The Changeling

By Paul Stansbury

CafFae Au Lait  (made by mixing dark roasted coffee with the sap of the milkweed plant, served in a bowl or a large coffee cup)

 

      “Don’t talk to me like I’m crazy!” Fiona barked. Her eyes flashed at her husband. “I tell you that’s not Brandon.”

      “But honey, can’t you hear what you are saying? You want me to believe the fairies have taken Brandon. If they did, who is in the nursery? He sure looks like the baby we brought home from the hospital three days ago. If you said the nurses screwed up and somehow switched our baby with another, I might find that plausible.  But fairies: how do you imagine that sounds?

      “Like the truth. I don’t know why you won’t believe me. A mother knows her baby, and that thing is not my baby.”

      “Fi, I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” David said, “but just because your Mamó is from Ireland and casts herself a neo-pagan, it doesn’t mean all those fairy stories she filled your head with are true. I’m sure she convinced herself she had the facility to feel the presence of fairies. No doubt so convincing, she got you believing you could do it too.  But you’re a grown woman now and should realize all her malarkey was just old wives’ tales. Honey, I love you and you know I support you. And that’s why I must tell you you’re letting your imagination run out of control. Besides I thought fairies were little bitty things. How could they carry off a baby? Why would they even do such a thing?”

      “Cause they need a real baby to inject a dwindling and weak stock with a fresh, healthy human strain,” Fiona shot back. 

      “Do you hear yourself?” asked David. “Change the boogeymen from ‘fairies’ to ‘greys’ and you have the classic alien abduction story. I got news for you, that’s not real either. Fi, you’ve got to stop this. Our beautiful blonde, blue eyed baby is sleeping in the nursery. He needs, I need, his mother to come back to reality.”

      “I never left it and I’ll thank you to leave Mamó out of it. She could sense the Fae and so can I.”

      “If the fairies took Brandon, who is in the nursery?”

      “It’s called a changeling. When the Fae steal a baby, they leave a changeling in its place. This changeling can be an ugly old elf or maybe a simulacrum they fashioned of wood or clay but, under a proper spell, it appears to be an exact replica of the stolen child. Later it seems to die and is so buried while the real baby is raised by the Fae.”

      “Oh brother! Listen, Janie at work said that sometimes new mothers get this thing called postpartum depression. She says it really does a number on new moms. Maybe that is what’s going on with you. Think maybe you should go see Dr. Winslow? Maybe she can prescribe something.”

      Abruptly, Fiona rose from her chair. She glared at David. “And just who are you to be discussing me with some bimbo from the office pool? You got no right to be talking behind my back. And I don’t need a prescription from Dr. Winslow.”

      “It’s not like that,” David said. “Janie just asked how everything was going with the new baby and one thing led to another. She’s experienced the depression thing and really had a bad time until she saw her doctor. She was only trying to offer a suggestion.”  

      “Well, I suggest she mind her own business and not speak of that of which she has no knowledge. And as for you, I’ll appreciate if you keep your big mouth shut when it comes to my affairs.”

      “But, they’re my affairs too! However, you don’t seem to be able to see that. You forget Brandon is my child also, and I would like to think I have some say in the matter.”

      “Then say it to me and not the office gossip!”

      “It’s just that I’m worried about you.”

      “You don’t have to worry about me. I know what’s real and not real. You best be worrying about that thing in the other room.” 

      As if on cue, a wail blared from the baby monitor. 

      David flipped the lever on his recliner and started to stand up. “Probably needs to be changed,” he said softly. “I’ll go.”

      “Oh no, stay where you are. I’ll take care of it. After all isn’t that what a good mother is supposed to do?”

      “I didn’t say you weren’t a good mother. Having your first baby can be overwhelming for anyone. I was thinking maybe I should do a little more and let you rest up.”

      “Shut up David. Every time you open your mouth you sink deeper in your own stupidity. Don’t worry, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of the situation.”

      “Okay.”

      Fiona stood motionless while the wailing continued to flow from the baby monitor. She waited for David to sink back into his recliner before she strode out of the room into the kitchen.

      The wailing continued as David picked up the controller for the baby monitor to view the nursery on its LED screen. He could see Brandon’s tiny arms and legs twitching as he cried. Fiona appeared. Reaching the crib, she raised a fist above her head.  Before he could make out what she was holding, she swung her arm down toward Brandon.

      The wailing stopped.

      David jumped up from his recliner and tore down the hall. He lurched into the nursery. “Fiona! What have you done?” he screamed, shoving Fiona aside. He peered into Brandon’s crib. The chef’s knife Fiona had brought from the kitchen protruded from the infant’s torso. David gasped in anguish as a crimson Rorschach blotch wicked out into the sheets. In the next moment, the bloody stain evaporated, and the lifeless body melted into a lump of clay resembling a clumsily formed gingerbread man. 

      Fiona smiled. “Don't worry, David” she said, “I killed the changeling. Now all we have to do is find Brandon.” 

About the author 

Paul Stansbury is a life long native of Kentucky. He is the author of Inversion - Not Your Ordinary Stories; Inversion II - Creatures, Fairies, and Haints, Oh My!; Down By the Creek – Ripples and Reflections, as well as a novelette: Little Green Men? His speculative fiction stories have appeared in a number of print anthologies as well as a variety of online publications. Now retired, he lives in Danville, Kentucky. www.paulstansbury.com

 

Don't Flatter Yourself

by Mary Daurio 

Earl Grey tea 

I headed off to school, so Dad lost his general dogsbody to help out with the horses. Mom filled in, though she was lucky to know the mane from the tail.

“It will be fine Enid. You can drive Bead. He's gentle, and you’ll be safe as  in your mother’s arms.” Dad poured her a cup of tea.  He slid it towards her, across the table, then gently caressed her dainty hand.

The fact that her mother had been dead for several years didn’t make the prospect very appealing. Furthermore, Bead was a huge horse with pie plate hooves. Mom always thought he should be carrying a knight in shining armour, never mind pulling a cart. He was a beautiful Standardbred. Breading being what it was in those days he could have had a little Percheron in his bloodlines, as he was massive and shining black. Despite her inexperience and Bead’s size, she gamely agreed to lend a hand.

It all went well on the trip down the road away from the farm. Bead tucked his head in behind father and followed the lead horse. Mom didn’t have to do much real driving, just hold the reins. It was the trip home that caused the grief. They turned their horses on the road, and now Bead was in the lead. We used to let the horses travel home pretty quick;  they wanted to anyway, and it gave us an idea of the speed they had. I didn’t say it was a good idea. Bead, now with the prospect of home and following a habit we allowed took off on the trot, tail in the air, his pie-plate hooves eating up the road. Mom did the only thing she knew how, pull on the reins. Classic rookie mistake, instead of the desired effect this just made Bead go faster.  Dad hollered “Let the lines go loose!”  Standardbreds go faster when you pull on the lines.

Mom couldn’t hear him, and Bead didn’t let up until he was in the barnyard. She got off the cart and waited for Dad and his horse to arrive. Giving the big black horse a pat she said, “No offence boy but I like my beads on a necklace!”

 Her voice and her hands shook. “That’s it for me. You can tend to these horses. I’ve housework calling my name, and from now on that’s where I’ll stay!”

Days passed, and Mom was called into service again. Not with the horses this time, but to help fix the line fence at the river crossing. Cows were finding their way through. Fencing was also something I would have helped with if at home. Mom took to the task riding beside Dad on the little B tractor, as it would be needed to pull the wire tight for proper fence mending.

The river at the point of mending was at least waist-deep in a dry year with a shallow ledge bordering the deep. Dad waded in and secured the wire. It was when he came back to the little B that trouble came fast and furious. He used the wheel of the tractor to haul himself out, and his legs slipped behind the tire as the tractor bucked back and landed on him, pinning him beneath it. The little B was mired in mud, firmly planting him in the soggy river bed. The water threating to cover him completely. 

He gasped, the wind knocked out of him. “Enid, go get the big tractor and the chain. You’ll have to pull this tractor off me.”

She ran to the shed as if Satan was chasing her, and powered back with the big Newfield tractor and the heavy chain. Dad sandwiched between the little B, and the muddy river bed was thankful for its cushion, so the weight of the machine wasn’t on him completely. His legs were losing feeling, and he admitted to being scared. Cold and tired, he was still able to direct her.

Her hands slipped on the chain as she connected it, joining the two tractors. Her knuckles came away bloody. “Jesus Christ,” she said. Dad wasn’t sure if she was cursing or praying, because he never heard her curse in all their years of marriage.

It was time to try and haul the little tractor out of the river. The Newfield had the power, hopefully. If it failed and the B slid back further into the mud and water it would be a total disaster. Dad would remain buried in mud like a crawdad.

“Enid,  take her out in first gear and not much throttle. Let her pull slow and steady. “ He stopped because he was losing his wind, and she waited, worried. He drew in as deep a breath as he was able and continued. “If you feel your tires slipping back, brake and we'll re-evaluate. I know you can do it.”

She did, and he lived to play another day. Once the tractor was off him, Dad couldn't get up by himself. His legs were numb and semi-useless, so Mom had to haul him up. She was sweating and panting, thankful for the cool fall breeze that sang through the willows at the river bank. Thankful for that and a whole lot more.

“I should have put the chain on you,” she said, hugging him as he leaned against her and kissed her bloody knuckles with his muddy lips.

 I went home that weekend and heard all they had been up to and wondered if it was safe to leave this pair alone.

Dad tells his story about the fiasco with the tractor and ends it, “I knew she loved me the way her feet flew to get the tractor and rescue me from disaster. She still carries the torch!”

Mom turned around from the stove where she was tending stew and laughed as loud as I ever heard her.“Don’t flatter yourself, boy. I just didn’t want to get stuck caring for those crow bait horses you insist on filling the barn with.”

It'll Pass

by Sarah Bakewell

chamomile tea

It’ll pass.

Everything seems so unbearable. So difficult. So overwhelming.

It’ll pass.

It’s too much. There’s just too much crashing down all at once.

It’ll pass.

I’m struggling. Again. I can never remember how to get out of it.

It’ll pass.

I know it’ll pass but when? It’s been days. I want to do something to make it go away sooner.

‘It’ go away, or ‘you’ go away?

Whichever.

It’ll pass. Be patient. You have to ride it out.

Why? Says who? Who for? Who’s making it happen, testing how I deal with it?

Breathe.

What if I don’t want to anymore?

You do. Keep breathing. All will be well.

… It’ll pass.

That’s right. It’ll pass.

An Important Call

by Rosemary Johnson 

 

Bitter Lemon

 

“Your call is important to us.  It has been placed in a queue.”

Greensleeves.

“Calls may be recorded for training and quality purposes.”

Handel’s Water Music, played on something weird, panpipes possibly.

“All our call-centre operatives are busy.”

Something by Bach… well known, terribly well known, but what on earth is it? 

“We are experiencing an exceptionally high volume of calls at this time.”  You don’t say?

Signature-tune to some television programme from the nineteen eighties.

“Answers to many frequently asked questions are available on our website.”  Yipperty do-dah.

I know that signature tune so well, but what was the programme?  I remember that I didn’t like it.

“Customers are respectfully requested to check that appliances are connected to the power supply.”

Yes, yes, yes.  I know all about the bloke (or woman) who swore his or her printer didn’t work and found he or she hadn’t switched it on.  But I'm not an idiot.  My issue is real.  I click my mouse several times.  Still nothing happening.  I need to speak to someone, a human being.

Still that awful theme tune.  I didn’t like it at the time, or the programme.  I don’t want to hear another note.  Come on.  Speak to me.

“Callers are invited to visit our website…”  But what good is that to me?

Come on, come on.  Where are you, you terribly busy call-centre operatives?  I don’t believe you’re there at all.

Not Greensleeves again.  I'm going to complain.  On Facebook, on Twitter – oh no, I can’t.  I’ll write to the local paper.  I’ll contact my MP, the Prime Minister, even.  He needs to know that people in this country have stopped talking to each other. 

“Good afternoon, caller.  How can I help you today?”

“Right.  At last.  I’ve got no internet.”

“No internet, madam?”

“Yes.  I mean, no.  No internet.  And I need you to send someone round- ”

“We don’t deal with internet queries here, madam.  You’ll need to log your service request through our website.”

How?

About the author

Rosemary is returning to short story writing after spending time writing a historical novel.  She has stories published, recently, in The Copperfield Review, CafeLit, Radgepacket, Mslexia and 101 Words.  In real life, Rosemary lives with her husband and cat in Essex, England.  She blogs about writing and everyday life at https://rosemaryreaderandwriter.wordpress.com

The Search

by Tina Stager 

black coffee

Saturday night out with friends. We have been dancing for hours. The disc jockey played some of my favorite songs. I was having a fabulous time.

At four o’clock the music went silent. Is it that late already? I didn’t want to go home yet, so we went to the pub down the street to have the last beer.

There were five of us left. Dawn was breaking, when we decided to go to my place. We took the first bus and went into my apartment. There was enough room for us on the big couch.

MTV was playing eighties songs in the background and we were drinking and chatting about this and that.

After a little while, I got up and went into my bedroom, where I started emptying my closet. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left in there. I did the same with my nightstand, then returned to the living room.

Next was the kitchen. I checked the fridge for its content, opened all the drawers, but didn’t find anything. I took out the plates and glasses, even the pots and pans. Nothing to be found in the cutlery drawer either.

The others had been observing me for a while now. They didn’t quit chatting. They just kept observing me interestedly. There was only the living room left to search, that’s where everyone was sitting.

I went to the sideboard with all my papers and started opening one door after another. I took out the entire pack of folders, and checked them, just in case. But nothing.

After the sideboard, I went to the brown wooden tv stand. It had a couple of doors on both sides and two drawers in the middle. I started going through the left side, then the right. Nothing either.

When I had emptied the last two drawers I sat there, in the middle of my living room, between the disaster I had just made. I was irritated. I had been searching the whole place for almost two hours. But there was nothing to be found.

One of my friends finally asked what everyone else was too scared to ask:

“What are you looking for?”

There was a sudden silence and stared at me, curious for my answer.

“The sense of life,” I said quietly and went back to going through my drawers without another word.

Miss Pringle Takes the Metro

by Gill James

still water

Miss Pringle did not like the Metrolink. It shuffled and shook her. Many of the people on it were a bit smelly and usually the smelliest of them all would sit themselves down right next to her. Or the only seat remaining would be next to someone who was a bit fatter than they should be and they would take up half of her seat.

However, it was cheaper than paying to park and it would save the hassle with the traffic.

She didn’t have to wait long for a tram. And though there were a lot of people on the platform she managed to find a double seat to herself. She generally marvelled at how selfish some people travelling alone could be. They would take up a double seat and later couples who wanted to travel together had to sit separately. But of course it was different for her. She was Miss Pringle, now retired, but formerly the respected teacher of thousands, yes thousands of infant school children over the years.

It wasn’t the best seat. It was rather near the wibbly-wobbly one that was in the bend in the tram. The bar on the window spoilt her view. If she had to travel by tram, she liked a window seat with a good open view of people’s back gardens. Her very favourite seat was behind the driver; it made her feel as if she was driving the tram.

It must have been all those years of teaching the little ones. That was the sort of thing they liked to do. It must have rubbed off on her.       

At Whitefield a couple with a young daughter got on. They stood near the door.  

“Why don’t you go and sit next to that lady?” said the father.

Miss Pringle shot the little girl one of her school teacher looks. Don’t you dare.   

The little girl buried her head in her father’s arm.

At Prestwich another young family got on.

“There’s a seat next to that lady,” said the mother.

The little boy shook his head and turned his back on Miss Pringle.

Quite right, too. She was no lady. It was funny how when she’d been a girl children were expected to get up from their seats and let grown-ups sit down.  Nowadays it was all about the children. Well she wasn’t budging.  She was over 60 now.

She was aware of a young man sitting behind her on the wibbly-wobbly seat. Well you could hardly ignore him He was constantly on his mobile and when he wasn’t making or receiving a call, he was exchanging texts with someone or playing some noisy game.

It was an intrusion into people’s alone time. If he’d been one of hers she’d have given him what far. So selfish!

The young man also had his feet on the other single seat opposite his own.  Disgraceful.  

At Crumpsall a third family got on, an extended one this time. Hindus, Miss Pringle thought. The females all wore shalwar kameez and had their heads covered. The matriarch, a big-boned woman, but perhaps not fat, promptly sat down next to Miss Pringle. At least she didn’t smell, except perhaps of a rather sickly perfume she was wearing. She should at least be grateful that the woman was clean.

The older woman, the same age as herself, Miss Pringle supposed, nodded and smiled. She seemed to be very careful about not taking up more than her half of the seat. 

The younger woman and the two High School girls made their way down the aisle. The man held the little boy’s hand tightly.

“Here,” said the young man with the phone. “Take these seats.”

The younger woman and the older of the two girls took the two wibbly-wobbly seats.  The older girl pulled the little boy up to sit on his lap. The younger girl and her father held on tight.   

“It’s so nice to see that young people still have some manners, is it not?” said the woman sitting next to Miss Pringle.

“It is indeed,” said Miss Pringle, though it hadn’t been quite what she had expected. A shock, really.    

Now what could she complain about?     

About the author 

Gill James writes fiction of all lengths for children, adults and young adults. She also works as an editor and publisher and in fact edits this e-zine, 

http://www.gilljameswriter.eu/   

Jed and Tanya

by Nick Jarrold

stewed tea

 Not again, thought Jed as he woke up that cold and misty Monday January morning. It was that in-between time. In-between New Year and that first pay day of the year. It was miserable, no one wanted to go out as they'd over indulged during the festive period, there was nothing yet to look forward to. And the weather was shit.

He'd been in his job for the local railway company for more than a decade now, and over the last few months had really come to resent it. Well not the job. Her. He was good at what he did, he knew that and he'd been told by many of his colleagues and peers, some of whom who were now his friends. But she didn't think so. Not Tanya.

She'd come in as his boss around six months ago and for the first month or so, everything was fine, as she learnt the ropes and got her feet under the table. But not long after that the little digs started.

“Why's this taking so long?“

“That's not how I'd do it.“

“This could be better.”

Jed was a patient guy, but there was only so so much even he could take. It got worse as time went on. She took great pleasure in ridiculing him in front of his peers in a meeting without even thinking twice about it. As they were leaving the boardroom and heading back to their desks, Ben said to him “That was a bit harsh wasn't it?

At least Jed knew it wasn't just in his head, and that was some consolation.

As he made his way through the doors of the office in the City of London, that dread and anxiety he felt in the pit of his stomach returned with abundance. It had been there the entirety of his hour long train journey, but was at its worst the closer he got to work. He felt this way every day, especially Monday mornings. He hadn't always felt this way. He use to love his job, yes sometimes he had so much work to do he couldn't see how he'd get it all done, but at least he enjoyed it. That feeling was now a long and distant memory.

The lift made its way to the second floor and he kept quiet, looking at the floor, not wanting the doors to open. He wasn't yet ready to face talking to anyone, it was too early and he'd not yet had any caffeine. But it wasn't long before he was forced into his first conversations of the day, even if it was just a pleasant 'Good morning” to the people he passed on the way to his desk.

She wasn't in yet, thank god. Maybe she'd had some horrible accident at the weekend or on her way to work. Jed normally didn't have these irrational thoughts. Only when it came to her. He laid his bag on the desk and made his way to the cafe in the corner of the office and asked the person serving for a large flat white. It was then that his day got that little bit worse.

Tanya hadn't been in a horrible accident over the weekend, there she was large as life in the cafe, laughing in that annoying way, with her huge teeth showing for all to see. Laughing at one of Rick's jokes. No doubt she didn't find it funny, she was just buttering him up so when she needed a favour he'd do it for her. There was always an underlying sexual tension between Tanya and Rick. Rick knew it and she played up to it as much as she could. The thought of being sexual with Rick repulsed her, but he didn't have to know that.

Her and Jed acknowledged each other with a monotone “Good morning” with no more to it than that. After being given his coffee and adding two sugars, Jed made his way back to his desk. He had no meetings that morning, and thankfully Tanya did, for most of the morning. So at least he'd be left alone to get on with his, in her view, sub-par work. She came back to her desk around 12.15, not long before she took her lunch break 15 minutes later.

“How's the piece for Martin coming along?” she said, almost snapping as she did so.

“I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. This press release about the new product is taking longer than I thought.

It's next on my list, ” he said, trying to appease her.

“Why? It's a simple piece to do, shouldn't take YOU long.” With the emphasis on the word you.

“I want to make sure I've covered everything before sending it off,” he replied

She didn't say anything for a second, then replied “I want to see it before you do to make sure I'm happy with it, I've been doing that a bit too often recently.”

This really wound Jed up as she loved to take any opportunity she could find to put the boot in, especially when there were other people around.

That was it. The straw that broke the camel's back. Everything that had been building up inside, all the feelings, all the negative thoughts he'd had since she'd joined, came to the fore and he didn't care who heard.

“D'you know what Tanya, why don't you just fuck off?” Jed couldn't believe the words were coming out of his mouth, but he couldn't stop now. Here it comes.

“I've had enough. Enough of your sly little comments, the digs, the put-downs in private and in front of others. Fair enough, I might not be your cup of tea, I get that and you're not stupid, you know exactly what you're doing.  You didn't like me from the minute you walked in here, and you've made my life a misery ever since.

Do you know what you are? You're a bully and I'm done being the victim. So you can take your job and shove it up your arse, cos I quit.”

With the words still ringing in her ears, and the whole office silent, he picked up his bag and left that office for the last time, leaving Tanya speechless. A feat in itself.