mother, she looked stoic. Her mouth stretched wide turned down at the corners. Dark curls were hanging below her shoulders. A big bow pinned in her hair.  Snap! In a millisecond, the camera captured her sadness.
"Mama, I have a headache," Laura complained.
Emily placed her hand on her daughter's forehead. "You're burning up. Crawl into bed. I'll get you some water and a couple of aspirin."
A few minutes later, Emily handed Laura the pills.
"My throat hurts.”
"Don't whine. Take the pills."
Laura placed the tablets in her mouth and with a few sips of water managed to swallow.
Falling back, she dropped her head onto the pillow and fell into a restless sleep.
A couple of hours later, around three, Laura woke up with a stiff neck. Doctor Diaz, the family doctor, had been called to the house.
"It looks like polio. The beaches and theaters are closed. Worst summer epidemic I've seen in years." He put the stethoscope back in his black medical bag. Shaking his head, he said, "Terrible disease. Just terrible.”
"What can we do?" Emily asked.
"As far as I know—hot compresses may help prevent paralysis. Work Laura's limbs, bending her knees and elbows." 
Laura's father Manuel and her mother cut wool blankets into strips, dipped them in hot water, wrung them out, and then wrapped them around Laura's arms and legs.
After about a week, the illness passed. However, one of Laura's legs never developed as it should, and she walked with a limp.

1925— Manuel died from tuberculosis

The parish priest, still a little hung-over from drinking too much wine the night before, gave a brief eulogy. "Dust to dust."  He cleared his throat. Then said, "Manuel was thirty-nine. A husband. A father. Although he wasn't a churchgoer, he was a Christian.” The priest gazed at the few mourners gathered at the side of the grave. “And if you were to ask him if he’d come back, no doubt in my mind, that Manuel would say, no."

Clasping his prayer book to his chest, "Now let us bow our heads and pray, Our Father— May he rest in peace."
Emily, dry-eyed, stood next to her daughter. Laura sobbed while staring at the plain brown casket.
"Laura, stop crying. He's gone. Let's go." Emily said. "At least we still have a home. No money, but a home."
"Mama, please. I don't want to leave Papa alone." 
"Don't be such a baby. Everyone's leaving. And so are we." Emily grabbed Laura's arm. "Come on."
Laura, dressed in a black coat, wept as she hobbled behind Emily to the curb of All Souls Cemetery.

Fishing boats unloaded

Dressed in a white uniform, and wearing a hairnet, Emily left the house early every morning to go to work at a seafood cannery.
A bugle like sound blasted throughout the Pacific Tuna Cannery Company. It was time to go to work. Emily used a timesheet to check-in. "I hate this place," she said to herself. The pungent smell of fish filled the air.
Along with a hundred other women,  on each side on a long table, a large pan at each station, Emily, stood all day with a knife in her hands cleaning fish.
The first thing she did when she got home was to pour a hefty helping of "Lux Flakes" under hot running water into the bathtub. With a bar of Ivory ififty one hand and a washrag in the other, Emily immersed herself in mounds of bubbles. "Ah, this feels so good."
As relaxed as she was, she still fervently lathered up the cloth with soap, and scrubbed her face, neck, arms, and legs, trying to remove the stench of fish.

1933—The neighborhood grocery store

A bell tied to a screen door jingled. Laura slowly limped into the grocery store. Joe Pimentel, the proprietor, stopped stacking canned goods on shelves, and pleasantly said, "Good morning, what can I get for you?"
"One can of tomato sauce and an onion. I'm making chicken soup for dinner. My mother's favorite."
"How's your mother?"
"Complains a lot. But she's okay."
"Still working at the cannery?"
"Yeah, still working. If it weren't for my leg, I'd probably be there too.”
Leaning in close, "Sunshine, you're much too pretty to pack tuna into a can."
Laura blushed, "Thank you. But I think not."
"Excuse me for a minute; I'll get an onion. And the tomato sauce." Joe walked away.  A minute later, he came back with Laura's order.
A few days later, Laura paid another visit to the store.
She waited at the counter for Joe to come out from a back room, where she presumed was where he slept. I wonder if he has a girlfriend hiding in there?
 "Sorry to keep you waiting. I needed to get a saucer of milk for Tigger." Joe set down the dish on the floor near the empty wine barrel that he used as a table.
"That's okay.” Feeling embarrassed about her thought, Laura looked away, in fact, she looked all around the store, “Where's your cat? He usually runs over to greet me."
"He's around here someplace." Joe called, "Tigger."
An orange striped cat darted out from under the counter on the other side of the store and came running.
"Don't tell me. Let me guess. You need an onion and can of tomato sauce?" Joe laughed.
"Oh no, just a couple of slices of baloney and a loaf of bread." Laura brushed away a strand hair away from her face, "I bet you think I use an awful lot of onions and tomato sauce."  
Just then the cat jumped on top of the counter.  "Well Tigger, you tell him I need 'em to make stews, meatloaves, and soups." Laura chuckled, flashing a beautiful smile.
"It seems like everybody wants a baloney sandwich these days.” Joe sliced two pieces off a big roll of Bologna.
As she handed a dollar to Joe to pay for her purchase, he grasped her hand. "I'd like to call on you. Maybe stop by your home sometime?"
"Oh, I don't know." Feeling the warmth of his fingers, she paused. Gazing into his soft brown eyes, and and as he gazed into in hers, she said,  "That would be nice."
"Perhaps tomorrow, around seven."
"Tomorrow around seven is fine."

Joe paid Laura a visit

Although Joe was at least ten years older than Laura, he came calling. Three months later, he asked her to marry him.
When Laura told her mother about the proposal, Emily laughed, "Joe asked you? What did you say?"
"I said, yes."
"That's ridiculous. Why would Joe do something like that?" Emily pursed her lips and lowered her voice, "I'm prettier."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing." Emily raised her hand in dismissal.
Laura knew her mother was comparing herself to her daughter and had been surprised that someone, like Joe, could have proposed marriage. Emily was jealous.

First Anniversary

With his heart filled with love, Joe handed Laura one dozen, long-stemmed, red roses, and said, "Happy Anniversary." He kissed her on the cheek.
"Oh, Joe, they're beautiful," Laura buried her nose in the flowers. She inhaled.  "They smell lovely, I can't believe it's been a year."
"The happiest year of my life."
"Mine too." Laura smiled. "I'll get a vase.” She hobbled over to a counter, put down the flowers, leaned over and took an Art Deco container out from the cabinet under the kitchen sink.
After a pot roast dinner, Joe poured Marcella wine into two glasses. He raised his drink, "May we have many more years."
"Yes, many more."

 Fall turns to winter

I'm so tired. I'll lie down a few minutes before I start dinner. Laura held onto the armrest of the sofa and lowered herself onto a cushion. Stretching out, she closed her eyes.  Don't let Joe see you resting. He might think you're sick. 
 She remembered what her mother said when she saw her napping: 'Goddamnit, you know I'm hungry when I come home from work.  Just because you're tired, that's no excuse.'  
She rested for ten minutes, and then slowly getting up, shuffled to the kitchen. While standing at the sink peeling potatoes for dinner, Laura's began to cough continuously. Her chest hurt. She felt hot. Beads of sweat formed above her upper lip and across her forehead.She saw stars and everything blurred. Laura collapsed.
When Joe walked in and found Laura sprawled on the floor, he rushed to her. "Laura. Oh, my God, Laura."
He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her.  He noticed blood in the corner of her mouth.
Billowing white curtains floated like ghosts reaching through an open window. Laura lay flat on her back in bed. She'd been diagnosed with tuberculosis.
At seven in the evening, Emily stopped by the modest home attached to the store.  She had swept her hair up into pompadour, her eyebrows were plucked into an arch, and and she had painted her lips painted red.
Joe sat at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and looked up when Emily barged in without knocking. "You're made up. Going someplace?" he asked.
"Only here." She smiled. "Thought you might like some chicken soup."
"Thanks, Emily. Put it on top of the stove."
"You must get lonely, with Laura being sick in bed.” She put the pot down on a back burner.
“I’ll heat it later. I’m sure Laura will enjoy it.” He took a sip of his coffee.
"I guess I better check on her." Emily knocked, cracked open the bedroom door, and holding onto its edge, she popped her head into the room, "How do you feel? I brought dinner."
"That's not necessary, Joe knows how to cook." I hate that she stops by here every night. She doesn't care about me. I know what she wants.
"Doing my duty, that's all. Doing my duty." She closed the door.
Tears trickled down Laura's cheeks when she heard Emily's laughter in the kitchen. I wish she'd stay away.

Darkness descended 

A few weeks later, the flame of a candle sitting on top of the nightstand was reaching the bottom of its wick, it sputtered as Laura struggled to take her last breath.
Joe drowned himself, but not in religion. He didn't believe in God. Not in his work, because that didn't matter anymore. Not in liquor, it only dulled his senses. None of these. He wanted a wife. So, Joe married Emily. 
Within a few months, Emily changed.  No longer the laughing, carefree woman he'd known, she nagged and spent money as fast as he could make it.  He felt like an insect caught in a black widow's web and needed to cut free. 
Joe divorced Emily. He sold his store and journeyed by boat to live near his brother in Brazil.
Emily continued to work at the fish cannery. She kept her eyebrows plucked, put on her makeup, and still wore her hair in a pompadour. She looked good, but would never be able to wash away the stench of fish.


About the Author

Phyllis Souza lives in Northern California and is retired from a long real estate career. After taking several on-line writing classes, she started writing flash fiction and short stories. Her stories have been published in CaféLit, Spillwords, and Friday Flash Fiction. 

Present Tense

by Kathy Sharp

bitter lemon

‘I go for a walk in the park,’ says Robert with infinite care. ‘It is nice there. The flowers are pretty.’

‘Very good,’ says his mother, wiping away tears. ‘What else do you see there?’

Robert frowns, squeezes his eyes shut. ‘The children play football. They kick the ball. It goes through the greenhouse window.’

‘Oh, dear,’ says his mother, trying to keep her voice even. ‘That’s a good story, though.’

Robert is all smiles, pleased with himself. ‘Crash!’ he says. And then his face falls and he goes quiet.
His mother pats his shoulder. He doesn’t often speak, not since the accident. But sometimes he tells little stories. It’s all she has left of the man he used to be.

Milly and her Iridescent Pantyhose

by Robin Wrigley

pink gin

The first time I spoke to Milly was at the check-out counter at Sainsbury’s. I had seen her just about every day as she passed my house on her way to sit on the bench seat outside the village church, but until today the opportunity to speak had never arisen.

     The first time I saw her I nicknamed her ‘of iridescent panty hose’ as it was an Australian journalist’s description of Rudolf Nureyev’s appearance when he first performed in Sydney in the seventies.

     I learned her name was Milly simply by asking the fellow in the village newsagents who seemed to know everything about everybody including myself and I had only been in the village a matter of days.

     She was an elegant lady in her late seventies, always well turned out with much attention paid to her make-up and the different bright coloured stockings carefully colour coordinated

with her outfit.

     ‘Excuse me young man but I couldn’t help noticing that your shoelace was undone.’ The voice came directly from behind me. I turned to see Milly.

     ‘That is of course unless you had intended them to be undone as I understand it is a fashion with young people today,’ she continued.

     I thanked her and bent to tie my shoelace.

     ‘You live in Arnmouth don’t you? Just moved into the Ivy House I understand,’ she continued   before I had a chance to reply as I returned to standing.

     By this time the lady at the till had passed all my purchases through and asked me if I needed help with packing as I had so far not managed to put my few purchases in my bag. I got the impression she was more interested in Milly’s interrogation of me than serving me.

     I put my items into my bag, paid and turned to Milly.

     ‘Would you like a lift back to the village?’ I nearly added her name to the invitation but stopped short realising how improper that would be. ‘My car is in the car park and I am going straight back to the village.’

     ‘Thank you, that would be very kind and save me both the walk to the bus stop not to mention the exorbitant fare the bus company charges these days.’ This was said more to the cashier than me, who nodded approvingly. They then started a conversation as if between old friends, so I retired to a seat close by and waited for her.

     Milly and I walked slowly over to my car. I offered to carry her shopping, but she declined even though she struggled with a walking stick.

     ‘No that’s kind but I manage this quite well every Thursday by myself and prefer to do so even though my son does offer to do my shopping for me. Heavens only know time passes slowly enough as it is and if I don’t get on and do these things under my own steam I might as well pack up and move into the nursing home. Of course, that is what my son would like me to do but they’ll have to carry me there kicking and screaming before that happens, I can tell you.’ She allowed herself a brief smile.

     As I opened the passenger door for her, having been permitted to put her shopping bag into the boot, the first thing she said was, ‘This is rather a grand car, what do you do that allows you to go shopping in the daytime?’

     The drive home was short and pleasant during which time Milly managed to extract from me my life history and only stopped short from asking how much I earned and how come I lived on my own. At one point I felt she was going to ask if I was gay. About all I learned from her was that she had been a widow for ten years and had a son, an agricultural estate agent who lived in the next village.

It was quite extraordinary, from that simple conversation in a supermarket counter a friendship developed over the next five years until Milly passed away. She managed to avoid the threat of the nursing home. Her walking stick became her constant companion and I proved useful by offering and been finally accepted to giving her a lift in both directions to town on Thursdays.

     When I once inquired as to how she managed when I was away from time to time all she said was, ‘I managed it before you came Roger and I will manage when you leave, which of course you will.’

     She was right, of course as I did leave but it was eighteen months after she died. I attended her funeral as did most of the village. She was buried in the churchyard next to the seat where she sat dressed in her iridescent stockings on any day fine enough to do so.

     About a month after her death I received an official looking letter from her solicitor informing me Milly had named me in her will and that I should contact his office.

     She left me her walking stick and the instruction that I might need it one day if I ever walked further than my garage.

About the author 

Robin, a relative newcomer to short story writing, has spent the majority of his adult life as a land surveyor and later a country manager working in over twenty countries world-wide. The variety of the situations he has faced and the people he has met inspired him to create many of the stories he creates. His stories have been featured both on line and in print with CafeLit as well as two other short story collections. He is a member of the Wimborne Writers’ Group.