Too Many Taylors by Kate Twitchin, grande caramel nonfat latte

 “I want to sing like Taylor Swift and be famous,” the young girl on my doorstep declares, her eyes sparkling with ambition.

Not another one, I should’ve ignored the bell.

“You’re the fifth girl this month wanting to sing like Taylor Swift. I don’t know what all the fuss is about; she’s not that special.”

A tiny frown creases her brow.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she says, taking in my grey hair and gnarly knuckles.

OK, maybe I am being a bit mean but, honestly, I’m fed up with all this Taylor Swift nonsense. I much prefer helping people with real problems, insurmountable challenges; people for whom a phial of one of my individually tailored potions can really make a difference. Fortunately, the Sorcerer’s Guild have taken action. After decades of magic being used to create the fabulous singers, guitarists, and drummers who have rocked the music world, they’ve analysed the data and…

“So, will you make me sing like Taylor Swift?”

“What? No. No, I won’t, and I’ll tell you why. Too many people with incredible musical talent have died too young. I can’t remember the precise statistic but it’s tragically high.”

The clear blue eyes are filling with tears but not, I suspect, for all the musicians who have succumbed to the trappings of fame.

“OK, OK, wait there, I’ll be back.”

So, here I am again, mixing a potion for another daft lass. I’m making hers fluorescent green with a wispy vapour; they like that sort of thing.

Off she goes, skipping down my path clutching her tiny glass bottle, whilst I log onto the Guild’s website to order another jar of ‘Ambivalence to Taylor Swift’ granules.

About the author 

Retired Administrator Kate is enjoying sitting around and making things up. She’s had short stories, flash fictions and poems published in print and online, and has been placed in a variety of competitions. She thinks she’d like to write a novel but can’t seem to stop writing shorts. 

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Sunday Serial, 280 x 70 by Gill James, 61 Same old, Same old, gin and tonic

 Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 280 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day. 

61. Same Old, Same Old  

Graham sighed. Another book. Didn't they say there was only one story? This story would follow one of Christopher Booker's seven basic plots, or he'd meet one of Joseph Campbell's thousand heroes who was following Christopher Vogler's journey. There would be a mid-point and a three act structure. The beats would be in the right places.

The cover was gruesome. There was blood spattered across a wind screen.

He flicked open the first page. So where was this inciting incident? And the growing complexities? When would the crisis point arise and would it be convincing? Would the hero get help from an ugly girl and would he live in the belly of the whale for a while? Would he meet the goddess?

It was a nuisance the way this critical mind of his keeps interfering. Why couldn't he just enjoy a book these days? Reading used to be his default activity. Now, though he felt under pressure to read a hundred books a year and review most of them. Where had the fun gone?

"Time to get the G & Ts ready," Louise called form the kitchenette of their small holiday apartment. It was her turn to cook and that half hour before dinner was sacrosanct.

He sliced the lemon mindfully. He put the slices in the glasses, counted to ten twice as he poured gin into the glasses then topped up the drinks with ice and tonic.

As he sipped his drink, sitting comfortably on the glorious terrace with sea views, he began to read. He stopped noticing the views and was soon absorbed in the story. The editor in his head shut up. This was indeed well written.   

About the author

Thank you for considering my work.  

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

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

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Saturday Sample: January Stones by Gill James, tap water

 

When physics got sick

The Scientist carefully took the shards of glass out of the cupboard, dropped them in the sink, and watched underwhelmed as the tumbler formed itself. It seemed natural, as if it had happened a thousand times before. Yet his constantly questioning mind wondered whether this, this first occurrence of something quite extraordinary, marked the beginning of the end as the second law of thermodynamics was breaking down.

As he filled the tumbler with water he became aware that at the same time as being in his kitchen he was also upstairs and at the other side of the universe, so clearly Planck’s Constant had suddenly become somewhat bigger.

Later, examining the internal structure of protons, he found that they were indeed made of cream cheese and constantly mumbled nonsensical German so the label “quark” was actually extremely apt. Yet there was a paradox because surely the cream cheese itself was made of atoms, and they, in turn, of protons.

And yet.

There was no problem for Newton. Apples still fell merrily on the heads of those foolish enough to sit under apple-trees in the autumn. The big nuclear reactor in the sky still reacted. His home planet appeared to be carrying on its Maypole dance around its star and keeping up its complex ceilidh with the rest of the universe.

The Scientist paused for a moment and pondered. Perhaps the Humanities people were right after all. Every physicist knew that all of these laws did not work all of the time. Everything was relative anyway – Einstein had shown this. There could be a god, then. Or maybe the Matrix was not so far-fetched. It might even be the philosophers who had got it right – that life is but an illusion.

 

Scientific advice by Doctor Martin James who identified two subatomic particles, some ten years or so before the World Wide Web was born at CERN, thereby gobsmacking his children’s science teachers

Find your copy here 

About the author  

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

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

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter

Fiona by Judith Skilleter, limoncello

Fiona decided to go home by taxi. It would give her time to think. Her thoughts were of her long and happy marriage to Max. They had been late starters to this marriage business, meeting in their mid-thirties and then marrying after what some people thought was too short a courtship. From meeting to marriage it had been just three months; but Fiona and Max were certain that what they were doing was right for them, their love for each other felt overwhelming and that was all that was needed. It was all that mattered.

Max and Fiona were both successful lawyers. Fiona had her own law firm and Max was an up and coming barrister. They were more than comfortable with their joint incomes which they enjoyed to the full. Children were neither on the agenda nor the calendar. Both were very clear that they did not want to have children. They did not want the distraction from their work and, more especially, they did not want the distraction from each other. They both had lots of nieces and nephews with whom they could practice distant parenting (and spoiling with lavish gifts) and that was sufficient. Max and Fiona knew that people would think them selfish for not wanting to bring new lives into the world but this was something they could live with.

Together they had a tasteful and substantial home which they enjoyed filling with state of the art yet minimalistic furnishings and they had fabulous holidays. During their marriage they had enjoyed trips to the Galapagos Islands the see the iguanas, Borneo to see the orangutans and Antarctica to see the penguins. They visited the USA and drove from New York to Los Angeles, they visited South Africa on safari and they enjoyed so many other exotic and fascinating places. Life was good.

As they got older, however, the expected ailments of old age prevented these marvellous holiday adventures and Max and Fiona became happy enough with the familiarity of Western Europe, especially Spain, France and Italy. Each year they would enjoy two or three weeks in Cadiz and Sorrento and Nice. Fiona’s arthritis prevented hectic jaunts and Max had to be careful as angina had led to the fitting of stents in his chest to improve the blood flow through constricted arteries. This had frightened Max and he was more than happy to take holidays at an easier pace.

As retirement approached Fiona sold her law firm. She wanted to enjoy retirement and spend time in her garden, her pride and joy and main interest, while she could and before life became just too difficult. She had a gardener to help with the heavy work but Fiona adored pottering and planting, which she could manage for the moment. “Arthritis is a complete bugger,” she often said to herself.

As for Max he cut down on his work. He was not ready to leave the cut and thrust of the law yet but has happy to work two or three days a week on work he chose rather than work that was chosen for him.  Max was a well-respected barrister and he knew that leaving  the law had to be a slow and careful process so that he could ensure that his was a smooth departure.

Picking and choosing what he worked on and where he worked were features of his later years in the law that Max really enjoyed. He could be in London one day, Milan the next and then perhaps Leeds.  He loved both the variety and the travel. Fiona didn’t mind that she was seeing less of her husband. Her garden was a source of solace and she loved seeing how happy this new way of working suited Max. But sometimes she wished she could go to these wonderful European cities with him. “You’ll be bored, darling. I will be in court all day after which I prefer to come straight home or to wherever my next case might be. Furthermore, I will be distracted if you were there with me and with the thoughts that we cannot do things together. After all I am there to work,” was Max’s usual response when Fiona suggested that she might like to come with him.

Today Fiona had been to identify Max’s body at a mortuary and the taxi had returned her home. Max had been driving to Manchester for a case and had been in a dreadful motorway pile up where he, his passenger and those in other cars were killed.

The passenger in Max’s car was a colleague who was four months pregnant. Fiona had since learned that the baby was Max’s and that he had been having an illicit relationship with this colleague for over two years.  Most of the trips to Milan and Paris and Madrid had been trips with this colleague where they had enjoyed the privacy and luxury of fabulous hotels. And where they had made a baby.

Fiona could not believe this at first. Then the anger set in followed by then she felt her foolishness, her gullibility, for not reading more into his behaviour when trips abroad were mentioned- or even trips to Manchester. Fiona now felt a huge hate for the man she had loved for over thirty years. There had been no-one else in her whole life whom she had loved so fully and entirely.

Fiona had gone to the mortuary on her own to recognise her husband; she could not bear the sympathy and soothing words of others. He looked as if he was just sleeping peacefully, as if he would wake up soon and ask for a cup of tea. The post mortem had suggested that he had had a heart attack whilst driving and that this had most likely been the cause of the pile up.  He would not have known a thing about the accident. “But his passenger would have known everything,” thought Fiona with not a hint of sympathy.

Fiona also noticed that the clothes she collected were not clothes she knew.  They were more up to date and colourful. They were probably gifts from her, his lover. As she left the mortuary Fiona threw all his clothes into a waste bin.

Fiona knew that Max had a rented flat in London for when he was working there but it was somewhere she had never seen. Max had told her “It’s just a studio flat, my darling. Every surface is covered in legal stuff and I really do not want you to come and tidy it up – and there is nowhere for you to sit”.

Fiona then discovered that in fact it was a two bedroomed flat in a very desirable area of London. And neither was it rented. Max had bought it and his colleague/lover/passenger lived there.

Fiona had never felt such rage in her whole life. She felt that for the past thirty years she had been living a lie. How many people knew of Max’s affair? How many people looked at her with secret knowledge of this liaison especially at the occasional legal dinners to which she accompanied Max? Had his lover also been at these dinners? Had there been dinners where his plus one was his lover and not Fiona? How could he have made such a fool of her in front of people she knew and admired and who knew and admired her. As she and Max had often said “In the law everyone knows everyone else”

Fiona walked up to her front door and let herself in. She had made a few decisions. Max would have a cremation without ceremony, she did not care what might be in his will suggesting otherwise. There would be no fanfare for him, there would be no eulogy and no-one would sing his praises acknowledging his many successful years as a prominent and successful barrister.

Fiona was undecided about what to do when Max’s ashes were returned to her. Her current favourite was to flush them down the toilet, but this idea was closely followed by taking them to the tip or even putting them in one of those waste bins intended for dog mess.

As the front door closed behind her Fiona allowed the grief to hit her. She had held herself together so well all day, in fact ever since she had heard the news, the worst news ever. Despite grief being an emotion her she felt an all-encompassing physical pain. Every part of Fiona ached with sadness, with misery, with embarrassment and with even disbelief. “How could he have done this to me?” she thought and the tears flowed and flowed and flowed.

Deep down Fiona knew these negative feelings would not last but it felt right to have them for the moment. There was still a lot of pain to be faced before her life might make sense again.

About the author

 Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren.

 

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How to Save a Lifeguard by Penny Rogers, a bottle of Chardonnay

 The splashy butterfly stroke stopped and Judy’s head popped up out of the disturbed water.

‘Did you see what that man did?’

Suse, concentrating on her backstroke, had been unaware of anyone else in the pool. She’d only stopped to adjust her goggles.

‘He just blew his nose into the water,’ said Judy crossly. ‘I’m going to have a word with him.’

Suse watched as her companion remonstrated with the man. He didn’t seem to care about pool hygiene and Judy wasn’t about to give up. Suse fiddled with her goggles and returned to her backstroke.

‘He called me a stupid … word beginning with c. I told him he was very rude.’

‘Well done for standing up to him. Perhaps he won’t come here again.’ Suse watched the portly figure waddle into the changing rooms.

‘If he does I’ll tell the manager.’ Judy was not going to let him get away with either his nose blowing or his language. ‘What are you looking at?’

The lifeguards were changing over. Suse watched as the young woman with a mass of red hair was replaced by a young man. ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head and changed to a front crawl.

 

‘Fancy a coffee?’ Judy rubbed her hair vigorously. Unable to think of an excuse Suse agreed, though she really wanted to get away from the pool. ‘Let’s go into town. Try that new place next to the cinema.’

While they drank their lattes, Judy chattered, scarcely stopping to take a breath or sip her drink. For once Suse was glad of the stream of words, it meant she didn’t have to contribute anything except an occasional ‘hmmm’ or ‘spect so’.  She could let her mind wander, back more than forty years and up to today when the lifeguards changed over. Out loud she said, ‘It couldn’t be.’

‘Oh yes it could. I was in the group changing room last week, all those youngsters waxed and smooth and me feeling like a real old frump with my hairy foo foo.’

Suse spluttered; fortunately her mug was almost empty. ‘Sorry I was miles away.’

Her friend stopped talking. ‘Are you OK? You’re very quiet.’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just trying to make sense of something.’

‘Anything I can help with?’

‘Nah. Maybe, I’ll let you know. Want another coffee? Or something stronger?’

 

‘I knew there was something the matter.’ Judy re-filled her glass, ‘Sorry to sound smug, but it’s not like you to be evasive. C’mon, tell me everything’.

Suse examined the rim of her glass. ‘I like chardonnay; they say it isn’t cool nowadays. But I like it.’

‘You’re doing it again.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Being evasive.’

‘Get another bottle, Judy, I’ll tell you what I can.’

Judy came back with the bottle and plates of tapas. ‘No excuse now. Spill the beans.’

‘You know that lifeguard at the pool, the one with the curly hair and lovely dark eyes.’ Judy nodded encouragingly, not at all sure that she knew who Suse was talking about or where this conversation was going. ‘Well, I think he might be my grandson.’ Suse gulped her wine and reached for her handbag. ‘Damn smoking bans.’

‘Carry on. You haven’t smoked since I’ve known you, that’s at least ten years. Just tell me how that young man could possibly be your grandson. You told me you’d never had any kids!’

‘Well I did. Forty-two years ago to be precise. A boy.’

‘Go on.’ Judy passed a packet of tissues to her friend.

‘No need for those thanks. Enough tears have been shed for my little boy. I called him Luke.’

‘What happened to him?’ Jude thought she might need the tissues.

‘Adopted. I couldn’t look after him. No money, no home, I wasn’t much more than a child myself. You see I think my baby’s dad, Terry, died.’

Judy raised an eyebrow, ‘what do you mean THINK he died.’

‘Well, he worked away quite a bit, something to do with phone cables, and one day I got a letter supposedly from his dad to say that he’d been taken ill and died in a hospital in Wales.’

‘Sounds fishy to me.’

‘I thought so at the time, but there wasn’t much I could do. Afterwards I reckoned that he must’ve been afraid it was all getting too serious. Then I found out I was pregnant.’

‘That was awful Suse, and very sad; a lot to deal with. But coming up to date, what makes you so sure that the lifeguard who’s sometimes on duty when we swim is your grandson.’

‘He looks just like Terry, same eyes and curly hair.’

‘So are you going to talk to him?’

‘Don’t be daft, Judy. What could I say. “Hello is your dad forty-two years old? Does he have curly hair, and by the way, is his name still Luke?” They’d call the police’.

Judy munched on a crispy anchovy. ‘You’re right. Lots of people have curly hair and dark eyes. That isn’t enough to go on. Here have some of these little beauties.’

 

Two months later they were back at the swimming pool. Judy had looked for other exercises to distract her friend from what she was afraid could become an obsession. They tried Nordic walking (too wet and cold), line dancing (too many people in the class), Yoga (bossy teacher) even Boxercise (too physical). 

‘Don’t worry, Judy.  When “you know who” is on duty I won’t keep looking at him. Or pretend to drown.’ She added the last bit to lighten the mood. ‘Whether he is or isn’t my grandson is neither here nor there. I gave up my baby and that’s it. Back to perfecting my backstroke.’ Suse jumped in the deep end. She doesn’t want to talk about it, mused Judy. It must still hurt, though she makes a good job of pretending it doesn’t.  Both of them were relieved that there was no sign of the dark-eyed lifeguard with curly hair.

 

In fact he seemed to have disappeared altogether. ‘He must’ve got another job, or gone to university or emigrated.’ They were enjoying wine and tapas in what was becoming their favourite place to meet. ‘Better to be fixated on crispy anchovies than fantasies,’ Suse observed, picking up the local free community magazine that had been left on a chair.

‘Oh my dear lord, look at this!’

Judy took the paper from her friend’s shaking hand.

“Lifeguard’s Search for Donor” screamed the headlines. ‘Jamie Fuller, a popular lifeguard and swimming instructor at Wavy Days Leisure has been diagnosed with a rare kidney disease. His blood type is unusual and the search is on for a suitable donor. His mum Emma said ‘We need an exact match, preferably from a close relation. So far no luck, but we keep hoping. Meanwhile Jamie’s really grateful for all the support he’s been getting, but time’s running out.’

 

In her comfortable sitting room, Suse poured herself a cup of Earl Grey. Judy, for once unable to say anything, stirred sugar into her coffee.

‘It’s all done, Judy. I’ve signed the consent forms.’

‘Well done, Suse, you’re very brave.’

‘No I’m not. There really wasn’t another option. Once all the tests showed a good match then I had to go ahead. They’ve explained what will happen, the risks and everything, but at my age it’s fine. It’s not as if I’ve got a family to worry about – I’ve got good friends…’ she smiled at Judy, ‘…but I could give that young man the chance of a life.’

‘So, is he your grandson?’

‘Probably. But d’you know when it came to the crunch I asked the hospital not to say anything.  After all these years it didn’t seem fair. And I’m not sure how I’d cope with having a family, they might not like me. Let’s just say it’s a happy accident that I’m a good match.’

‘But Jamie’s dad, your son Luke, will put two and two together. He must know that he’s adopted and that any close match is likely to be with his birth family.’

‘I’ve really thought about it, Judy. I used to imagine what Luke looked like as he grew up. I still do if I’m being honest. You know the sort of thing; seeing anyone of the right age on the television, a politician, a sportsman, a rock star.’ She paused, looking determinedly into the middle distance.  ‘Sometimes I wonder, could that man be my son?’

‘And now you really have seen your grandson.’

‘It seems so. But you must understand why I’ve decided to stay anonymous. Such a lot of water has gone under the bridge.’

Judy smiled at the cliché. ‘It’s quite hard to keep a secret these days, so much on social media. And it’s relatively straightforward to track people down, even after many years. I expect Jamie Fuller’s family have left no stone unturned to find his relations.’ She paused and took Suse’s hand. ‘Look I know I’m a blabbermouth but I’ll never breathe word of this to anyone. By the way, do you know who came swimming yesterday?’

‘No idea.’

‘That awful man who swore at me when I told him off for blowing his nose into the pool!’

‘Oh dear, what happened?’ Suse was glad of the distraction.

‘He winked and smiled at me! I didn’t know what to do or say. D’you think he was goading me or chatting me up?’

‘What he said to you was offensive; if he is giving you the glad eye I’d be inclined to…’ 

The doorbell rang, interrupting Suse. ‘Talk about it in a minute. Whoever can that be?’ She went to her front door.

Judy settled back in her chair and helped herself to a chocolate biscuit. Looking around the room she was struck by the absence of photographs. Her rooms, and those of most of her friends’, tended to be dotted with generations of family pictures. It struck Judy as rather sad that Suse had none.  From the hallway she could hear a male voice, talking too quietly for her to catch any of his words. Then she heard Suse speaking.  From the other side of the wall she could sense uncertainty and emotion in her friend’s voice. She wondered what was going on. The answer came as she heard Suse say just one word. It was clear although muffled, as if spoken through a blanket.

‘Terry?’

About the author

Penny Rogers lives in Dorset in the south of England. She writes mostly short stories, flash fiction and poems and facilitates an informal writing group. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit. When she’s not writing Penny makes jams, pickles and preserves from home grown or foraged produce. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)