My Second Job by Peter Lingard, a glass of full-cream milk

It is sometimes difficult to get the whole family together for a chat. Said family consists of me, the missus, Jackie, and the kids, Dwayne, Lauchlan and Willow. They all have different things going on their lives and so our best chance for an all-in meeting is Saturday breakfast. I almost limped into the kitchen as Friday night had left me a little sore. I know it’s a cliché, but I’m not as young as I once was.

When we were all seated and enjoying four kinds of cereal, I announced, ‘Yer mum an’ me reckon we’ll all go camping this summer.’

Spoons clattered into bowls.

‘What!’

‘Da ad.’

‘Do you think we’re still kids?’

‘No way,’ said Dwayne. ‘I’ve made the second team at cricket. I’m not going.’

‘Me, neither,’ exclaimed Willow. ‘I’ve made the first team.’ She stuck her tongue out at her brother to let him know she’d outdone him.

‘Yours is a girls’ team,’ he said condescendingly.

‘And I still made first team! Why don’t we play your lot?’

‘I can’t go either,’ Lauchlan said. ‘Me, Stagger, Jackson and Banksy ’re putting together a band. We’ll be writing numbers an’ rehearsing all summer.’ He looked at his sister. ‘Willow’s gonna try out fer vocals, too.’

Jackie put a hand on my wrist. ‘I did say it’d be difficult, darl. They’ve grown too old for holidays with us now.’

My stretched and achy muscles, bruised elbow and knee turned my enthusiasm to anger. I had thought a family holiday would be ideal. I knew they had gotten older but thought we had one communal effort left in us. I almost launched my resentment but Jackie must have sensed it because she quickly stood and told everyone to help clean up the table and dishes.

I decided some garden time would help me get over my disappointment. Jackie brought me another cup of coffee and I dropped the wheelbarrow to join her at the garden table.

‘You were going to vent your anger in there, weren’t you.’

‘Yeah. Thanks for saving me from myself.’ I took a tentative sip from the steaming mug. ‘I was disappointed, but I’ve realised my idea was foolish, even naive. Next thing, they’ll be leaving home.’

‘Not just yet, Tom. They still need us. Talking of which, they were all about to ask you for money to buy stuff they need. I think they saw breakfast as an ideal time until they were confronted by your camping suggestion.’

‘Confronted? My suggestion?’

‘Something like that. Thing is, Lauchlan wants a second guitar and amp. The other two need cricket gear - bats, pads and whatever. Plus, they’ll need travelling money for away games.’

‘Travelling money? ‘How far away are the schools they play against?’

‘They’re not playing for school,’ Jackie said with a smile. ‘They’re turning out for the town team who are short on sponsors at the moment, which is why you’re going to have to cough up.’

‘Yeah, well, my daytime job doesn’t cover all that, unless they can wait a bit. I’ll have ta do a little something extra to pay for it!’

‘Yes, well I have something in mind for you. You know my friend, Janice, the travelling nurse?’ I nodded. ‘One of the people she visits regularly has a fair bit of nice-looking jewellery in her dressing-table drawer. I thought you might like to check her windows and doors next Tuesday. She’ll be staying overnight in hospital for a procedure. A class cat burglar like you should have no trouble and I already have a prospective buyer for them.’

I managed a rueful smile. ‘Tuesday’s not so bad. I’ll be over my aches and pains from last night’s little venture by then.’

Jackie put on a different smile and entwined her fingers with mine. ‘Thinking of you in peoples’ bedrooms, reminds me of the night I found you in mine. Not a great night as a cat but, boy, you were great in other ways. Maybe you can wear the mask again tonight?’ 

About the author

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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.)

My Brother’s Adage by Jim Bates, hot chocolate

After my pet hamster Squiggles died, we buried him in the vegetable garden in the backyard. It was summertime in 1935 and Mom said that Squiggles would like it there among the vegetables because he loved lettuce. What did I know? I was five years old.

            “Okay, Mom,” I total her wiping away my tears. “Whatever you say.”

            My ten-year-old brother Eddie had a different take on what was going on. He smirked, punched me in the arm, and said, “Don’t be such a crybaby.”

Even though Mom admonished him, I couldn’t help it, I started crying some more. Eddie just shook his head as he walked toward the backdoor to go outside and play baseball. I’m positive I heard him mumble “Looser” on his way out the door.

            Later that night I crawled out of bed and knelt by my window. My bedroom faced the backyard and I propped my elbows on the sill and watched the vegetable garden and the spot where we’d buried Squiggles. I was waiting to see him rise from the ground and go to heaven like they said in church would happen. I had my fingers crossed hoping I’d see my beloved pet one more time. Unfortunately, I fell asleep with my head on the window sill and missed him. For at least a week I kept watch every night but never saw him go up into the sky. Probably because I fell asleep each night. Anyway, at least that’s what I told myself at the time.

            But the death of Squiggles had a profound impact on my young psyche. I realized something monumental during those nighttime vigils at the window watching the vegetable garden in the backyard. It was this: I was going to die someday. Just like Squiggles. One day I was going to be gone from the world. Dead and buried and no more than a memory. Like Squiggles was to me.

            The day after the realization hit me and still reeling at the sudden knowledge of my immortality, I went to Mom. “Am I going to die?” I asked her.

            She looked at me, a sense of sadness in her eyes, and said, “Oh, honey, don’t worry your little head about things like that.”

            Eddie was walking by at the time and didn’t pause except to say, “Of course, jerk face. We all die someday. You get old, then you die. Everyone knows that.”

            The door slammed as he continued on his way outside to play. I looked at Mom. She didn’t say anything, she just hugged me some more. It was then I knew for a fact - what my brother had said was true. You get old, then you die. Geez. Heavy-duty stuff. I thought right then and there that I was glad I was only five. I had a lot of years left to live.

            But then Dad died. He was only thirty-three. Not that old in my book. Or my brother’s for that matter. I was eleven at the time, Eddie sixteen. At the funeral I reminded my brother about his adage - you get old then you die.

            “Dad was only thirty-three,” I told him.

            He looked at me without a trace of irony and said, “Like I told you after that stupid hamster. You get old then you die.” He shrugged his shoulders.

            “He was only thirty-three!”

            He shrugged his shoulders again. “See, what’d I say? He was old, older than us anyway.”

            I was no dummy, I knew there was more to it than that, but I couldn’t shake the notion of equating getting old with dying.

            I turned twenty and congratulated myself on making that milestone. Me and my friends partied and had a good time. I didn’t think about dying once.

            I turned thirty, just a few years younger than Dad was went he passed away, and only thought about it a little.

            I turned forty, then fifty, then sixty. I turned seventy and I then turned eighty. Four years ago, I turned ninety.

            I’m still alive. Eddie died a few years ago when he was eighty-seven. I was eighty-two at the time. Mom died when she was seventy-eight. I was fifty-six.

            So, yeah, I’m still alive. I’m ninety-four right now. For the last five years, I’ve lived in Orchard Lake Senior Living. It’s clean and tidy and I like it. I worked as a product engineer for a large manufacturing company for many years until I retired at the age of sixty-seven. Ruth, my wife of fifty-five years passed away when I was eighty-one. We had a good marriage, and I’ve had a good life. I see my kids and my grandkids regularly and I have wonderful memories of my life with Ruth. My days are spent watching birds, reading, talking on the phone with my kids and the few friends I still have, and even taking classes on the Internet. It’s been a full life. Still is.

            The point is this: for me, ever since that day so many years ago when Eddie told me ‘Hey jerk face, you get old then you die,’ I’ve continued living. I’ve looked at life and made the most of it. I’m still kicking. I may be old but that doesn’t matter. I’m not done yet. My brother’s adage may be true, but not for me. Not yet anyway.

About the author 

Jim lives in a small town in Minnesota. He loves to write! His stories and poems have appeared in over 500 online and print publications. To learn more and to see all of his work, check out his blog at: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com 

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.)

Sunday Serial , 280 x 70 by Gill James 38 Smart Pad, beer

 

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. 

 

It was beige and beige, bland-to-earth colours. The whole place smelt of paint and new carpet.

He could hear his neighbours chatting. He couldn’t make out what they were saying but they reminded him of his loneliness. There had been two of them before Sophie kicked him out three weeks ago.

He switched on the TV. All his favourite channels were there and he could even access Netflix, but no longer the one he used to share with Sophie. But there was nothing he wanted to watch.

He tried surfing the net instead.  He didn't know what he was looking for and he certainly wasn't interested in dating sites yet.

Perhaps he should try the gym.  In fact, he was determined to make use of this convenient facility. There was a swimming pool and workout room in the basement came as part of the deal.  And in fact it wasn't a real basement, just because it was below street level. It had view across the river into town.

There was another man working out there. He was about the same age as Gary. He nodded. "You too mate?"

"On your own you mean?"

"Yep. Most of us are in the same boat here. In a one-bed cell. The ladies get to keep the big house."

Gary pursed his lips.  Yes, Sophie was keeping it all and he was having to pay for it.

"It's not so bad.  You get used to it. A lot of us meet up in the bar every night at ten. Come join us."

As he entered the bar later and heard the buzz Gary reflected how lucky he was to afford such a smart pad.          

About the author 

Thank you for considering my work.  

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://twitter.com/GillJames 

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.)