Envy

by Mari Phillips

cold tea

Friends envied their holidays.

“Where are you going next?” featured in most conversations.

“Don’t know, we’ll see,” their stock reply.

Susan reflected on this as she held Jim’s hand. This time it was a short break in Milan.

Jim’s hand was icy cold; the ventilator whooshed.

They switched it off.

The Other Side Of This Life

by Doug Hawley

                                                       Under The Sheets 

After a string of losses, at last something good was coming my way.  My wife of fifteen years had left me a month ago leaving me a financial and emotional wreck.  Rather than a home cooked meal and a glass of wine for dinner as it was early in my marriage, I’d been eating bar food and drinking too much. My new assignment at Multipor magazine at least meant that my boss hadn’t decided to fire me.

In fact, it was much better than that.  As much as my other woes were dragging me down, I could see some kind of award, maybe even a Pulitzer if I did a good job.  I suppose that some didn’t see the potential in the story that I did.  The research arm of XHSU had received a huge grant to find a cure for or more likely cures for cancer.  I was to report on their progress, but more importantly, divulge the personalities of the leaders.  Multipor magazine depended more on scandal and celebrity than science.

“It’s no cure for cancer” has been a cliché for something which isn’t too difficult, but curing cancer has been the unattainable holy grail of medicine for as long as there has been medicine. There are both skeptics and optimists about the chance of XHSU getting there. It had already made significant progress and had great funding and doctors. Still, progress was incremental.

The institution gave us full access.  Their stated objective was to get more funding.  My suspicion that it was also to get more press for some of the prima donna doctors was quickly confirmed.

I met Sheila Hopkins, the project leader first.  Of course, I have to tone it down, when writing my article, but she is the coldest fish that I’ve ever met, and that includes real fish. The body language, her talk, her dress and her body all said loudly “I’m all business and I won’t waste any more time with you than I absolutely have to”.  As quickly as she could, she outlined the approach that she and her staff were taking – find a way for anti-bodies to attack and kill any cancer cells.  The problem was that the cancer cells ‘wanted’ to survive and had clever adaptations to hide from those anti-bodies.  The approach that XHSU was taking was the same general one that had limited success with other cancers – ‘educate’ the anti-bodies with modified bacteria or viruses to break through the cancer defenses.  No one approach would work for all cancers, but under her direction, team doctors would attack the worst cancers – lung, breast, ovarian and prostate first.

Hopkins was such a cliché of a frigid, anti-social woman that I thought that I must have gotten the wrong impression from our first meeting.  Later interviews confirmed that my first impression was the right one.

After a couple of interviews with more or less normal doctors, I had the misfortune of interviewing a self-promoting asshole “Hi, I’m Jason Jensen, but call me JJ.”  How was he an asshole?  Let me give a partial inventory.  As nearly as this ink-stained wretch could determine, his suit cost over a thousand dollars, and his haircut, maybe only a hundred. He subtly or not so subtly ran down every other person on the team.  He called Hopkins “his associate” when she was clearly his boss.  Because he must have felt that was inadequate, he mumbled something about her “playing on the other team”, not that he objected. I believe that comment came from his alleged attempts to get next to her. He claimed that his two divorces were caused by work pressures, but the majority opinion was that he couldn’t keep it in his pants.  Have I mentioned his cologne?  Quantity over quality.

It was easy for me to invent an excuse to turn down dinner with him.  I didn’t need any more of his wonderfulness and everyone else’s inadequacy.

Back at home I backgrounded the two most interesting interviewees.  Hopkins came from a middle class family.  At every level in school she was freaky smart.  The only thing unusual outside of that was that her only sibling, a much younger brother, had died in an accident. That was the only thing that I could find that could possibly explain her blandness and lack of affect.  Jansen was much easier to explain.  His father had been a state representative with unrequited ambition for higher office.  His mother had been the state attorney general. Hopkins earned everything that she got the hard way.  Jensen made it by his parent’s influence and money. The twice divorced doctor profile resembles one of our former governors in some ways.  I would bet money that he’s hoping for a repeat of that former governor’s success without repeating the part about resigning in disgrace.

Something was nagging me about the interviews, but try as I might I couldn’t bring it to the surface.

The next day I only interviewed Hopkins.  I had decided to try to break her of her ‘just the facts’ attitude.  My bait was to taunt her with criticisms from doctors at the University Of Spokane Medical School.  They claimed that what she was trying had only had limited success and no potential. Grim-faced as always, she said “They can kill you, but they can’t eat you.”  As soon as I heard that, my puzzle was solved.  She could see it on my face and told me “You know I’m really busy.  Can we finish this over dinner tonight?”

I agreed and we set the parameters.  I wasn’t surprised that she mentioned a place known for its discretion and privacy.

I must back up a little. Wife Ellen and I had grown apart after fifteen years.  She had her part time accounting job, her social circle and two or three volunteer activities that I don’t even remember. Yes, you can say bad husband. I mostly drank into the night with reporters and sometimes availed myself of hookers before and after the divorce.  Even though I deserved it, and maybe hadn’t loved her for years, it hurt a lot when she left.

A year after Ellen divorced me I was solicited by an unbelievably attractive prostitute while I was out drinking. Tall, blonde, hourglass figure, husky voice, she had it all.  I spent the most exciting night of my life with her.  On our way out of the door, a drunk almost knocked me down.  She shrugged and said, you guessed it, “They can kill you, but they can’t eat you.”  It struck me at the time that in some cases they do eat you, but that’s not the point. Remembering that night, I realized that Sheila is Sephora.

At dinner, the first thing that Sheila said was “Before I talk anymore, you must agree to two things.  First this is all off the record and second, you won’t try any two bit therapy on me.”  I didn’t have much choice, so I agreed.

“If you are any good as a journalist, you did a background check on me for your article.  You probably know that my only brother died in an accident.  If you were really thorough, you know that I was really close to Bobby.  I was even kind of a second mother to him because I was ten years older.  He really looked up to me and I got a kick out of helping him with schoolwork.  Ah shit, that horrible day.  For some reason, he was really bugging me.  ‘Sheila’s got a boyfriend. Sheila’s kissing Johnny.  Suck face.  uck face.’ At least that’s what I remember.  I got annoyed beyond reason and yelled at him ‘Go play in the street, you little shit’.  He gave me a really hurt look and ran out into the street without looking and was hit and killed.”

“I never told anyone why he ran into the street. I claimed that I couldn’t explain it.  They made me go into counseling which is where I learned to hate the shrink industry.  ‘How do you feel about that?’  ‘Do you have feelings of guilt?’  So much helpless, hopeless, useless bullshit.  Of course I felt guilty, but I never told them the depth of my guilt.”

“You may think that my slut side is an attempt to punish myself. No one really knows why people do things.  Usually we rationalize decisions and behaviors rather than understand them.  No one knows what I would be doing now without watching Bobby die.  My interest in curing cancer may look like I’m trying to balance my life by saving lives, but I was interested in biology well before the incident.”

As she went through her story, I was thinking just what she imagined I was thinking, but she was right about reaching easy conclusions.

“Do you have any questions now?”

“Quite a few now, but let me start with a simple one.  I paid for your services.  Why do you charge for sex?  Not that it wasn’t worth it, but you don’t need the money.”

“Fair enough.  In case you don’t remember, I didn’t ask for anything.  You and some others think that I’m a whore and leave various amounts of money.  When that happens, the housekeeper gets a very good tip.  Next.”

“Sheila and Sephora don’t look, smell or sound much alike.  How do you do that?”

“Smell is easy.  Sheila is fragrance free and Sephora goes in for exotic fragrances.  I lower my voice when I’m Sephora.  Looks require a little more work.  Underwear makes Sheila stick-like and Sephora voluptuous.  I’m 4 inches taller as Sephora with stiletto heels and the wig makes me blonde.”

“How do you keep your lives separate?”

“My lives are separated by the clock.  On the nights I decide to be Sephora, I usually am her from about 10pm to 2am.  I never stay away from home all night.  I live in a neighborhood where we all lead anonymous lives. We don’t have block parties or anything like that. I suspect that I may have some very kinky neighbors but they don’t pry into my life and I don’t hang out with them.”

“Are you Sheila or Sephora?”

“I don’t have multiple personalities if that’s what you think.  I’m Sheila and Sephora is an act.  That isn’t quite honest.  I’m a little bit Sephora.”

“Have you ever had any continuing interest in any of your pickups?”  After I asked this, I blushed a little bit when I realized why I'd asked it.

Sheila paused “Rarely.  Nothing I’ve ever acted on.”

I hope that I kept my optimism at her response hidden.

“Have you ever been close to having your cover blown?”

“Once that asshole Jason Jensen was at the same dive bar that Sephora was.  I had to leave, because if he hit on Sheila, he definitely would hit on Sephora, and I couldn’t risk being identified.

I wrapped up the article a little later.  While attempting to appear objective, it was easy to use quotes and information from various sources to make Sheila clearly the genius that she is and Jason the dick that he is.  The words of others supported Sheila, but Jason’s own words sank him.  The article suggested, but did not say, that cancer would largely be eliminated in about five years.

My article was controversial with a lot of supporters and detractors about my prediction of a cure.  It ended up collecting a couple of local awards, but no Pulitzer, and I got a raise.

I’m drawn to Sheila / Sephora, but don’t know what to do.  I don’t even know if it is Sheila’s brilliance or Sephora’s sensuality that obsesses me.  I have the faint hope that I’m one of the rare ones that Sephora liked.  I’ll call Sheila tomorrow and hope for the best.  Maybe knowing both of them will give me an edge.

This story previously appeared in Scarlet Leaf.

About the author 

The author is a little old man who lives in Lake Oswego Oregon USA with editor Sharon and cat Kitzhaber.  Besides writing, he hikes, snow shoes, collects music and volunteers.

More here https://sites.google.com/site/aberrantword/ and here https://doug.car.blog/

Besties

by Margaret Drummond

dark mocha coffee

“There’s a gap in the fence over there.”

No need to turn around. I knew who it was. Kitty.  I wondered if she had been there all the time, watching, waiting for the right time. I pictured her sleeping rough under the bridges and rifling for food amongst the bins that lined the path. I could feel her fetid breath hot on my neck as she stood close to me on the embankment, trailing the stench of the canal behind her.

 “Where did you spring from?” I snapped.

Kitty smiled mischievously and put her finger to her lips. “Here and there, ” she said.

“We could go down there now,” she continued.” It would be a laugh. Like old times”

 I shook my head. “I’m too old to play those games. Anyway, I’m still angry with you...”

Tears stung as the wind whipped about my face. Finally Kitty said, “You know why I had to go away... your mum always said......”

It was true my parents never liked her.

Of course I said nothing when I got home.

“Nice walk love? Good to get a bit of fresh air,” said Mum, setting the mug down as usual beside the blue eggcup. My favourite eggcup but chipped now.  “Don’t forget,” said mum nodding at the eggcup in her infuriatingly encouraging way.

 I wondered what she would say if I told her.  Told her about seeing Kitty again.

“That chip bothers me,” I said.

 Mum nodded. “We can get rid of it if that’s what you want.”

“No,” I said quickly. “It reminds me of when I was small.”

She smiled as if that might help and picked up her magazine once again. I remembered that day when Kitty and I took all the egg cups out to the garden and set them down on a lace cloth on the lawn. A tea party, Kitty said, for some friends of hers who predictably never showed up.

Mum’s face seared scarlet. “Where on earth did you get that cloth? That was my grandmother’s. And those egg cups....I sent off for those special. ”

“Kitty found them,” I said. “In the sideboard.”

As I said before, Mum never liked Kitty.

After that Mum often invited Deborah from next door over to play. Deborah, who only played with me because our mothers were friends and who ignored me at school.  And she told the others about Kitty. The others whispered and sniggered and called me a weirdo.  

“So... don’t like her either,” said Kitty one day as we watched Deborah thank Mum ever so politely for having her. “Here,” said Kitty, spitefully passing me the nail scissors. “Cut the hair off that Barbie and we’ll tell your mum that Deborah did it."

But after a while things with Kitty began to get out of hand.

“Stealing from the teacher’s purse! I never heard of such a thing,” Mum wailed. “And don’t Kitty me. You’re old enough to know better my girl.”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore,” I told Kitty. “You can’t live here with us any longer.”

I was frightened to say it. I had learned to fear Kitty’s rages, when she would flail like the willows beside the canal in the autumn gales and scream like the seagulls that circled the sky above the reeds. But instead Kitty just nodded meekly and said, “Yes, maybe it’s time to go....but we’ll always be besties. Your best interests are my main concern.”

Funny turn of phrase that. That was just what the lady doctor said to me. I struggled to keep a straight face then. She could never guess that Kitty was behind her mouthing those exact same words.

But Kitty did leave eventually, although never quite for good.

“You alright love?” Mum would say fearfully when she caught me looking past her as I strained to make out Kitty’s shadow in the street or when I twitched at the sound of her furtive footsteps on the landing. 

“You would tell me if.....”

“Don’t be silly,” I would say. The echo of a giggle would hang in the air and we both knew that Kitty was never far away.

 “You would tell me...” begged Mum later that day, but after tea I made my excuses and went down to the canal again. Because it had to stop. I couldn’t, I shouldn’t be friends with Kitty anymore.

“Knew you’d come back,” said Kitty as I stood on the embankment once again. “Come down to the path with me. All sorts down there.”

“I’m not stopping,” I said, trying to sound like Mum had done when she spoke to the doctors.  “This really isn’t the best place for me.”

Because that’s what Mum had said when she took me out of there. “This isn’t the best place for my daughter,” and just like Kitty was doing now, Mum had put her hand on my shoulder to guide me.

But before I knew it I was peering over the edge of the concrete path into the brackish water, watching the waves eddy over the secret peaks and valleys below. My toes peeked over the path. I was like a diver on the high board ready to plunge the depths. Behind me I heard the hum of a car-engine, smelled acrid diesel fumes. “See the rainbows on the surface,” hissed Kitty urgently in my ear. “It’s beautiful down there, a city below.”

“But I can’t,” I said, shrugging the heavy hand from my shoulder. “Just leave me alone. Go away.”  

“Come. Let’s leave. Let’s go,” said the face beside me and for a split second I wasn’t sure whose voice I heard. The wind whisked the words far off into the reeds. I felt a hand grappling for mine, pulling me forwards, backwards. For a moment I wasn’t sure. Was it Kitty or Mum I could hear over the lapping waves? Whose fingers were now snared with mine? Urging me onwards? Leading me somewhere? Making me follow? 

About the author

Margaret Drummond is a retired teacher and translator who writes short stories. She also writes about Europe for a variety of blogs and she is very interested in how cultures merge and change.

Soup-Legs

by Dawn Knox

Sauvignon Blanc 

 

Eddie eased the battered van into the car park.

“Stop over there on the left,” said the sat nav.

“Mind your own business,” said Eddie driving to the quay’s edge.  “I want to park here and look at the boats.”

“There are hardly any boats here,” sat nav said. “Just one old tub further along.”

Eddie pulled on the handbrake and sat back, his wings crossed over his chest. “I don’t intend to be bossed around by a navigational aid,” he said, as a bucket of what appeared to be whitewash hit the windscreen. A flock of seagulls circled and screeched overhead.

“Serves you right,” said the sat nav. “I told you not to park here.”

“Don’t try to pretend you knew that was going to happen,” said Eddie putting on the windscreen wipers.

“I know all sorts of things,” said the sat nav smugly.

“She has friends in high places!” said Brian, pointing at the seagulls.

“Very droll, small person,” said the sat nav, “but you would do well to listen to me in the future.”

“Yeah, yeah!” said Eddie.

“Why is everyone obsessed with size?” asked Brian.

“Just ignore her, I’m smaller than you and I don’t care,” said Colin, “and she’s just a machine. She hasn’t even got legs!”

“I don’t need legs,” said Sat Nav. “By the way, if you four gentlemen think you’re going off to your luxury apartment again and leaving me here on my own in this crummy van, think again…”

“There’ll be no more luxury apartment,” said Gideon sadly, “now we’ve been evicted.”

“Never mind,” said Colin, “Look on the bright side, we’ve got a new home and a new business.”

“You’re sure this boat is as good as you’ve been promised?” asked Eddie, “I thought you said it’d be parked here. I didn’t see it as we drove in. The only boat I can see is that old rust-bucket further up.” He pointed out of the side window at a decrepit boat moored along the quay.

“No, it’s not that one. That’s nothing like the photo at all,” said Colin, looking at the details about the boat they’d bought. 

“I’m surprised you can see anything through the windscreen,” said the sat nav sweetly. 

“Shall we get out and look for it?” asked Brian. “I’ve got an umbrella.” He looked up at the seagulls still wheeling overhead.

“You’ll need wellington boots if you’re going to get out of the van, old chap,” said Gideon., “It’s all over the ground too”.

“Or,” said the sat nav “you could…” 

“Okay, okay!” snapped Eddie, ramming the gear stick into reverse and driving to the spot the sat nav had suggested earlier. 

“What’s the boat called, Colin?” asked Brian as they walked along the quayside.

“Soup John Bee.”

“Don’t you mean Sloop John B, old chap?”

“No, it’s not a sloop. It’s a boat that’s been specially built to sail through this sort of soup. Bouillabaisse isn’t the easiest stuff to sail through. It’s all the bits in it that make it tricky. Vichyssoise is much easier to sail through but I couldn’t find anything within our price range on the other side of Macaroon.”

“I knew there’d be a problem!” said Eddie, “nothing could be as good as you made this business venture sound.”

“Of course, it can,” said Colin, “and anyway, I’ve got a bigger stake in this than any of you, I’ve sunk my life savings in it, so I’ve got more to lose. I’ve done my homework and what’s more, someone responded to my first advert in the Macaroon Chronicle and we’ve got a booking today.”

“Really?” said Eddie, “Well, we’d best find the right boat and make sure everything’s ship-shape.”

“Did you say Soup John Bee?” asked Brian who’d walked ahead of the others, “because I think I can see it.”

When the others caught up to Brian, there was a sharp intake of breath.

“Seriously?” said Eddie, “We own that?”

“Well, I own the biggest share,” said Colin with a smile. 

“It’s stunning!” said Eddie.

“Are they going to pipe us aboard?” asked Brian.

“Who?”

“The crew.”

“What crew? We’re the crew,” said Colin.

“But we don’t know how to sail a boat.”

“Here,” said Colin handing out books, “this is a crash course.”

Brian giggled.

“Don’t be so childish, Brian!” said Colin. 

Eddie ignored them both, “But didn’t you say we had a booking for a fishing trip today? We won’t have time to stock up and learn how to sail the boat. What time’s the client arriving?”

“We’ve got an hour to get ready,” said Colin, “but don’t worry. I’ll go and get some supplies, you familiarise yourself with the boat. It’ll be easy. All we have to do is start the engine and steer.”

“But what about fishing? I don’t know anything about it,” said Eddie.

“Stop worrying. We’re sailing on the Bouillabaisse Sea; how hard can it be to catch fish? They don’t call it fish soup for nothing. It would be much harder in the Vichyssoise Ocean but we can’t fail here, can we? Honestly, you three are so negative. What can possibly go wrong?” 

When Colin arrived back at the boat with boxes of provisions, he was frowning.

“The client phoned me. He’ll be arriving earlier than expected and he’s bringing a guest.”

“Is that a problem?” asked Eddie, “You look rather worried.”

“No, nothing to worry about but I’ve bought some new outfits so our guests will feel at home,” said Colin biting his lower lip.

“Sailors’ outfits?” asked Brian.

“Not exactly…”

He unpacked four clown costumes. 

There was silence for a few minutes while Brian, Eddie and Gideon surveyed the colourful wigs, red noses, enormous shoes and baggy suits with pom-pom buttons. 

“Why?” asked Eddie slowly.

“Well, I didn’t realise when he first booked, but it turns out that by chance, our first client is Phineas Frogg and I thought it might make him feel at home.”

“But—“ 

“Just put it on!” snapped Colin, “Do it now! Mr Frogg and his guest have just pulled into the carpark.” 

Three clowns stood to attention as Mr Frogg and his guest walked up the gangplank. He clapped his hands together in delight, “Oh, how wonderful! It’s like home from home, isn’t it Mr Krapowski?”

Eddie squawked in alarm, “You didn’t say anything about Mr Krapowski!” he said out of the side of his beak. 

“I didn’t know he was coming, I swear! …Well, not to begin with,” whispered Colin.

“Ah! So now the clown costumes make sense!” said Eddie.

Colin gulped, “I don’t think I feel very well.”

The fox scowled at the clowns, “Let’s hope they’re more professional than they look, eh, Frogg?” 

“Well, this is a new enterprise. I expect they’re just experiencing a few teething problems. I was the first to respond to their advert in the Macaroon Gazette and as their first client, I got a really good deal.” He turned to the clowns.  “Now which one of you is Mr Colin?” 

Eddie turned to Brian. Brian turned to Gideon. Gideon pointed to the clown draped over the side of the ship. 

“I think it might take him a while to get his soup-legs,” said Eddie “so, if you’d like to go aft, we’ll serve some drinks and get underway.”

Behind enormous noses, Gideon’s and Brian’s eyes swivelled right and left, unsure which way was ‘aft’, until Eddie jerked his head towards the rear of the boat indicating which way they should go.

They gestured silently to each other, eyes wide in horror. 

“D’you think he’ll recognise us?”

“No, just keep cool and act like a clown.”

Colin groaned loudly and lost more of his breakfast over the gunwale. 

“We haven’t even got out into the open soup!” said Brian “what’s he going to be like when it starts getting a bit choppy?” 

“Drinks!” roared Mr Krapowski from the aft of the boat. 

“Will he ever stop whining?” Brian whispered to Eddie.

“Just be grateful he hasn’t recognised us yet. If he had, he’d have made us all walk the plank.”

“More drinks!” shouted Mr Krapowski, “And will one of you clowns move this boat. We’ve pulled all the fish bits out of this area. Let’s move!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” said Eddie, “I’m trying but there seems to be a problem.”

“I thought you said they ran a tight ship, Frogg” Mr Krapowski said. 

“They’re doing their best, sir!”

“Clowns! All of them!”

“I think there’s something tangled round the propeller,” said Eddie flicking through a boat engine manual, “it could be a bit of onion.”

 “Well fix it!” yelled Mr Krapowski.

“Where’s the propeller, old chap?” whispered Gideon.

“You!” shouted Mr Krapowski at the crumpled clown slumped over the side of the boat, “You haven’t done anything since we set off. You’re half way in the soup anyway, you go and fix the propeller…” 

He seized Colin by the pom-poms and tipped him over the side.

At that instant, the engine roared into life.

“Obviously not the propeller, then,” said Eddie running an oily wingtip down the page of the manual.

“Clown overboard!” shouted Brian and he flung a life ring at the bedraggled figure with the green face who was looking up from the Bouillabaisse. His wig floated like a drowned animal next to him and his enormous, red nose had disappeared.

“I know you!” shouted Mr Krapowski, “You’re one of The Three Wise Monkeys! You and your friends cost me a fortune! Just let me get my hands on you!”

“I’m not sure what you boys did to Mr Krapowski,” said Phineas “but I’m very peeved he took it out on me too! Sailing off and leaving us on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean is mutiny!” His tiny arms were crossed over his puffed-out chest. 

“It’s a long story,” said Eddie.

“We’ve got nothing but time,” said Phineas.

“I’m not so sure,” said Brian, “I don’t think we have much time at all. The island is sinking.” 

“Rising soup levels?” asked Colin, whose green tinge had begun to fade now he was on dry land.

“No, old chap,” I’d say it had more to do with five fellows standing on this slice of baguette which is slowly disintegrating as it sinks into the Bouillabaisse.”

“This is outrageous!” said Phineas. He gulped and his eyes disappeared into his head. “He’s my employer. How dare he leave me in such danger! There must be laws against treating employees like this!”

“I think Mr Krapowski is a law unto himself,” said Brian.

There was silence for a few minutes while they contemplated their feet. Soup crept over the edge of the bread island. It glugged around their ankles.

“We could always swim for it,” suggested Colin. “We’ve got a life ring.”

“I can’t swim,” said Phineas.

“But you’re a frog!”

“No need to point out the obvious. I might be a frog but I still can’t swim.”

“Neither can I,” said Eddie, looking to the heavens for help. He paused and then pointing at the sky, he added, “What’s that?” 

“Seagulls!” said Brian, “And they’re heading straight for us! Why have I never got an umbrella when I need one?” 

“You’d have thought they’d have had enough target practice on my van… wait a minute! What’s that flying at the front of them?”

“I’ve never seen a bird like that, old thing,” said Gideon shading his eyes with a trotter, “it hasn’t got a head or wings. And it’s got whirly things on each side.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it at all,” said Colin.

“Ahoy there!” shouted the flying thing.

“Sat nav?” said Eddie, his beak dropping open.

“I saw Mr Krapowski return on that boat without you and thought you needed help.”

“Sat Nav! I’ve never been so pleased to see anyone in my life, although I didn’t know you looked like that. Normally, you’re just a voice.”

“I hired a drone at great expense to bring me out to find you. Now listen, I have a plan…”

 “Why is everyone obsessed with size?” Brian asked.

“Oh, stop moaning! At least the seagulls airlifted you and Colin off that island and brought you back to Macaroon. Us bigger chaps were up to our armpits in soup by the time you sailed back for us,” said Eddie. 

“Yes, but seagulls’ beaks are really sharp!” Brian said rubbing his shoulders, “And they tore my shirt.”

“What happened to Mr Krapowski?” asked Phineas, ignoring Brian’s complaints.

“The last time we saw him, he was dangling between two seagulls heading towards the Meringue Mountains,” said Colin. “They’d done a good job of camouflaging him. He was completely white. I understand the seagulls used him for moving target practice before they carried him away. Anyway, he won’t be back any time soon, so we can all relax and enjoy a lovely evening in the middle of the ocean”

“Who’s navigating?” asked Brian looking around.

“I am,” said the sat nav over the PA system, “Turn hard to starboard, just after that lump of fish.”

“So, who’s steering?”

“Phineas. Apparently, he’s always had a yearning to travel. He’s in his element. So, we can all just put our feet up and enjoy the sunset,” said Eddie. 

“Hoist up the John Bee’s sail, dum de dum de de dee…” sang the sat nav.

“For crying out loud,” said Eddie, “I hope she doesn’t keep that up. Can’t you turn her down?”

“There’s nothing like life on the ocean wave, is there?” said Colin, switching the PA system off.

“You’ve changed your tune, you almost turned yourself inside out with soup-sickness this morning,” said Brian.

“It seems I’ve got my soup-legs at last,” said Colin doing a lively hornpipe.

1. The Macaroon Chronicles Prologue and the Three Wise Monkeys - http://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/01/the-macaroon-chronicles-prologue-and.html?m=0
2. #ChickenInCustard - https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/02/chickenincustard.html
3. The Fine Print - https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/02/the-fine-print.html
4. French for Cheese - https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/02/french-for-cheese.html
5.  Porkies and Espiggy-onage (Lies and Spies) – https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/03/porkies-and-espiggy-onage-lies-and-spies.html
6. Nearly Death by Chocolate - https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/03/nearly-death-by-chocolate.html
7. Waxing Lyrical - https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/03/waxing-lyrical.html
8.  Seduced by Zeros - https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/04/seduced-by-zeros.html

About the author

Dawn’s latest book is ’The Basilwade Chronicles’ published by Chapeltown Books. She enjoys writing in different genres and has had romances, speculative fiction, sci-fi, humorous and women’s fiction published in magazines, anthologies and books. Dawn has also had two plays about World War One performed internationally. You can follow her here on https://dawnknox.com, Facebook here DawnKnoxWriter or on Twitter here https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls 

Stories

 by NT Franklin

ginger beer

“Oh Lord, he doing it again,” Katy said.

“That where the kids are?” Karen asked.

“Yup, downstairs in rapt attention to ‘Grampy stories’ as Randy calls them.” Is that where little Tommy is, too?”

Karen rolled her eyes. “Yes. Every holiday it takes weeks to ‘unlearn’ the lessons from Grampy.”

“Yeah, but Tommy isn’t speaking yet.”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t listening.”

“Karen, should we go rescue the kids before it’s too late? I had to explain why hood surfing is stupid and dangerous to Caleb–he’s a 6 year old–last Christmas.”

The girls looked toward the sound of a herd of elephants coming up the stairs. “Mommy, mommy, mommy,” three voices cried out in unison. “Grampy told us more stories. He promised even more after supper.”

“Wouldn’t you guys rather watch television tonight?”

“NO,” three voices replied. Little Tommy just giggled.

“Oh Lord,” was all Katy said.

Karen was cleaning up after supper in an empty kitchen while the wee ones were in the basement listening to Grampy. “Could be worse. At least we only visit for holidays.”

“Yeah, I know,” Katy agreed.

“Do you want to talk to him about it this time?”

Katy shook her head, “Nope, I did last time. See how well that worked? Your turn.”

Karen went downstairs to confront Grampy. Again.

“But there is nothing wrong with those stories. Good clean fun. Might be good to let the boys live a little. It’s not like they’re harmed walking in the woods. Just as dangerous on a city street, I figure.”

“Dad, Katy and I have been over this with you before. They’re young, impressionable children. They don’t live like that.”

“Might do them some good.”

“Are we done now? Don’t make me tell Mom we can’t visit her anymore. Don’t make me do it.”

Grampy nodded, but that was all.

All Easter plans were cancelled with the coronavirus mayhem. Everyone sheltered at home. But the epidemic moved extraordinarily quickly in some areas, even before alerts were issued. For some, the alerts were too late. Grampy caught the virus from a healthcare provider and didn’t make it two weeks.

Two Christmases later, Katy and Karen travelled to Grampy’s house. Their boys wanted to hear Grampy’s stories. Everyone settled for a picture album of the multiple generations.

Little Timmy pointed to a photo of Grampy and asked, “Who’s dat?”

Karen cried.

About the author

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

https://www.amazon.com/N.-T.-Franklin/e/B013YXUBW6
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100018933397624

 

Prairie Wind

by Jim Bates

mocha

Traveling from the East he came upon a tiny graveyard. It'd been nearly six hundred miles driving and, as he coasted to a stop outside the gate and turned off the engine, silence enveloped the car like warm blanket. That and the billowing clouds of dust driven by the relentless prairie wind.

            The old graveyard was situated on a low hill and located a mile outside the small town of Adair. He took a moment to collect himself, having driven straight though from Minnesota, following an uncontrollable desire to learn more about his great grandparents. And his roots. He lit a cigarette and smoked, trying to image what they'd gone through, traveling as they had, first from New York state all the way to Iowa and then across the great plains out here to the middle of nowhere. Nebraska. Their courage astounded him, Wyatt Plank, a guy who had yet to find himself let alone set off on the type of perilous journey his great grandparents had undertaken in the 1850's.

            He snubbed out his smoke, got out to the car and let himself in through the gate of the worn and rusted chain link fence that surrounded the desolate, half acre plot. Once inside he wandered aimlessly, studying the worn markers, marveling at how old they are were and thinking, Doesn't anyone get buried here anymore? Then he had a thought: Maybe there's no one around to die and get buried. For some reason the idea saddened him.

            He continued searching until he found his great grandmother, a causality of a wagon train heading to California, her stone battered by over a century of wind driven sand and debris. He knelt on the compacted ground and put his hand on her battered marker feeling at once a mysterious connection with her. He read the faint inscription: "Katherine Marie Plank. Beloved wife and mother. Born 1824 and Died 1856." After Katherine's death his great grandfather had buried her on this spot and returned to Iowa with his three children, never to return. Years later after the town was settled his great grandmother's lonely grave became the home of Adair's cemetery. How Wyatt's life might have been different if his great grandfather had buried his wife and then continued west.

            Overwhelmed by the breadth of his family's pioneering spirit and that of his great grandmother in particular, Wyatt got to his feet and looked to the horizon. All around was the tamed land of corn and wheat fields, framed by an endless sky so blue it hurt his eyes. He pulled the visor of his baseball cap down low and, though he wasn't religious by any means, stood in respectful silence and said a quiet prayer for the courage of his ancestors.

            When he was finished his thoughts were unsettled. He'd completed his quest, seen his great grandmother and paid homage to her courage and spirit, but now what? What should he do next? He didn't know. He was divorced. He didn't have any children. He had a job that he didn't particularly care for. In short he had nothing.

            The wind whipped up a sudden gust and blew his cap off. He cracked a ghost of a smile, thinking that at least he had something to do. He chased it down, capturing it up against the western fence line where he put it on and pull it tight. He was walking back to his great grandmother's grave to say one final goodbye when the wind shifted again ever so subtly, causing him to lose his balance. He caught himself as he stumbled and wondered what was going on. A storm brewing maybe? But no, one look to the blue sky and the answer was clear: no storms, not even a cloud in sight.

            The wind suddenly gusted again and blew a little harder, seeming to nudge him like a guiding hand, pushing him gently, as if it wanted him to show him the way, the next steps to take. He looked to the west and watched dust devils dancing down a lonely country road. Beyond that, the far horizon seemed call to him, drawing him in, like weather beaten fingers tugging at his soul, just like they had for his ancestors.

            It took him only a moment to decide. Why not. I've got nothing to lose.

            He got into his car, started it up and left the windswept cemetery. He turned on the first road heading west. He'd made his decision and his path was chosen. It was time to complete the journey his ancestors had begun so many years ago.

            He pushed the accelerator down, kicking up a plume of dust along the gravel road, the wind at his back speeding him along. He glanced in the rear view mirror and caught his refection. He tipped his hat and grinned. He hadn't felt this happy in years.

About the author 

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. His stories have appeared in many online and print publications. His collection of short stories Resilience is scheduled to be published in 2020 by Bridge House Publishing. All of his stories can be found on his blog: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

Alone

Helen O’Neill

 flat lemonade 

 “Stay Inside.” The instruction was clear. But what the letter didn’t do was explain why or for how long, so I discarded it with the other junk mail and reached across the kitchen island to pour a large glass of Malbec. It had been a long day in the office and I wriggled my grateful toes as I freed them from their stiletto confines. The microwave purred in the background. Our cleaner was always chastising me for wasting the expansive kitchen and I’m sure that part of the reason she left food for me at the end of her shift, was to enjoy the pleasure of cooking in it. It was an arrangement that suited us both and when David was travelling for business, I was particularly grateful. I savoured the relaxing warmth of my first mouthful of wine and booted up the laptop; America would be waking up soon.  

Finally satisfied that the day’s work was complete, I headed to the living room and sank into the leather sofa, flicking on the news. The images were compiled from clips recorded on people’s phones, hastily edited together to provide a visual backdrop to a message that elaborated on the letter I’d so easily ignored. The words were repeated,

“Stay inside, lock the doors and the quarantine evaluation team will be with you shortly.”

People were fleeing in panic and the army was struggling to keep control. There were burning buildings and looting. Roads were gridlocked and fights were breaking out on the streets. The images were terrifying. It made it real. It made me comply.

I reached for my mobile and swiped for social media, only to find that it wouldn’t connect. I tried calling David and, in the process, confirmed that the phone lines were down too. I considered my choices and with the news still pumping out images of mayhem, I did as I’d been instructed and calmly packed a bag of essentials, leaving it by the front door that I checked to make sure it was secure. I poured the last of the wine and watched the images increase in intensity until my eyes closed and I slipped into sleep. I didn’t notice when the television and all the lights in the house went off.

A week is a long time to be in a house on your own. I’m reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the master suite, but as the low, angry growl of my stomach contracting becomes more persistent, I sit up and look over instinctively at the clock, its once familiar red digits still truant. I’m fully clothed under the Egyptian cotton spread, my jeans soft from days of wear and my sweater hood pulled up over lank hair. My movements echo in the unnatural silence as I reluctantly pull the covers aside and stand, finding that I am quite terrified of going downstairs; as if the monsters are down there waiting for me.

In the stairwell I no longer bother trying the light switch for my decent. At the bottom, I catch my toe on the holdall and swear. The door is still locked from the inside with the chain on and the bolt pulled across for protection, but whether it’s me being protected from the world or the other way around, I’m not so sure.

In the kitchen, all the cupboard has to offer is a bag of dried pasta and a sorry looking row of tinned food. I choose a can at random. The label worn and the rim an aged orange, and then I search the cutlery draw for an opener to defeat the lid. After a struggle, my efforts are rewarded with bland beans in watery ketchup. I pick up the same fork I’ve used every day and wiped clean after every meal. It feels unnatural to eat from a tin and not fill the dishwasher when I’m done, but the water stopped running on day two, so reusing a fork is the least of my hygiene worries.

I try the taps anyway and the pipes bang angrily at me. I regret not filling up pans, the bath. I thought they would be here by now. I didn’t expect to have to ration food and water. I don’t know what I did expect.

The fridge has a strange smell. In the dark, it holds the last bottles of lemonade that will save me from dehydration. I take one and carry it with me to the living room where I sit crossed legged on the rug. I twist the cap and listen to the pathetic sound of carbon escaping. The beans taste metallic as I place them individually into my mouth washing them down with the flat lemonade. I eat slowly, and I wait.

I can’t hear anyone in the house next door. David and I used to complain about the children as they rushed up and down the stairs or in circles around each other in the garden. I find I miss it now. As I sit, the semi-dark becomes complete dark, so I light a candle on the mantelpiece and watch as the flame flickers. It’s rose scented and casts a comforting glow, but as the candle burns and marks the passing of another day, I know the time for waiting is through. Tomorrow, I’ll have to go outside.

I run my finger along the edge of the shelf looking for a street map, collecting dust I hadn’t realised was there and wiping it on my jeans. The collection of books is limited to celebrity chiefs and assorted titles of unwanted gifts. We preferred digital information but I’m sure I had an old map somewhere, one of those items that we just hadn’t got around to throwing away.

When I find it, its pages are difficult to navigate. I’ve become used to electronic applications that only require the slightest intervention. I’m looking for inspiration, for a sign telling me where will be safe, and as my eyes scan the pages it’s the public buildings that seem the most sensible choice.

I’m feeling more optimistic than I have in days; decision and activity have reinvigorated me. Emptying out the contents of the holdall, I ridicule my earlier choices and kick the pile to the side. I line the bottom of the bag with the remaining cans and tuck the opener into the side pocket. I pack extra layers of clothes, warm sensible ones rather than smart impractical ones. I leave the electronic devices on the floor next to my make-up bag and replace them with the map and the last of the candles along with a box of matches. I pause and pick up the frame holding a picture of David and I on holiday last year and the realisation strikes me that I may never see him again. I remove the frame and add the picture to the bag; some things are too valuable to leave behind.

If I’m going outside, I should get some rest. I tell myself I will sleep one last time in my own bed, then, in the morning, I’ll change my clothes and make myself as presentable as possible. I’d hate to be turned away from salvation. My mind is racing with all the possibilities tomorrow might bring, playing out scenarios, both good and bad. I don’t sleep well. As I drift in and out of consciousness my mind wanders to places I don’t want to be.

I dream that morning has arrived and I have my hand on the door as I work up the courage to open it when there is a loud knock from the other side. I fumble with the lock and pull the door open. There is a limousine waiting at the bottom of the driveway, so I pick up my bag and make my way towards it. I climb inside and David hands me a china cup filled with the sweetest tea I’ve ever tasted. The radio is playing a song I don’t recognise, but I find myself tapping my fingers to the calming beat.

Sitting up with the stark realisation that the taping is not in the dream, but coming from the window, my body floods with adrenalin and I rush over to pull back the drapes, then immediately cower from the bright light that rushes into the room. My hands shield my eyes and I peer through my fingers, not sure if I want to see what’s on the other side. There is a drone hovering behind the glass and its electronic eye is scanning me. I take the stairs in pairs, not wanting whoever sent the drone to miss me and forgetting the holdall I’d so carefully prepared, I fall onto the driveway.

Above the house is a plastic dome. The drone hovers above my head and showers me with a fine mist that smells of disinfectant and contrasts with the stale air. It lowers to face me and I see my reflection, barely recognisable in its lens, then there is a flash and it flies away leaving me in solitude once more.

I walk across the brown lawn to the place where the dome touches the floor and I cup my hands to its translucent covering. I can make out the shapes of vehicles and what I think must be people on the other side, but it’s like trying to watch a film without my glasses on.  I walk the circumference of the dome looking for a way out, for my rescue. When I reach the driveway, I see an envelope on the ground and kneeling on the cold concrete I slip my finger under its seal. It contains printed commands,

“Stay inside. Successful quarantine confirmed. Evacuation imminent.” And beneath the formal text a hand written sentence,

“Stay safe, love David.”

And I know I am no longer alone.

About the author 

Helen is a short story writer and aspiring novelist based in South East London. Her fiction has been published in the UK and the USA and she has recently launched findthewritingwell.com  where she blogs. She definitely prefers her dystopia to be fictional.