Satruday Sample: Natascha's Story by Gill James, home-made lemonade

 

 

It was always the same. She was the first one to be lost and the last to be found every single time. The children were careless with all of the dolls, but because she was the tiniest they often didn’t notice she wasn’t there anymore. Like today. There she was squashed up against the leg of the grand piano. She could see her bigger sisters all lined up in size order. They had more detail on their dresses. At least, though, her simple dress was red. Other Russian dolls she knew had to make do with pale yellows and insipid blues. Red was exciting and vibrant and even a little bit dangerous. 

 ‘Where’s Natascha?’ cried Alfred, the youngest of the Allerton siblings. 4 

‘Missing again.’ Mrs Puddleton sighed. ‘I expect Jenkins will find her when she uses the new vacuum cleaner tomorrow.’ 

Natascha shuddered. She hated the old machine. She’d been sucked up into it twice before and Mr Tibbs, the grumpy handyman, had had to take it to pieces to rescue her. 

 Find your copy here 

About the author

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

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

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

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

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

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter  

The Watered-Down Version by Angela Carlton, watered-down grapefruit juice

In the watered-down version of you, you are merely an acquaintance not the love from my youth. In this version, you are smaller with those thin hands that keep slipping through mine. And, yes, you still speak with a bit of a southern accent, but it’s not smooth or gentle. This voice does not grasp me at once, wrapping me in the light that was you. Those sweetheart-baby doll-honey words are not lingering in the air. No, for you aren’t charming or inviting, just lost. I think of you as lost.

And that day, that one day, on the 8th of July, when I found you on the street “Excuse me, oh,” you say, a sweep of your finger on my skin, “My, it’s you.”

I was thinking of your touch then, still, your touch has a slight tingle, but I tell myself there is no electricity. No shock really or heat that rises over the goose-bump flesh. And you can’t speak to me anymore with those gray-green eyes, holding me inside. For today, finally, on this day I can see the black ones, those black eyes, black-black.

Look at you now, Ta-da, you are slim, weak, but my tall glass of water is full. I diluted you. I drank it. Sure, I cheated with a trick but then so, did you? You cheated me and yourself didn’t you? You and your edginess, all the slipping-slipping away, glassy eyed, with the pipe, those needles, your ruins. See, in this watered-down version of you, come look, closer, I swallowed you, hard. The memories go down-down.
It doesn’t burn completely.

About the author 

Angela Carlton’s fiction has been published in Every Writer, Everyday Fiction, Pedestal Magazine, 6S, 50 Word Stories, Spillwords Press, The Dribble Drabble Review and Friday Flash Fiction. In 2022, "A Jigsaw Life," a collection of stories was released. In 2023, her story “Swallowed,” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. 

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National Security by S. Nadja Zajdman, Green Mountain coffee

 It was late September.  A friend and I set out on a cross-border outing.  The day was intended as an excursion into what the Americans call “leaf peeping,” a pleasurable jaunt into the mountains, riding through the riotous colours of autumn foliage at its peak.

At least, it started that way.  The French name of the U.S. state which translates as “Green Mountain” was anything but green.  Vermont’s peaks were a panorama of cold fire.  My companion was a superb driver who skillfully navigated narrow mountain passes.  Her sharp reflexes saved the life of a deer who, without warning, decided to leap off a cliff in order to cross the street.     

In September we see a few hours of summer in the afternoons, but dusk descends early.   We weren’t out of The Green Mountains when darkness fell and a storm began to brew.  Soon the rain turned torrential, thunder clapped and lightning struck.  Mist enveloped the mountains, and its roads.  Visibility was reduced to zero.

My companion gripped the steering wheel.  Her shoulders hiked and her eyes bulged as she struggled to steer the car through curtains of rain.  In the passenger seat, I fell asleep and stayed asleep until being bumped awake.  It was a feeling I was familiar with.  My companion’s car was hitting potholes.  Roads in the U.S. are smooth and well-maintained.  Quebec’s roads are notorious for their potholes.  Groggy, it dawned on me that, like Dorothy, we might not be in Kansas anymore.

            I gazed at my companion.  “What country are we in?”

            Sheepishly she responded, “I don’t know.”

            “Did we miss the border?”  

            “It looks that way.”

            The terrain flattened.  The mist lifted.  Neon signs illuminated the darkness.  These signs were in French. 

            The fog in my brain cleared quickly.  “Should we backtrack and look for the border?”

            The downpour was still heavy.  The rough-hewn, pot-holed ridden roads were wet and treacherous.  Upon deliberation, my friend and I decided it would be safest to forge ahead and return home. 

            “Well,” I was surprisingly sanguine.  I was also tired.  “If we don’t find them, they are going to find us.”  My words would prove prophetic.

            The next morning, feeling uneasy, I called the U.S. border patrol and related the circumstances of the previous evening.  The American officer sounded confused. 

            “Lady, where are you?!”  He seemed to be under the impression that I was lost in the mists of the Green Mountains.

            “I’m home.  Am I in trouble?”

            “Not with us!”

A few days later, my friend called.  She was in tears.   She had just received a call from an officer attached to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.  Either a camera or a censor had captured an image of her license plate, and she was traced that way.  The officer threatened to slap her with a five-thousand dollar fine for bypassing the border.  My friend was east European, and frightened of authority figures.  In response, she gave the officer my phone number.

Moments later, the call came.  I drew on my powers of description to paint a vivid portrait of a sinister and menacing black and stormy night.

            “But there was a sign!”  The officer insisted.

            “We couldn’t see the sign!”  I might’ve been speaking not only for myself and my companion, but also for my compatriots.  “We couldn’t see anything!  And besides,” I embellished, “my mother called the car and yelled at us to get out of there and come home!”

            This was a bit of fiction.  On the evening in question, Mum was not only unaware of our dilemma, but also of the physical danger we were in.  Fortunately.  I am not George Washington, and under interrogation I am capable of telling a lie.

            The mention of Mum resonated with the officer. Besides being an officer, I suspect he was also a parent.  His tone softened.  “I was on duty that night.”  He conceded.  “I remember how severe the storm was.  It really was bad.”

            Discerning that I wasn’t a threat to national security, the RCMP officer let me off with a warning. 

                 

This happened fifteen years ago.  The times, they are a-changin’.  These days, we brace for another form of storm.  Those who can afford to take a break from winter incur cancellation fees and revise their travel plans in order to avoid setting foot in the U.S.  Those stuck in the deep freeze are doing their part by avoiding the purchase of U.S. goods.  In this latest version of a fascist takeover, Canada has become the canary in the mine.   No one knows how long this will last, nor how far this will spread.  Whatever the outcome, the damage has been done.  Trust has been shattered, and it will take the American people more than four years to earn it back.  If they want to.  If they can. 

About the author

 S. Nadja Zajdman is a Canadian author. In 2022 she published the story collection The Memory Keeper as well as the memoir I Want You To Be Free. In 2023 she followed up with a second memoir, Daddy's Remains. In 2024 Bridge House brought out Zajdman's essay collection, Between Worlds.

 

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Scín by Jacqueline Joyce Ruddell, espresso

 

Since arriving on Earth, I have existed as an amorphous being. My name is Scín.

Tonight, I listen to the wind whimpering and the gurgling sounds around me as I lie inside my host, a noble steed whose soul senses my presence and wishes for me to leave. I will remain, but I feel the storm outside will pass by tomorrow.

“Hey there, boy. It's a big day ahead with the parade.” A bulk of a human male, around thirty, strokes my horse’s nose. 

I can almost sense the creature's joy from my position deep in its belly; it whinnies, and the vibrations wash over me like a soft sheet billowing in the breeze. The man's emotions seem restrained by his exaggerated movements.

My horse is saddled, and a dull weight, like pressurised air, presses down on me. The man wears a military uniform. His fur helmet threatens to drown his features; it obscures his eyes, and I squirm. He mounts the steed, and my work will soon begin. My task conflicts with the horse's purpose: while we both exist to serve, my steed’s King is earthly, while mine is something else entirely. 

It is late morning, and the sun has begun its quiet journey from the east. The air is fresh; the sky is a spectrum of greys. The roads have been cleared, and apart from my rider, there are few people to perceive, so the music of my strings is delicate and flows unobtrusively as we trod along.

 

The parade begins, and humans gather to watch. I feel a knot of unease forming inside me. The Royal band’s drums assault my senses, and the human screams are confusing. My instinct is to interpret the screams as a threat, but the crowd shouts, “We love you.” “Long live the King.”

My horse has no choice, and neither do I. A rumbling comes from inside the steed’s body; it travels through its intestines toward me, plucking at my entangled strings and creating a song. The music is my master, my comfort, my lifeblood. Today, it is my tormentor.

I find no relief from the excruciating sounds of the day except by reeling against

my inner music, the constant plucking of my strings. Meanwhile, the horse wraps its mouth around a human arm. Its teeth nibble but do not bite. The rider pulls on the reins. There’s grunting and whinnying in a battle of wills—the three of us contend for control. I can taste the stagnant shadow emitted by the human. I devour it.

There are innumerable souls around me. A girl in a yellow raincoat approaches, wanting a picture taken beside me. She has the sweet scent of icing around her mouth. Her soul glimmers and evokes a beautiful melody within me. When she rests her head against my horse, his ears twitch, and I feel a glow dampening my inner fire.

“Wow, Mum, his coat is shimmering. He’s sparkling. Look.” The girl runs over to a woman in a blue coat. 

“Oh yes, I see. Lovely, " the mother says, but she does not look at me. To her, I am just a black horse, nothing more. Why can't she see me burning, shimmering inside its belly? I am a mound of consciousness, more than strings entangled in a creature's being.

My fire turns blue.

Look at me, I want to say.

            Blue flickers against the walls of my horse’s gut; his head nods feverishly.

“Wow, easy, boy.” The rider says.

             A man with four dark shadows approaches. I feel his corruption as if it already belongs to me. My strings contort in a terrifying song. My horse’s teeth sink into the side of the human’s coat. A brief tug-of-war occurs. The man scuttles away unscathed, complaining and pointing, but not before I swallow his shadows. The metallic taste only amplifies my hunger.

Overwhelmed by the darkness I’ve absorbed, my song distorts further; the rhythm has become demented. More people, more pictures. People with placards. People are shouting; a beer can bounces off the side of my horse’s nose. Blue lights flash, and the sound of sirens feels like an onslaught of arrows attacking me. There’s a fire inside the people—orange, red, and blue fire—my horse charges. I pull against my entangled strings; the excruciating music continues, and the steed kicks and bites the fire and darkness from these humans. I absorb more shadows; I consume the evil. My hunger is insatiable. The rider falls. The girl in the yellow raincoat holds her arms up toward my horse's head.

“Stop.”

A spooked hoof strikes her mother’s temple— liquid crimson oozes.

When her mother falls, the girl’s wide oak-coloured eyes look straight through me, and my strings play a forlorn tune just for her. But she does not hear the music. Nobody hears it. All they hear is the gunshot. My host falls, but soon they'll feel the shimmer.

My name is Scín.

About the author

Jacqueline, based in County Down, won the Flash Fiction Armagh competition and was longlisted for the Flash 500 spring 2024 competition. A bursary student at the John Hewitt Summer School, her work has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review. She is pursuing an MA in Creative Writing at Queen’s University.

 

 

 

Wolf Play by Hai-Mo Hu, bitter coffee that burns

 By Hai-Mo Hu

Bitter coffee that burns

The familiar smell of the Buddhist incense drilled Colette’s nose. She dragged herself down the stairs in the audience and toward the stage. The yellow stage lights that used to send her warmth now appeared turbid.

“Ah! Here’s your famous alumni, Colette!” Mr. Lang’s voice remained gruff and confident.

“Please don’t.” Colette’s genuine plea was interpreted as humbleness. Mr. Lang’s hand reached for her shoulder. She dodged and trotted to the only other person she knew in the room, another alumni who was one year older than her.

“Hey, Marina,” said Colette.

“Oh my god, Colette, it’s been ages!” Marina waved so hard that the papers in her hands almost dropped to the ground. “Here, your script.”

“Thanks.” Colette flipped through the pages and saw her part. The lines on the script choked her breath.

“Mr. Lang, can I have a word with you?” Colette squeezed out the words, but her eyes stuck on the script.

“Sure, let’s talk at the back.” Mr. Lang jumped on the stage. “Keep rehearsing, y’all.” He instructed the student body on the stage and vanished behind the curtains.

“Is there something wrong?” Marina asked.

“Yeah, something’s a bit weird, for me.” Colette climbed the stairs at the side of the stage. “I’ll be right back.”

The backstage changed, compared to the rest of the performing centre. It was smaller than Colette remembered. Mountains of props piled everywhere.

“You know you can call me Hank,” said Mr. Lang.

“I’ve preferred not to for a long time.” Colette stared at the purple scar on Mr. Lang’s

leg.

He sighed. “What’s wrong? Anything wrong with the script?”

“Everything. You said cameo, not a fairy godmother who shows up and fixes

everything for the characters.” She bit her lips after the complaint so that they did not shiver before him.

“What’s wrong with that?” He took one step forward.

She took one step backward and looked up at his expression. He was genuine about the question. His smile was still up, and his frown was light.

“Cameos are not like that.” Her eyes went back to the scar. One look at his face and eyes turned her stomach upside down.

“Why did you agree to come, then?” He asked.

“Because I love theatre.” The script bent in her hands.

“Right. Not because you miss the stage? You miss being the star, and I know that.” His deep voice echoed in her ears.

Her heart was racing too fast. She could feel her veins throbbing and bulging in her temples, wrists, and calves. “Stop your bullshit.”

“You chose to come back.” “So?”

“Colette, I’m the one who can make you a star whenever you want to and however you like.” He reached for her arms.

She dodged again. “Quit this nonsense. Get away from me.”

Yes, why did I agree to come back? This place was full of trauma for me, and he was one of the sources.

Her back itched all of a sudden. So very uncomfortable and irresistible like when her eczema attacked, she reached under her shirt with one hand. There, on her already bumpy skin, were thin bushes of hair.

“Colette, are you okay?” He spotted her weird action.

“Change the script, or I’m outta here.” She felt the hair with her fingertips. They were like her puppy’s hair.

“I can’t. I need you to be that character.” He took another step forward. She took another step backward. “You ‘want,’ not need.”

He kept shaking his head.

Her gums bulged and throbbed, too. Her vision blurred even more in the dimness of the backstage.

“You belong up there, Colette. You belong to be that important role for the play.” “Stop it.” It became hard for her to talk. The pain in her mouth led her tongue to

search around. She grew out sharp canine teeth.

Mr. Lang was still yet to notice the dangerous conversion. “Take the role I wrote for you, Colette. Let me be back into your life, Colette.”

***

A loud thud rang from the backstage.

The second the giant black cloths pulled aside, shrieks filled the stage. Mr. Lang lay in a puddle of dark rouge with the palest face anyone in this room had ever seen. Before any student thought of calling for help, a wolf of pure white fur came into the light. It closed its mouth of clean fangs upon seeing Marina. It walked down the side stairs of the stage. With each quiet step, a fire-red print transferred from its paw to the stage floor.

About the author:

Hai-Mo Hu is a Creative Writing grad from Full Sail University. Her flash fiction “Private Funeral” was published in CafeLit Magazine, "Force to Chocolate" in The Raven Review, and "Ten Tea Bags" in CC&D Magazine. Growing up on the coast has greatly influenced her stories.

Cast The First Stone by Rob Molan, malt whiskey

The locomotive is due into Edinburgh soon, taking me back to the haunts of my younger days, hearing once familiar accents and walking in the shadow of blackened tenements.



It must be twenty years since I last visited. There didn't seem much point after Mum's death and falling out with my brother Angus. I’m sure she left him more than half of her estate because he browbeat her into believing he wasn’t provided with the advantages which I’d enjoyed. He chose to forget that when our parents offered to support him through college, he declined as he wanted to start earning as soon as possible. But then he squandered most of his wages on drinking and gambling.



It was a shock when Patrick's widow, Morag, wrote inviting me to his funeral. I knew my old pal was poorly but didn´t realise his life was at risk. I hope Kenneth will be there as I've not seen him for two years. Like me, he moved down South before the War. He went to work for a shipping company in Liverpool and I took up the opportunity to work for my uncle’s insurance firm in London. It would be great to have a blether about our time at secondary school and the japes we used to get up to with Patrick. I still chuckle about the times we climbed into the orchard beside the big house and escaped back over the wall with our loot of apples when the grumpy owner came rushing out.



Reminiscing also brings back memories of that toerag Frank Macdonald who made my life misery for ages. He was an ugly boy with a protruding lower lip, a bit older than us and tall for his age. He picked on small lads like me and liked to pounce when I was on my way home from school, punching my arm, grabbing my bag and tipping out the contents. I recall the smell of his fetid breath and the spittle on my face as he shouted at me.



‘Teachers’ pets may be safe in the school but when you walk out of the gate it’s a different story.’



I still feel the shame of coming home and running upstairs before my parents could see I'd wet myself. My brother had left school by then so I couldn’t look to him for protection.



Still, Frank got his comeuppance. One summer when I was visiting Mum on leave from the Army, she told me his parents had received a letter from the RAF saying he'd gone missing in action during a raid over Malaya. I had a wee smile to myself but felt sorry for the other men who went down in the plane with him.



The light is fading as the train pulls into the station. After disembarking, I climb up the steps to Princes’ Street breathing in the bready, yeasty smell blowing in the wind from the brewery, prompting me to go for a pint before I check into my hotel.







The taxi pulls up outside the church. There are black clouds above and a wind is whipping up. I pay the driver and walk up the path. I spot Kenneth amongst a crowd at the door wearing a light grey overcoat and a matching homburg. He turns and his face breaks into a broad smile.



‘Hello, Andrew,’ he says stepping forward and reaching out a gloved hand.



‘Good to see you, Kenneth.’ His grip is as firm as ever.



‘Such a shame. Patrick was still a young man.’



‘There for the grace of God go you and I. How’s Margaret?’ he asks.



‘Well, thanks.’



This is not the time to tell him she’s left me. Being a lifelong bachelor, he wouldn’t understand anyway.


We enter the church and sit down in a central pew. It fills up quickly with others who have come to say farewell to Patrick but it’s shocking to see some female mourners wearing miniskirts.



A few minutes later, the door opens behind us, a gust of wind blows in and the organ starts to play. Morag passes with her two teenage sons and the coffin follows carried by four bearers. The minister who is tall and thin walks behind.



The coffin is laid on a trestle at the front and the minister turns to us. He is a gaunt looking character and only has a few wisps of hair left. There’s something vaguely familiar about him but I can't put my finger on it.



‘Good morning. We are gathered here today to lay Patrick Harvey to rest. As we remember him, let us recall Burns’ saying ‘dare to be honest and fear no labour’ which was Patrick’s favourite.’



As I watch his protruding lower lip move, the voice becomes recognisable.



‘That sentiment guided his every action and we stand as witnesses to the ways in which his spirit touched and uplifted others.’



Old feelings of dread come flooding back. I turn to Kenneth and whisper.



‘Is that Frank Macdonald? He's supposed to be dead.’



‘I'm afraid it is. We have come to pay homage to a deceased friend but a ghoul is presiding over the proceedings,’ he mutters.



I sit rigid in my seat as heartfelt testimonials are delivered by family and friends and hymns sung by the mourners, my eyes fixed on my former tormentor. After he reads the final psalm, the coffin is carried out of the church into the graveyard. Heavy rain greets us as we follow it outside and Kenneth puts up his umbrella to shelter us both.



We watch the coffin being carried to the grave and lowered into the ground. As Frank says a prayer over it, I recollect Patrick challenging him in the playground one day. I don’t know what he had for breakfast that morning but he was fired up.



‘Leave Andrew alone. Pick on someone your own size.’ He stood on his tiptoes as he spoke.



‘Or else what?’ Frank gave him a shove. ‘Clear off or I’ll give you a doing.’



To his credit, Patrick stood his ground and Frank walked away swearing.



The sight of seeing Frank now towering over my friend again is too much and I walk away. I want the rain on my face to wash away the memory of what I’ve just seen.







Kenneth catches up with me as I head down the street.



‘Andrew, it would be disrespectful to Morag not to attend the wake.’



I stop and pull myself together.



‘You’re right. Is the hotel far?’



‘It’s only a few minutes away.’



We walk in silence to the venue where we find Morag standing in the lobby.



Thanks to you both for coming today.’



The crow´s feet around her eyes were not there when I last saw her and Patrick in London.



‘I'm sorry for your loss,’ I say.



‘You have my condolences,’ Kenneth adds. ‘How are you managing?’



‘So far, I’ve been coping. I have to be strong for my boys. Although I hadn’t met him before, the minister has been a great support to me. I’m sure Patrick would have liked him.’



Kenneth and I look at each other before he quickly changes the subject.



‘How old are your lads?’



‘Fifteen and seventeen.’



‘They’re both handsome young men and a credit to you and Patrick.’



“Thank you.’



A flicker of a smile creeps across her lips.



We go into the cloakroom, drop off our coats and hats, and head for the bar.



‘What will it be gentlemen? The first drink is on the family.’



The young barman has a pleasant manner but the mop top hairstyle doesn’t suit him.



‘Two drams, please, son.’



We place our drinks on a table and go over to the counter where the food is laid out. Sandwiches, bridies, and cakes are on offer. We take our selections back to the table and reflect on the previous hour.



‘So what did you make of that then?’ Kenneth asks.



‘I bet you Patrick was looking down from above in horror at that grotesque charade.’



As we talk, I watch Frank moving around the smoke-filled room, shaking hands, putting an arm round the odd shoulder and having a word in the ear of some folk. I hope the creep stays away.



We chat for a few minutes more before I see him heading in our direction. I turn my back on him but he doesn’t take the hint.



‘May I join you?’ he asks, pulling up a chair.



‘Can’t stop you,’ Kenneth says.



‘It must have been a surprise for you to see me today.’



‘More like an unpleasant shock,’ I snap.



‘I don't blame you for saying that.’



‘How do you explain your reincarnation?’ Kenneth asks.



He takes a deep breath before replying.



‘Our plane was hit and crash landed in the jungle. Miraculously, none of us were seriously injured and we were taken prisoner by the Japanese and put in a camp for over two years until we were liberated by the Allies. Many of my comrades died from disease, malnutrition or overwork but I managed to survive. When I got back home, I realised my survival was not welcomed by some. I knew I’d been obnoxious when I was younger and resolved to be a better person. A minister took me under his wing and a few years later I started to study theology.’



can’t listen to this fairy tale anymore.



‘Get you another, Kenneth?’ He nods and I grab our glasses and jump up.



By the time I get back, Frank’s seat is empty.







Time passes quickly blethering and, when the clock hits two o’clock, I decide I’d better leave so I can visit my parents’ grave before catching the train home. I say my goodbyes to Morag, Kenneth and a few other mourners, and make my way to the cloakroom. As I’m donning my coat, I see a dog collar in the corner of my eye.



‘Before you go, I wanted to check your return to society is going well,’ Frank says in a low voice.



I swing round.



‘What do you mean?’



‘After your release from prison.’



‘How do you know about that?’



He doesn’t blink an eye.



‘The minister who saved me is now at St Columba's in London and visits Wandsworth prison. We keep in touch and when he rang me earlier in the year, he mentioned meeting a chap from Edinburgh with your name.’



I square up to him and he takes one step back. I’m much taller than him now and he looks alarmed.



‘I hope you haven’t said a word about this to anyone here today. Otherwise…’



‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘You have my word. I’m only concerned for your welfare.’



‘Just mind your own business. I can look after myself.’



I eventually managed to get a decent job despite having done time for fraud and I don’t need another cleric – particularly this one – patronising me. It was bad enough listening to Margaret lecturing me during her prison visits before she finally scarpered.



I put on my hat and brush past him.



‘By the way….’



‘What now?’ I shout turning round.



‘If you have time, you might go and see your brother, Angus. He's very poorly from lung disease and has had to give up working down the mine. He talked about you a lot the last time I saw him. I'm sure he'd appreciate a visit.’



He was a strapping young man the last time I saw him.



‘How bad is he?’



‘He’s constantly short of breath, complains of chest tightness and rarely leaves home.’



The thought of him reduced to a shadow of his former self saddens me.



‘Is he still living in the same flat on the estate?’



‘Yes.’



‘I’ll pop in on my way to the station.’



I don't suppose Mum and Dad will mind if I visit their other son instead of them. It’s probably time to let bygones be bygones.

About the Author

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by CaféLit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing.

Sunday Serial: 280 x 70, 50 Blue, by Gill James, vodka

Introduction

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

50. Blue

 A girl with a tear flowing down her cheek looked at her from the mirror. A badly bruised girl. On auto-pilot she applied foundation and blusher to her cheeks and curled her lashes with her mascara. She was presentable again. 

Who was this girl? Was she the one who had fallen in love with Tony? She closed her eyes as she remembered being in his arms. He'd held her tenderly and she'd thought he'd loved her too.

But no. It had all been about sex. He'd pushed her and pushed her until she'd given in. It had been more like rape, really, only she couldn't prove that. It had hurt.  And then he'd lost interest in her and started seeing another girl.

The little white powder had been such a comfort. There was first of all the thrill of getting it. The risk, then success, and finally the euphoria. But it was too expensive and it was getting too dangerous. She'd got to come off it now. And that was miserable.

She opened her eyes again.  The young woman staring back at her looked all right. She knew otherwise though. Here was a complete loser. Somebody who would just nor get anywhere. Someone who hadn't got the guts to live life to the full without some chemical help.

The door to the bathroom was suddenly flung open.  "We did it Jess." It was her bestie, Pam.

"We did? Which scenes?"

"All of them."

Wow.  Perhaps she wasn't so bad after all. It would look really good on her CV. Even if she was only an extra this time, it was for one of the most prestigious soaps for young people.            

About the author

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

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

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

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

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

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter 

 

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