Switching Off

by Sheila Barclay

Orange Pekoe tea  

He woke with a snort as his pen and newspaper crossword page slipped from his hands.  It was just midnight.  His legs were stiff from their extended stretch on the foot stool.  The TV was still murmuring away.

As his head cleared, he focused on the screen.  Some sort of black and white documentary, a young couple, standing in a summer garden, the woman cradling a white bundle.  She places the bundle tenderly into a pram and smiles to camera. The scene switches to show the same couple, walking along a shoreline, a toddler between them, marvelling at the eternity of the sea and the beach.  The child was terrified but at the same time fascinated, confident in his parents’ love….wait, how did he know what the child was thinking?  His heart clenched, his mouth hung open as the pictures faded and re-focused in a fast moving sequence being played out – a shabby terraced house, London buses crawling through grey smog, a barking black and white puppy, his puppy, Teddy. 

 “It’s my life!” he shouted out, incredulous.  Hands shaking, he tried to change channels. The screen remained resolutely focused.  He was standing now in front of the screen.  The images changed, gradually illuminating the story in colour.  He bent over the television to turn off the plug at the wall.  He gasped, as his life continued to unfurl itself in front of him.

He edged back to his seat, uncomprehending, watching as scene after scene in his long life revealed itself.  There was no sense to it, just short glimpses of key moments: meeting his wife, Jenny, crying with her when they lost their new-born son, his nervousness when he started his Civil Service career, laughing with friends in the pub……happy days, sad days….his life.  He closed his eyes, but the images continued unrelenting in his mind’s eye.

 “Time of death, I’d estimate about midnight.”  The doctor turned to the young Police constable, “More circumstantial evidence than medical,” he continued.  “A good way to go – comfortably in his own armchair, a half-finished crossword, probably been watching TV all evening.”

The Crossing

by Mark Kodama

apple juice

            I was a young man then in the days before cell phones.  I was traveling from Los

Angeles to Washington, D.C. to take a job as a newspaper reporter for a small specialty weekly.  I could not sleep so I checked out of my Motel 6 at 4 a.m. and hit the road. I ate their stale donuts with the motel’s fresh coffee before I hit the road. It was summer time.  Corn fields and farms lined the country road that led to Interstate 40.

            I soon came upon two wrecks at a crossing.  One car had t-boned the other car.  The front end of a black BMI had its front crushed in and it lay to one side of the road beyond the crossing.  A large pale blue pick-up truck with the side of its passenger cab mashed in lay in a ditch turned about face as a result of the impact.

            I stopped my car, parked on the side of the road.  I got out of my car and approached the BMW because it was the vehicle nearest to me.  I could hear the crickets chirping and water dripping from the smashed radiator.  The nauseating smell of radiator fluid, oil and gas filled the air.  There were two matching spider web patterns and blood stains on the front windshield.  A young man and young woman laid curled in each others’ embrace as if sleeping. The young man was dressed in a cotton checkered shirt and blue jeans. The young woman wore a summer dress with floral patterns.

            I tried to open the front driver’s door but it was locked and jammed shut.  At first I tapped on the window hoping to wake the occupants.  Then I banged on to the window and then called to them to see if the young man and woman were still alive.  They did not move. My heart sank.

            I ran to the other car.  The man inside looked like an old farmer in overalls, blue jeans and checkered cotton shirt.  His grizzled face had two days stubble.  He had a macabre toothless smile and his eyes were still open.  His right arm was twisted behind his head as if he was trying to shield himself before he was hit.  Dried tears streaked his ancient face.

            I called to him.  I banged on his window.  I tried to open his frozen door.  I called again but he did not move.  I had never seen death so close up.  The hair on the back of my neck stood up and goose pimples rippled up my arms.

            I got back in my car and drove back to the motel.  I parked my car by the check in.  I told the clerk about the accident who called the police and fire department.  I drove back to the crossing.

II.

            By the time I returned to the crossing, the police and the fire department were already at the scene of the accident.  The sun had come up.  It was already getting hot.  The coroner drove up about 30 minutes later.  The police sealed off the intersection and began to photograph the scene of the accident and measure distances.  The fire personnel loaded the bodies covered by white sheets into ambulances and rove awqay.

            A detective interviewed me as to what I knew about the accident which was not much.  Afterwards, he took my name. address and telephone number.  He asked me to stay a few more days in case he had additional questions.

            A young newspaper reporter asked me if a few questions and then left.

            Afterwards, a police officer drove with me to a local diner.  He asked the diner to put my meal on the house and then left.  I sat at the counter and ordered the corned beef hash and eggs, sunny side up as I always did.  The diner was small, consisting of a counter with nten seats and four  tables.  There were about ten patrons eating at the counter and at two tables.    

            The owner, dressed in a white apron and wearing a white cap, poured me a cup of coffee.  “People drive crazy these days,” he said and shook his head.  He wiped the counter with a wet towel.  I poured cream from a small metal cup into my coffee.  I drained the coffee.  I think a cup of coffee never tasted so good.

            “They sure do,” I said.

            The owner went to the kitchen and then came back with buttered toast.

            “My name is Fred,” he said.

            “Tom,” I said and shook his hand.

            “Crazy kids,”  he said.  Fred then disappeared into the kitchen.

            I thought about my grandmother’s funeral.  I must have been all of five years old.  I can remember my Auntie Dorothy crying and the smell of incense.

            Fred came back with a white plate of corned beef hash, two eggs and fried potatoes.

            “Eat up,” he said.

            A young woman in the diner said she was an animal activist.  She asked me how I could morally live myself and eat meat.  “How does death taste,” she asked.

            “If you mean corned beef hash, I think pretty delicious,” I said.

            Fred came out from the kitchen. “Stop bothering him,” he said to the woman. “You have your opinions.  He has his opinions.  He is not hurting anyone or doing anything illegal.  Leave him alone.’

            I tried to pay for the breakfast but Fred insisted that the meal was on the house.  I tipped two dollars and then headed to the motel.

III.

            I told the clerk I would stay another night.  He nodded.  I then drove into town to the mall.  By now it was noon.  I checked out the outlets at the mall.  I bought a coke, a bag of potato chips and a crime fiction novel at the bookstore: “Double Indemnity” by James Cain.  It was stifling hot.  I could feel the sun burning the side of my face.  The sweat on my back cooled me.  My metal coins had melted into my plastic coin holder.

            I then returned to the motel.  I thought about the young couple and the aged famer who died early this morning.  You are here today with all your dreams and then in an instant you are gone.  Strange.  People talk about a bright light, pearly white gates, God, angels with wings.  Is there an afterlife or only darkness. Do we really have soul? Everybody is going to die and yet nobody really knows anything about it.  People say they know about death but what do they really know about it anyways. Some people claim to have died and have come back from the dead.  If they are here, then they really never did die, did they?

            I went up to my motel room, closed and locked the door and then closed the curtain.  I turned out the lamp and then took out my book from the small plastic shopping bag.  It was a book about murder.  I saw the movie many years ago. It starred Fred McMurray and Edward G. Robinson.

            Death – what does anybody alive really know about death?  I remember that old Steve Martin comedy routine where it turns out God really exists and there is really in heaven.  “In college, they said this was all bullshit,” he joked.

            I drifted off to sleep. I dreamt I was the young man coming upon that intersection about to hit that pick-up truck.  My head slammed into the front windshield as my girlfriend screamed then all was dark.

            I woke up.  I surprised at how frightened I was.  My back was all sweaty.  I got up and went to the bathroom.  I washed my face.  I could hear the swamp cooler running.

            I opened my bag of chips and coke.  I thought about the animal activist at the diner. I remember watching a film in college of a slaughterhouse in New Zealand and how the sleep could see sheep before them getting slaughtered and skinned.  They were hung up on an assembly line desperately struggling to break free.  They knew their fate as the slaughter man brutally killed and skinned their brethren. What gives us that right to take their lives?  If I had real moral courage I would give up eating meat.   

            I finished my chips and coke.  I turned on my television on low for company and read my book.

IV.

            For dinner, I drove to the diner.  Outside the diner, I bought the local community newspaper.  It was a thin afternoon newspaper, the kind printed on cheap new stock with the ink coming off on your hand as you read the paper.  The front page featured the wreck and had a large photograph and accompanying story.  I ordered the meat loaf special with a side of mash potatoes, gravy and steamed broccoli.  I savored every bite.  I think it was the tstiest mal I had ever had.  Even the coke tasted special.

            I remember reading a essay by the great Roman philosopher Seneca “On the Shortness of Life.”  He said everybody dies and many people complain that their lives are too short.  But Seneca said our lives are not too short.  The problem is that we do not make the most of our time here.

            I ordered the apple pie a la mode for desert.  I love apple pie.

Tradition

by Roger Noons

a remnant of Boxing Day punch.

Her Ladyship embraced tradition, especially when it came to the Festive Season. On Christmas morning the family, visitors and all the staff except Cook and the kitchen maid who had drawn the shortest straw, would walk to church and occupy the front pews on the right hand side. Everyone was expected to wear their finest clothes, and boots, so often appropriate for the weather, had to reflect the sky and landscape. Which is where I came in. I spent the Eve collecting the footwear that had been placed outside the bedrooms and it was my job to make them shine before I returned them. Household staff polished their own.

    This year, I began as soon as people started to retire, but occupancy was such that it was after eleven o’ clock before I returned the final pair. I rushed downstairs and Elsie was waiting in the corridor near the parlour. When she smiled, I moved towards her but looking up, saw the mistletoe  without a single berry. She must have registered my disappointment as she took my hand and drew me into a darkened corner, where we kissed, as if a freshly cut bunch had been placed above us.

    Walking along the drive the following morning, I found Elsie alongside me. When we reached a frosty patch, she took my arm and that was my best ever gift. After the service we gathered outside the porch, shaking hands and offering felicitations. After she had finished speaking to the Vicar, Her Ladyship spoke to each of us in turn.

    ‘Happy Christmas, Roland,’ she said to me.

    ‘And the same to you, Lady Massington,’ I smiled.

    ‘Elsie’s a good girl, make sure you take care of her.’

    ‘Oh, I will, Your Ladyship, I promise you.’

    As we walked back to the Hall, Elsie again took my arm, although the frost had melted.

Roger is a regular contributor to Café Lit. He is also the author of Slimline Tails which was published by Chapeltown Books. A DVD has been produced of seven of the stories included in the book.

Marking Time

by Janet Howson

Christmas Punch

The tree lights could be put on, the main light was too harsh. The cards were festooned around the room alternating between garish primary colours, sparkling, snowy scenes and the comical ones. She received a lot of cards, well over a hundred but then again she sent a lot. Every year she meant to cut down as the cost of stamps was getting ridiculous, but she never did. Presents were balanced one on top of the other all wrapped painstakingly in the same or similar paper, displaying an identifying gift tag for ease of identification. The turkey had already been put in the oven and it was starting its considerable journey on a very low heat to its eventual destination on the dinner table. She had already peeled and cut up the potatoes, parsnips, carrots and broccoli and as an afterthought, put some peas in a pan. The gravy couldn’t be done until the last minute but she had already put the cranberry sauce in a glass dish. She didn’t bother with Bread Sauce anymore. Year after year it would return to the kitchen, untouched. Her mother was bringing a microwaveable Christmas pudding and she had cream and Brandy Sauce in the fridge.

    All was prepared but she had this task. A task she must complete before the rest of the household appeared. She had put it off too long. She didn’t want it hanging over her head like the Sword of Damocles, spoiling her day, not to mention the rest of the holiday. No, it had to be done. Why not today? It was, after all just another morning and those who would disapprove would not be up for hours yet.

    She sized up the considerable pile of blue exercise books. Some were pristine, some rather grubby and a few without their cover. She picked up her register to enable her to record the marks. She uncapped her red pen.

    She sighed at the inevitability of the task.

     It was marking time.

About the Author

I taught Drama and English for 35 years, directing a lot of plays, some of which I wrote myself. I have been spurred to start writing again having found a folder of poetry I had written over the years. I am now enjoying writing short stories with the aim of turning some of them into scripts. I feel I am at the start of an adventure and feel very excited about it.

Story goes Missing

by Gill James

mint cordial

“We’re going to have to close the main gates now,” said Tonga.

“But Bradley’s not here yet,” said Wimple.

“He’ll have the sense to shelter,” said Tonga. “He’ll know what to do in the storm.”

Wimple wasn’t so sure.  Bradley wasn’t always the most practical person. But they’d been lucky, year on year.  He’d always got through before the main gates were closed and he’d always got there in time to start the story-telling. There’d been storms before but never anything this bad. 

“Just go and do it,” said Tonga. 

Wimple scurried off in the direction of the main gate.

“Tonga says we’re to shut the gates down now,” he said to Rupert.  

The wind was really whistling now and the snow had more than half covered the entrance.    

“Right-o,” the guard answered. The gate clanged into place. Then there was a whirring sound. And then it was silent. The wind and the snow seemed to have stopped. All Wimple could hear now were the Yule songs and the sounds of people rushing backwards and forwards.  Now as well there were glorious smells. Roast hog. Mint punch. Cherry pies.  Somehow now that the noise had gone the food seemed even more enticing.

“I must say that’s a relief,” said Rupert.  “I was so worried the water would come into the warren and we would all be drowned.”

“But what about Bradley?” said Wimple.

“Bradley will be fine,” said Rupert. “The moon-folk will offer him shelter.”

Wimple hoped the guard was right. Yes, the moon-folk were generous enough if the stories about them were anything to go by. But would Bradley have the sense to seek one of them out?

A mouse in a footman’s uniform scurried by, carrying a tray of roast chestnuts.

Wimple’s mouth began to water.

Then the gong sounded.

Rupert rubbed his paws together. “Come on. Let’s go and eat.”

It was quite a good suggestion. The lobster soup was as delicious as usual. The hog had been cooked to perfection. The punch was sharp and warm at the same time. The pies were irresistible. Wimple managed six and only felt slightly sick afterwards. 

Tonga sighed. “It’s not the same without the stories though.”

“No, indeed not.” Rupert rubbed his eyes and looked as if he was going to cry.

Wimple really did feel sick now. What if something had happened to Bradley?

“Could we tell our own stories?” said Rupert.

Tonga frowned and scratched his forehead.. “I don’t see why not. Would they be interesting enough, though?”

Rupert shrugged. “We could give it a go, I suppose.” He took his bugle and gave it three quick blasts.

All of the other small animals and elven folk stopped talking.

Rupert cleared his throat. “Ladies, gentlemen, elven folk, fellow burrow dwellers. Our story laureate has not yet arrived. We trust that the moon-folk will have sheltered him from the storm. But we think we should go ahead with the story-telling.  So we invite each and every one of you to contribute one story. A success story.  Or something funny that happened to you.  Maybe a time when you were greatly surprised."

There was silence at first.

Then there were some whisperings.

“Rubbish, that, about the moon-folk,” Wimple heard one of the young voles whisper. “There ain’t no such thing. If Bradley’s out in this storm, he’s done for.”

Wimple hoped the vole was wrong. 

At last though, a tiny dormouse put up his hand.

Tonga nodded to him.

“Please sir,” said the dormouse. “I can tell a story!”

“Get to it then young man. Everybody listen up.”  

The dormouse told his story about the time a domestic cat hunted him. The cat had been frightened by a dog and dropped the dormouse but not before he had been taken two miles away for home. The dormouse had had quite a few adventures trying to find his way home. Then a young elf told about the time she had fallen into a rain puddle and had been helped out by a frog. A young frog volunteered the story of how a princess kept kissing him and then complained that nothing had happened. “She wanted me to turn into a prince, I think,” said the frog. 

Soon the stories were flowing one after the other. Wimple helped himself to several more mint punches. They made him relaxed and sleepy. He kept dozing off and somehow the stories got mixed up with his dreams.

Suddenly, though, he awoke with a start. There was a loud knocking at the main entrance to the burrow.

Rupert, who also appeared to have been snoring gently, suddenly  jumped up and rushed off with his bunch of keys towards the main gate.   

Wimple’s little heart was beating fast as he listened in to the conversation going on at the gate. He’d recognise that voice anywhere. Bradley! And those other people must be moon-folk. He’d never seen them before. He hid behind one of the drapes so that he could look at them without them seeing him.

They were strange creatures. They were completely hairless and did not appear to wear any clothes. They moved very gracefully and they glowed like moonbeams.

“Come out from behind that curtain, Wimple. I can see you. Now, what can you offer a poor starving fellow to eat on this fine Yule Eve?”

Bradley sat himself down by the fire.

Wimple still couldn’t move. He was so fascinated by the moon-folk.  They floated round Bradley, moving silently.

“I didn’t think they really existed,” he said.

Bradley laughed. “Every story you hear is true, in its own way.” He took a goblet of steaming mint punch that a young elf offered him. He took a sip and closed his eyes. “Ah. That’s better.” 

A red squirrel bounded up with a plate containing roast hog sandwiches and two cherry pies. Bradley nodded his thanks.

Wimple watched as the moon-folk seemed to evaporate with the steam for the punch. They floated up the chimney and although the flames form the fire touched them they didn’t get burnt.      

“Where did they go?” he asked nobody in particular.

“Like all stories, they fade,” said Bradley.

“Aren’t they real?” asked Wimple.

“They’re as real as all stories,” said Bradley.

“Well, did they help you in the storm?” asked Tonga. “Didn’t they give you shelter?”

Bradley shrugged. “The storm wasn’t so bad really. The snow was soft, though, and it was difficult to see and to move quickly. The moonbeams showed me the way.”

He'd called them moonbeams. Perhaps it was just the moon that lit his way. The moon-folk had all disappeared now. It was impossible to examine them any further. He would never know now. Had they ever actually been there? 

“I suppose the young’uns will be too tired for Yule Eve stories now,” said Bradley as he finished the rest of his second cherry pie.

“Oh, we’ve had some stories,” said Tonga. He told Bradley how lots of people had offered their own stories.

“Splendid!” said Bradley. “Then I will tell you just one Yule Eve story and the rest will do for Yule Day. “Get everybody organised, Tonga.”

Tonga rounded up all of those who not yet scurried of to their sleeping places. Wimple was amazed that so many of the youngsters were still awake.

“Ah yes,” said Bradley as he looked at his young audience. “Young people are always the best at appreciating stories.”

But not just the young people, thought Wimple, curling up his toes in excitement. What was Bradley going to tell them?

“My story tonight is from another world a little bit like our own but the animals don’t talk there. It is a story about a very special baby. An angel - this is a messenger from the god that those people worship, a most beautiful creature with great silver and gold wings – had told the mother that she was going to give birth to that god’s son.” Bradley paused to take another sip of his mint punch.

Wimple’s toes curled even further. This was going to be a good one.  

About the author  

Gill James writes longer fiction for children and young adults and shorter fiction for adults.  

She edits and publishes for Bridge House Publishing, Café Lit, Chapeltown and the red telephone.   

See all of her publications on her Linked-in profile or her blog http://www.gilljameswriter.eu/