Juliet’s Song

by

Mehreen Ahmed

 coffee

Juliet worked in a cafe up the road. Her pretty smile was something to see first thing in the morning. But she didn’t know that. She worked her shifts around the clock, being nice to the lovers of coffee, serving them, and taking orders. Juliet was stringent with her time, however, occasionally, she would spare a few moments to chat at the till. That would be generous on her part. No one knew what went on in her head. No body cared to find out, what her thoughts were. And that was how it was; strictly professional.

            One morning a lady by the name of Rita Chowder, a regular at the cafe, came in and sat down at a corner. It was a quiet morning at the cafe that day. In fact, Rita was the only customer at the time. She finished her first cup of coffee. Then she waved at Juliet. And when she came by, Rita asked her for another shot. Juliet brought it over to her. As she took a sip, Juliet noticed tears.   “What’s wrong?” she asked. A frown appeared on her smooth forehead.

            “What do you mean?” Rita asked.

            “Are you crying? Are those your tears?”Julia asked.

            “Yes,” Rita said trying to hide them by lowering her head.

            “Why would you be crying?” Juliet asked.

            “Oh it is a long, long story. I think, I am about to lose my house to the bank?” she answered.

            “That’s no good.”

            “I have been frugal all my life. Worked hard and drove second hand beat-up cars. I always dreamt of buying a new car one day. But that just never happened. I just couldn’t save up enough, always behind, no matter how hard I worked.

            “Oh, no,”

            “Turns out, that’s the way it was all going to be.” Rita concluded.

            Juliet listened with a lot of interest. She felt like doing something for Rita. But what could she do? How was Rita, to fight the big banks, and the hiking interest rates? She moved away from her to serve another customer. By the time she came back, Rita was gone. But she noticed, she left something for her on the table. It was a card, with her phone number written on it. Juliet picked it up. She gazed outside through the cafe gates and saw Rita walking away. Juliet thought whether to keep the card or to get rid of it. Clients came and went, everyday, but who cared about their stories. Something told her to keep it. She tucked it away in her apron pocket. When she looked again, she saw the last of her floral dress at vanishing point, behind the garden’s neat hedges.

            After work, that night Juliet retuned to her two-bed apartment, she shared with another girl. She went straight to shower, and wrapped herself with a dressing gown afterwards. They ate some pasta together, which her room-mate cooked, and they both sat down in front of the television. Over dinner, Juliet muttered something which her room-mate didn’t understand. Her name was Kate.

            “Was there something you said?” she asked.

            “Yes, I was speaking to a customer this morning and she was saying that she may lose her house to the bank.”

            “Really? Can she not pay her mortgage anymore?”

            “Yeah, something like that,” Juliet answered.

            “That would be really awful.”

            “Yeah, wouldn’t it?

            “Do you want to buy a house someday?” Kate asked.

            “Me? Ha! Funny you ask. I’m even lucky to pay my rent.” Juliet smiled.

            Kate noted a sarcasm in her voice. She added,“Or get hitched with a rich guy.”

            They both laughed, and finished dinner. They watched the news and saw what the banks were doing and have been doing to their clients. After the news finished, they rose from their chairs, with the plates and dumped them in the sink. Juliet said goodnight to Kate and went to bed. She had an early shift next day. She didn’t go to sleep right away. It bothered her that people like Rita, had to suffer. She thought only people in the developing world suffered like this. She didn’t understand the economics of it at all. However, she took her dairy out of the bedside table drawer and began to write. Most were her own ramblings. But she also penned down Rita’s predicament. It hadn’t dawned upon her entirely, until now that how many people were out there, who tirelessly put uncountable hours into work, for negligible returns. What was it in the end, if they couldn’t even own one house in retirement or drive a brand new car? What was it? Was anything worth? That people had to pay back double, even triple with interest on the principle they borrowed from the banks? That it would take four generations if not more, to pay back. Was it even fair? Juliet contemplated on a lot of questions, but no answers. She didn’t know when she fell asleep.

            In the morning, when she woke up, she had a new resolution. She wanted to smell the sweetness of spring in all its freshness. She wanted to make money, travel, purchase a house, drive brand new cars. Live it up! After all, she lived in a first world country, and she should be entitled to those world class benefits. On her way to the cafe, she went to the news agents to buy a copy of the Sydney Herald. She turned the pages to shares and bonds.

            Investing in shares and bonds was the way to go. At twenty-five, she figured it out. She must tell Rita, too, if she were to save her house. Juliet thought of using her small savings to invest the lot in shares. She was going to buy blue chips. On lunch-break, she went and researched some more to learn about long-term investments; the rises and the falls of share markets. Windfalls, make quick money, while improbable, was not impossible. She called her brokers, and invested all her savings into a diversified portfolio. She felt almost jubilant that she was not going end up like Rita. Where was Rita anyway? She didn’t come today. Thoughts about Rita distracted Juliet at work. She expected her to walk in through those gates.

            After work, Juliet gave Rita a call. Her mobile was switched off. She was just a client in the cafe, who came for a regular caffeine shot. Juliet didn’t even know where she lived or anything about her. But she wanted her to know that there was a way out. If Juliet could sell and buy shares wisely, she could end up with a little pot of gold. That night, she came back from work. It was her turn to cook dinner. She turned on the TV, and took an onion to slice. She must follow the market closely. On the news, an accident was reported. A body was found washed up by the local river bank. Most likely, it was suicide. A name was also released, Rita Chowder. ‘What?’ Juliet was devastated. The knife fell from her hand, and the onion rolled off the cutting board. Rita was no relative, hardly even a friend. But Juliet felt she was so much more. There was almost a bonding.

            Juliet was not sure now. This was puzzling. Her breathing, short and shallow, she struggled to accept this. She had to sit down. The perfect rainbow that she had been dreaming, suddenly took a bad turn and it transpired into something she didn’t think about. This other side of it, she wasn’t sure of. She saw the same rainbow, but in a different light. She saw its reflection on the water. Under wrinkled water, it didn’t look so perfect, but broken along the edges of the arch. That night she could not eat dinner, but went to bed straightaway. A fresh start in the morning, this new day, should bring a refreshing new perspective, she hoped. And coffee shots to give those moods a false high.

It took her good many months for a return on her investments. It wasn’t until the winter months two years on that Juliet was able to sell her shares and turn in a profit. Over the months of July and August, she sold all her shares. And was able to double her savings. Juliet wanted to travel. She wanted to visit the USA. What a lark! No broken wings! This lucky girl was a survivor.

About the author 

amazon.com/author/amazon.com.mehreenahmed

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5267169.Mehreen_Ahmed

https://theeditorschoice.wordpress.com/

https://novelwritingfestival.com/?s=Mehreen+Ahmed

 

           

           

Mirrored

by Allison Symes

iced cappuccino

I know where my doppelganger is.  Sadly, they know where I am. They're in the mirror.

Before you say, 'don't be silly, that's your reflection', ask yourself if your reflection has ever reached through the mirror to grab you warmly by the throat before it threw you away as if you were a used tissue.

Well, it's not happening again. I've made sure. I stepped through the mirror, did to my nemesis what they'd done to me (you always return a compliment in full, right?), stepped back through again, and then smashed the mirror. I don't know where it came from but it's not staying here, nor is it harming anyone else.

Don't thank me. It's all part of my fairy godmother duties. And I would stress the godmother bit. Nobody crosses me and gets away with it.

About the author 

Allison Symes is published by Chapeltown Books, Cafe Lit, and Bridge House Publishing amongst others.  She is a member of the Society of Authors and Association of Christian Writers.  Her website is www.allisonsymescollectedworks.wordpress.com and she blogs for Chandler’s Ford Today - http://chandlersfordtoday.co.uk/author/allison-symes/

The Daily Grind

by Brandy Bonifas

black coffee

He folds the newspaper and drinks the last of his coffee. Straightening his tie, he kisses his wife and ruffles his son's hair.

“Do you have to go fill cavities and pull teeth today, Dad?”

“That's the daily grind, son. I have to put food on the table somehow.”

At work, he loosens his tie, rolls up his shirt sleeves, and locks the pliers around a tooth. The man it belongs to pleads and squirms against his restraints. “This isn't personal,” he says to the man tied to the chair. “But the boss wants to know where his money is.”

About the author 

Brandy Bonifas lives in Ohio with her husband and son. Her work has appeared in anthologies by Clarendon House Publications, Pixie Forest Publishing, and Zombie Pirate Publishing. To find out more, visit her at brandybonifas.com or follow her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/brandybonifasauthor/.

 

Dear Mary

                                                              by L. F. Roth

                                                       strawberry and lime cider

                                                                

 I happened to find myself at the station this morning, where I overheard a remark that made me prick up my ears.

         ‘It’s her birthday today.’

         The words came from a woman carrying a bag that spelled fashion. I made out the word Flip K.

         ‘It is?’ The person beside her, older by some years, slowed down. Her canvas tote bag was somewhat the worse for wear.

         ‘Sixty-five, they tell me.’

         Her companion shook her head.

         ‘More than that, I would have thought. She must be well into her eighties.’

         But the other disagreed.

         ‘Oh, no. Have you looked at her eyes? They are the eyes of an eighteen-year-old.’

         ‘True enough.’

         ‘And the way she moves. Her shoulders. Her hips.’

         ‘Like a young girl.’

         ‘Exactly.’

         They proceeded past me, but out of curiosity I followed them.

         ‘You have to look beyond the surface, though,’ said the one with the canvas bag. ‘Her poise. The aura that surrounds her. There is wisdom. She’s no sixty-year-old.’

         The one with the bag marked Flip K clearly took offence. She swung it around as she boarded the train, almost hitting her fellow traveller. I stepped back to avoid being caught by it, but as they disappeared, I thought I heard a name. It was yours, of course.

Happy birthday!

About the author

https://sites.google.com/site/lfroth1/

My Father's Nose

by Penny Rogers

 Horlicks, or other malted milk drink.

My late father had a perfectly good nose; somewhat large but by no means huge, and triangular in shape. It sort of went straight down without a noticeable bridge.

            Dad always maintained that his nose was this shape because of the treatment that he had received for diphtheria, and as this contagious disease features prominently in a series of stories I am writing about France in the early years of the twentieth century I recalled what he had told me about his own experiences.

            As a boy of about seven years old - that would have been in 1912/1913 - he contracted diphtheria. My grandfather was in the army stationed on Salisbury Plain and the family lived in the garrison at Tidworth. They were a large family without much money, so when her youngest surviving boy became ill my grandmother did whatever she could to save him.  Somehow a horse-drawn ambulance was acquired, and in it Dad made the long journey across the plain to the isolation hospital in Devizes.

            Diphtheria destroys healthy tissue in the respiratory system and the dead tissue forms a grey pseudo-membrane in the nose, tonsils, larynx and throat, making it difficult to breathe and to swallow. To clear this obstruction a nurse would hold Dad’s nose to make him keep his mouth open, his head was tipped back and his throat swabbed with Gentian Violet. This sounds extreme now, but before the days of antibiotics the antiseptic qualities of Gentian Violet were extensively used to treat a wide range of bacterial infections. I have read that its use is being re-evaluated in the twenty-first century as medical science searches for alternatives to antibiotics.

            The treatment worked and Dad recovered. I believe he was in hospital for some time; he told me that when he was better he was allowed to go outside and watch the horses and the ambulances being cleaned. I guess stables and yards were as much part of the hospital in those days as there would be car parks and garages today.

            Until the end of his life Dad could not bear to lie flat nor to have his head tipped back. He slept on several pillows; the terrifying memory of having his head forcibly held back stayed with him for his remaining 90 years.  I doubt whether his assertion that his nose was deformed by the treatment is true, as other members of his family had similarly shaped noses.

Gentian Violet was synthesised by a French chemist in 1861 and known originally as Violet de Paris, so I can confidently refer to its use in the treatment of diphtheria during the years before the First World War when my story is set.

Abut the author 

Penny is currently writing a series of short stories set in France in 1914 and 1924. Her  research into the details of this period has sometimes led her down some unusual avenues of enquiry.

https://pennyrogers.wordpress.com/

Uncle Jack Came Back

 by Dawn De Braal

a glass of porter 

Uncle Jack's body was found in a peat bog by a local farmer, thirteen years after he'd gone missing.  Irish authorities contacted my grandmother to let her know of the gruesome discovery.  The detective noted that Uncle Jack's body was in "remarkable" condition for being buried so long, but neglected to mention that Uncle Jack's head looked as if it had been run through a mangle iron and had been made flat.  Grandma was insistent on having an open casket ceremony and would not take no for an answer.

We waited months before the authorities were finished with the investigation for the body to return to us.  The investigation resulted in no answers. Uncle Jack was shipped back to the United States thirteen years to the day he disappeared in Ireland searching his ancestral background.  With the discovery of his body, part of the mystery solved as to where he had been all these years but not how and why he ended up in the swamp.

 I barely remembered my uncle.  I was six-years-old when he left on his trip. Standing there with my immediate family before the casket reminiscing, faint memories of baseball tossing, head rubbing “noogies,” and an indomitable laugh, came back to me.  Uncle Jack, the teller of tall tales and the carrier of butterscotch hard candies in his pocket where ever he went. I wondered, when they uncovered his body, had they found those sweet candies in his pocket?

 The entire family stared in awe, admiring the shape of Uncle Jack's head which appeared to have been elongated due to the weight of the peat. The faint smell of "swamp" permeating the funeral home, was undeniable. Mr. Gooding, the funeral home director, asked to close the casket before our guests arrived. It took some convincing, but finally, Grandma conceded. The lid on Uncle Jack's coffin, was closed.  My less adventurous Uncle Ned told the story of a farmer who was digging in the bog in Ireland when he discovered Uncle Jack's' body. Upon further investigation, it was mentioned that several holes had been drilled into Uncle Jacks' head! There had been many bodies found in those bogs with the same condition.

 I have never been able to get that thought out of my mind those drilling holes. Had Uncle Jack been murdered? Had he gone mad after having some medical procedure done and confused, wandered out into the bog to his demise? Had someone been mining Uncle Jack for those tall tales? A mystery to be sure, but he was home again and that was all that mattered to Grandma.

About the author 

Dawn De Braal lives in Wisconsin with her husband, two rat terriers and a cat. She loves is  telling a good story and is fast learning that they can also be written.

The Reunion

by Lucy 

tea or coffee

Coffee shop. 3 pm. Wooden table. Pot of tea. One empty chair. She took one sip of her tea, her eyes staring on a door. She felt nervous a little bit. Her hands were shaking slightly. 3:01. He’s late.

“Excuse me, are you Roz?” asked a male voice. She turned her head and looked in the eyes of a young man. He could be in his twenties. She smiled and nodded. She felt more nervous. He sat down, and looked at her. People around them were chatting, laughing, and having conversations. Except them. They were just sitting and looking at each other.

“So, Tom...,” she started. “It is nice to meet you,” she tried to act casually, tried not to be nervous, but her hands were shaking even more. She folded them in her lap.

“Yes, nice to meet you too... Roz,” he smiled. In his eyes she could see, that he has lots of questions. 

“I am sorry I was late. There was traffic on a way here,” he started and she nodded.

“So you do have a driver's license then,” she said.

“Yes. I got it two months ago.”

“Congratulations,” said Roz and took another sip of her tea.

“Thank you. If you just excuse me for a moment, I would like to order some coffee,” he said and she nodded. Tom stood up and left the table.

Roz took a deep breath. This was harder than she expected. She was shaking. But she has to face it. She has to get this thing done in her life so she can move on.

Tom came back in a few seconds; he sat back down and looked straight in her eyes.

“I am really glad you agreed about this. I mean... I have lots of questions and I just want to know the answers,” he explained. Roz noticed that he was getting nervous as well.

“Go ahead,” she said quietly.

“Why did you...” he started, but then the waitress appeared with a cup of hot coffee. “Thank you,” he said.

“Why did I what?” asked Roz.

“Why did you give me away?” he asked.

Roz looked at him. She wasn’t expecting that he will ask this question straight away. She could feel the sweat dripping down from her neck.

“When I discovered that I am pregnant,” she started, “I felt scared. I wasn’t ready to have a baby. I was only twenty-one and that night when it happened, it was just one big mistake. When I told my doctor that I don’t want to have a baby, he told me that it’s too late for abortion so I decided to give you better life with better people because I wasn’t ready to be a mother. I was still studying and I was living only with my dad. When I told him, that I am pregnant, he went mental. He was shouting at me, calling me a whore and a slut but he didn’t know how it happened and I was too scared to tell him the true story” Roz swallowed hard. 

“What is the true story? How it happened?” asked Tom, his eyes were full of tears. 

“Listen, I’ve never told anyone and I don’t want to tell you because it’s not a nice story. I just want you to know, that I wanted to give you better life and I hope that it turned out well. I hope you’ve had an amazing childhood with lovely parents and with all the things I wouldn’t be able to give to you.”

“I spent my childhood in a system. No one wanted me until I was 10 and then one day, I was adopted. I...” Tom wiped his eyes and Roz looked at him.

“Tom, I am so sorry. I had no idea...”

“Of course you had no idea! You just gave me away!” he shouted. He sounded hurt. “I bet you didn’t even look at me when I was born! You just turned your head away!” He was crying now and all the people stared at them. Roz didn’t say a word. She tried to take his hand but he didn’t let her. 

“Tom, please...,” she tried to explain. 

“No,” he said. “Just answer me this question: have you ever thought of me? Have you ever regretted your decision?”

Roz looked at him.

She remembered that day when Tom was born. She was in so much pain, crying and wanted the pain to end. It took twelve hours to give a birth to that little baby. 

“It’s a boy,” said the doctor who was holding the crying baby. “Are you sure you don’t want to look at him?” 

“Take him away. I don’t want to see him,” she said. She was tired. She felt sorry for him, for the innocent little boy but she couldn’t look at him.

“Do you want to name him?” the doctor asked.

“Tom,” she sighed.  

The baby was crying even more. He wanted to be with his mum, to feel the warm feeling of love and be loved. Roz didn’t turn her head. Tears were falling down from her eyes, and in a few minutes, she didn’t hear him anymore. He was gone.

After few days, when Roz was able to leave the hospital, the doctor asked her, if she wanted to change her mind, but Roz shook her head. She was ready to leave this part of her life behind her.

So, after twenty years, when she got an email from young men called Tom, she was terrified. But also one part of her wanted to meet her son; she wanted to know how he looks like, what is he like.

“Can you answer me then?” said Tom and Roz blinked. She was back in a presence. “Have you ever regretted your decision of giving me away?” he asked again.

Roz took a deep breath. “No,” she said clearly and then she left. 

About the author 

Lucy is originally from Czech Republic. She moved to England two years ago. She has always loved writing and making stories.

She started Creative Writing in Woodbridge which in September 2018.