Wednesday 6 November 2024

Lest We Forget by Sarah Swatridge, hot coffee

 ‘The Flower Club have made posies every year, but this time I’m struggling to get volunteers.’ Helen told Amy, her grand-daughter. ‘I know, in the great scheme of things, it doesn’t sound important, but young men, as young as your brother, gave up their lives to fight for us.’

‘What do I have to do?’ Amy sighed, as only a teenager can do.

‘Remember, as a Brownie, you carried a little vase of flowers into church and put it in front of the memorial?’

‘Yeah, I think I do.’

‘Well, we have only twelve posies to make, but it all takes time.’

‘Can’t we just order them from Amazon?’

‘No, we can’t,’ Helen said, rather sharply. ‘There’s a lot of tradition involved, and I want to do it properly.’

‘How long will it take?’ Amy asked, glancing at her phone. 

Helen wished she could find a more willing assistant, but Amy was all she had.

‘I’ve already got the flowers. We just need to assemble them first thing in the morning. If we’re focussed an hour should do it.’ They both knew ‘focussed’ meant Amy wasn’t checking her phone every thirty seconds.

Amy was staying with her grandmother for the weekend and, although she’d agreed to help, there was a little awkwardness while Helen made their tea.  Helen understood Amy would have preferred to stay at home, but her parents had other plans…again.

‘Shall we watch a film tonight, Gran?’

Helen smiled as she mashed the potato for Amy’s favourite, shepherd’s pie.

There was a Remembrance Day documentary Helen had intended to watch, but sharing a film with her grandchild was much better. She’d half expected Amy to spend the evening in her room glued to her phone.

‘That’s a good idea. You choose.’ Helen agreed. ‘Would you be a love and nip out for a pint of milk? There’s money on the side.’

Thankfully Amy didn’t make a fuss about going out in the cold. She probably welcomed the opportunity. Her parents, in Helen’s opinion, still treated her like a small child, but Amy was thirteen and could be great fun.

A thought occurred to Helen as she saw the poppy on Amy’s coat; she should be thankful to have all her grandchildren close by. Sue had to travel to Australia to see hers and years ago, think of those grandmothers who had to say goodbye to their grandsons when they marched off to war!

Helen busied herself preparing tea. Amy returned with the milk and then disappeared, no doubt with her phone for company.

Amy had a healthy appetite and Helen knew she could easily rustle up an apple crumble and custard – another of Amy’s favourites.

‘Do you want to learn how to make a crumble?’ Helen called. ‘It won’t take long.’ As a youngster Amy had liked nothing better than cooking with her Gran, but of late she’d not shown much interest in baking.

To Helen’s surprise, and delight, Amy appeared and rolled up her sleeves. ‘I think we’ve made one before, just remind me what we have to do.’

They ate their tea in the kitchen. ‘That was a delicious crumble,’ Helen said. ‘I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it, especially with good thick custard.’

‘Thank you for making all my favourites,’ Amy said as she checked her phone. She’d taken photos of their humble supper and posted it on Facebook.

Amy helped with the washing up without being asked and Helen apologised for snapping. She enjoyed her grand-daughter’s company, but sometimes she felt she walked on egg-shells.

‘What film are we watching?’ Helen asked.

            ‘Come and see,’ Amy said and headed for the lounge. ‘I thought you’d like a war film.’

Amy had found a selection of movies she thought Helen might enjoy.

          ‘That’s very thoughtful,’ Helen said. ‘I’m sorry if I was irritable earlier, but I’d been let down. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’

‘No worries,’ Amy pointed to the coffee table in the centre of the room. There was a big bar of chocolate for them to share and also a tray of nail polishes, files and clippers. ‘I’ll do your nails first, if you like. I’ve even got one called Poppy Red.’

Helen studied the nail varnish bottles and thought how much Amy was like her mother. She could be so bolshie one minute and so kind the next. Helen wiped away a tear; Amy must have brought all these things from home and planned to spoil her Gran!

‘I do have a red scarf to wear tomorrow, for the parade, so red nails would go very well, thank you.’

Helen loved being pampered by Amy who carefully did her nails and then massaged hand-cream into her dry hands. She was amazed how much confidence her grand-daughter had. She would never have taken the lead and suggested something like this to her own grandmother.

The following morning Helen was up early. They’d agreed on hot chocolate and eggy bread for breakfast. Amy appeared in her dressing gown, looking half asleep, but at least she was up.

Fuelled by their feast, they wrapped up warm and entered the outhouse which still housed the original baker’s oven, but no central heating. Helen could see her breath. There were several buckets of flowers waiting to be made into posies before the parade through the village.

‘Right, let’s do this like a production line,’ Helen suggested as she rearranged the flowers in order. One by one she chose a stem as she demonstrated what she wanted. ‘We need a yellow, white and blue flower to represent the colours on the British Legion flag. Then a poppy, a bit of myrtle, some rosemary and bay. These are symbols of love, remembrance and glory.’ Holding the posy in one hand she reached for the string she’d cut earlier and tied the flowers together before popping them in a vase. ‘Now that’s Reginald’s done, only eleven more to go.’

‘Reginald?’

            ‘This village lost twelve men, five in the First World War and seven in the second. Each man has an engraved vase and later on, the Brownies will match the vases with the plaques in the church, so no one is forgotten.’

Amy nodded and copied her grandmother by picking one stem from each bucket and arranging them into a little bunch, tying it with string and finding a vase.

‘Thomas Jenkins,’ she said.

‘Good. And I’ve done Robert, his younger brother.’

            ‘Did they both die in the war?’ Amy looked horrified.

            ‘Sadly, yes. I can’t imagine how their poor mother coped with losing both her sons. Robert was just eighteen, Thomas was twenty.’

Amy finished the next posy in silence.

           ‘Andrew’s just eighteen,’ she said quietly. Andrew was her older brother. He was still at school but more interested in playing football or computer games than studying. ‘I can’t think how he’d cope if there was a war.’

          ‘Let’s be extra thankful, today of all days, that he won’t ever have to enlist.’

           ‘He’d make a rubbish soldier,’ Amy told her Gran. ‘He’s no good at getting up on time and his room’s a mess and as for polishing his boots!’ She paused with a flower in her hand, ‘Nowadays, it wouldn’t just be the men who serve their country. I’d have to sign up too. Can you imagine that?’  Helen gave her a hug as they both fought back their emotions.

‘This one’s for Joseph Barnes. The Barnes family lived in this house. He was a baker and had three young children. I don’t suppose he wanted to go to war either, but he didn’t have a choice. It must have been hard for his wife when he went, and even harder when he didn’t return.’

            ‘And he lived here?’

             ‘Have you ever noticed someone’s carved Joe Barnes 1913 on the bannisters?’

            Amy nodded, deep in thought. They finished the rest of the posies in reflective silence.

Inside the house Helen watched as Amy went to inspect the graffiti on the stairs.

           ‘I can’t believe I’ve never really looked before. I used to run my fingers over the rough surface, but I never appreciated its significance.’

‘This is Joseph Barnes and his cousin William,’ Helen held out a sepia photograph of two young men in uniform. ‘It was probably taken as they said their farewells.’

            ‘They look quite happy,’ Amy remarked. ‘William reminds me of someone at school.’

            ‘I suppose many of them thought it was going to be a great adventure. A bit like those games your brother plays, but of course the reality was more dreadful than we can ever imagine.’

‘Did he own The Barn Owl Tearooms?’ Amy asked.

            ‘No. But he’d have been proud of his youngest daughter who carried on the family business,’ Helen gathered her thoughts. ‘And about four or five generations later, the Barnes girls are still baking!’

         ‘Cool,’ Amy said. ‘I noticed they’re advertising for staff. I’d like to do that when I’m sixteen, and who knows, one day I might have my own café or restaurant. Maybe I’ll be a celebrity chef?’

        ‘And I’d be very proud of you,’ Helen told her. ‘Now, I suppose I’d better go and get changed. Are you sure you won’t come?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ Amy said. ‘But I’ll watch the parade from your bedroom window, if that’s ok? It’s warmer there.’

            ‘If, you’re sure.’ Helen agreed. ‘The parade lasts about twenty minutes, and the service will be another forty-five. You could come over to the church hall and meet me after, if you want.’

            ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve got homework to do.’

Helen was pleased she’d worn several layers as she walked behind the standard bearer on that bitter November day. She was relieved the Brownies all turned up, and thankful to Brown Owl for training them well. Not one of them dropped a vase of flowers.

Once the service was over, Helen headed for the church hall, and a welcome coffee.

           ‘Amy?’ she said when she saw her grand-daughter setting out cups with Margaret who always served the refreshments.

‘I was thanking her for making a posy for my great grandfather, William Sutton,’ Margaret said. ‘It’s thanks to men like him that we live as we do. Life’s not perfect, but we do have freedom, and we don’t have a dictator. Men like him gave us choices, and I’m very pleased she chose to come and give me a hand.’

          ‘William Sutton?’ Amy repeated. ‘No wonder he looked familiar in that photo. We’ve got a Liam Sutton at school.’

         ‘And he’s my grandson,’ Margaret said, as she offered Amy a biscuit.

 

‘My maths homework didn’t take as long as I thought,’ Amy explained to her Gran, ‘And…well, until this weekend, I know this sounds dumb, but I’d never really thought of those soldiers as real people. I get it now, but I still can’t imagine what it must be like to have to fight a war like in Ukraine.’

            ‘And let’s pray you never find out,’ Helen said, giving her grand-daughter a big hug. ‘Thank you again for your help today. Together, we’ve done the village proud.’

About the author  

Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She also writes novels, usually historical, and has a growing number of large print books available in libraries and online. www.sarahswatridge.co.uk 

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Tuesday 5 November 2024

A Place in the Sun by Penny Rogers, a glass of Bitter Lemon

 Reem chose the bench because no one was sitting on it. Out of the sun, still damp from the overnight dew it faced away from the children’s playground. She looked at the roses in her hand; for a spilt second she saw the vibrancy and noise of the flower market in Aleppo. But those days were gone, leaving her with memories and flashbacks, and three red roses past their sell-by date from a British supermarket.  She could only afford the reduced flowers, and if there were more than three stems in the bunch she would give the surplus to passers-by. Some said thank you and took her offering, others looked at her with unease and ignored her. Once a man snatched the stem from her and threw it to the ground, grinding the petals into the pavement.

 

Today just three stems to unwrap. The blooms were in remarkable condition but no scent. She recalled the lingering aroma of the roses in her uncle’s garden, before forcing her malfunctioning safety mechanism to obliterate the devastation she had fled from.  As always she named the flowers: Ali, Rifat and Miran.

 

A vague sound caused Reem to turn. She was no longer alone. At the other end of the bench was a woman dressed in a beige cardigan and grey skirt; her pallid face lined with loneliness. Reem stood up to leave, aware of a faint aroma of damp, decay and peppermint from the new arrival. With a glance and the slightest wave of her hand the woman indicated she should stay. Is she as isolated and sad as I am? Reem wondered as she resumed her seat. No word was spoken; the three roses lay on the bench between them, wilting as the sun moved higher in the sky. 

About the author

Penny Rogers lives in Dorset in the south of England. She writes mostly short stories, flash fiction and poems and facilitates an informal writing group. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit. When she’s not writing Penny makes jams, pickles and preserves from home grown or foraged produce. 

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Monday 4 November 2024

Grammatically Correct by Madeleine McDonald, espresso

‘You know why you’re here, Elizabeth.’

Three people sat on the other side of the desk, their expressions unfriendly. Her immediate superviser and two women without name lanyards. The younger one had a blue streak in her straggly hair.

‘No, Andy. Or should I say Mr Holmes. I have no idea why you asked to see me.’ Elizabeth laid slight emphasis on the Mr, since this was clearly a formal meeting of some kind. She had never warmed to Andrew Holmes.

‘Allaire was extremely upset. They had to take the afternoon off. Your words exacerbated their underlying anxiety issues.’ That was Blue Streak. Elizabeth reflected that if you were going to call attention to your hair, you should at least invest in a good haircut.

‘And you are…?’

Blue Streak bristled at the challenge. ‘Sam Winters. She/her. EDI.’

Oh! Interesting that the Equality, Diversity and Inclusion department made no mention of Liberty, Elizabeth reflected. Liberty, Equality and Fraternity had been a grand idea – until it led the French to the guillotine.

‘I’m sorry,’ she began in a mild tone. ‘Who’s Allaire? What did I say to upset him?’

‘Them. Please respect their choice of pronoun.’ That was the other woman, fiftyish, wearing a smart grey suit. ‘You questioned their mental health.’

The three waited.

‘If I have upset someone, I will apologise, face to face. But what am I supposed to have said?’

‘I sense hostility in that reply, Elizabeth.’ That was Andrew Holmes. He was not one to defend his staff.

Grey Suit intervened. ‘You sent a memo to all departments asking them to update the inventory of their office furniture.’

Elizabeth agreed. ‘It’s part of my job. I do it every year.’

‘And you added a comment on Allaire’s inventory, a negative comment on his mental health.’

‘What? How? All I do is forward the inventories to the supplies department. They decide what needs replacing.’

Elizabeth stared at her adversaries, bewildered. She could not begin to imagine what had gone wrong with such a simple task. ‘What do you mean? I told you, I don’t even know the guy.’

‘Please use gender inclusive language. Guy is not an appropriate word.’

Elizabeth drew a deep breath. ‘I do not know this person. I also do not know if this person is male or female. I used guy to mean both.’ Even Elizabeth, a stickler for grammar, admitted that ‘he or she’ was a clumsy formulation.

She should have kept her mouth shut. Blue Streak glared at her. ‘Gender-critical views are incompatible with the company’s ethos.’

‘Quite,’ Grey Suit sniffed. ‘Transphobic comments are only to be expected of someone who disparages the mental health of other employees.’ Grey Suit pushed a paper across the desk. One word was highlighted in yellow. ‘We have the evidence.’

‘Oh!’ Elizabeth exhaled her relief. ‘That’s sic, S, I, C, not sick. This is a silly misunderstanding.’

The faces remained hostile, so she tried again. ‘Sic is Latin. You learn it in secretarial training. It stands for thus it was written.’

Andrew Holmes sniffed. ‘Do you really think your secretarial training 40 years ago is relevant in a modern digital office? Latin! That’s dead as a dodo.’

Elizabeth tensed at the reference to her age. The younger generation was so bad-mannered. They didn’t realise they too would grow old one day. Yes, she was 58, but her pension would not be paid until she was 66. She needed a job until then, any sort of paid job. Although she wondered if this particular job was worth it.

She forced herself to remain calm. ‘I’m not aware of any modern alternative. You insert sic in brackets, like I did there, if the original text contains errors. Well, look at the way he filled in the form. List of shares, tables and other ferniture.

‘Allaire’s native language is not English. The company’s equality, diversity and inclusion policy mandates that we make allowances.’

‘Allaire belongs to a minority group. Are you prejudiced against minorities, Elizabeth?’

The dual onslaught made her grit her teeth. No, I’m prejudiced against people who don’t speak proper English being paid twice as much as me. Aloud, she attempted to defuse the ridiculous situation. ‘I know a lot about prejudice, as it happens. My younger daughter is lesbian. I don’t often talk about her—’

‘Because you’re ashamed of her? Admit it, Elizabeth, you are a bundle of prejudices.’

‘I’m proud of my daughter,’ she snapped. What did these arrogant idiots know about the hurdles her daughter had overcome?

#

The interview panel were not to know that Elizabeth’s daughter’s partner Melanie was a lawyer. Only last month, Mel had moved into a new job specialising in constructive dismissal. People were suing their former employers, and winning considerable compensation, if an unpleasant atmosphere at work drove them to resign. Harassment and hurt feelings could be worth thousands of pounds, Mel had explained.

Elizabeth had an excellent memory. She gave the appearance of listening to the strictures of the interview panel, outwardly agreeing to attend a diversity course, inwardly noting their comments.

She would give them enough rope to hang themselves, and Mel would guide her. Already she envisaged her letter of resignation. A proper letter, impeccably typed, with no grammar or spelling mistakes. 

About the author

Madeleine McDonald's published work ranges from newspaper columns to Shakespearean sonnets and historical novels. 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 3 November 2024

Sunday Serial: 240 x70, 41. A Black and White Maus by Gill James, black coffee

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.

The cover fascinates me. Maus. Like mouse. Two anthropomorphic mice stare out. They huddle beneath a stylised cat and blood-red swastika. They are three-dimensional and coloured. I gently touch the cover. My hand trembles slightly. Art Spiegelman. An apt name.  A mirror to the world through art.

The swastika threatens. Has that symbol always done that? Was it innocent once? I tentatively touch the cover. It does not hurt me. It is after all just paper. Yet I continue to shudder.

Yet I am compelled to look more closely. I take it from the shelf and leaf through its pages. It claims to be a survivor's tale. "My father bleeds history and here my troubles began," says Spiegelman. The pictures inside are black and white. It follows true comic bock traditions: read picture and text top left corner to bottom right, lower case for "stage directions" and uppercase for speech, and textures created by arranging lines differently.

I recognise the story too. I've read it before. I've even written it: World War II, concentration camps, survival.

I cannot resist. I move towards the till. I hand the book to the sales assistant and take out my bank cards. She confirms that I get a discount as I am a member of the Society of Authors. "A classic, isn't it?" she says. "Nicely done."

Why have I taken this book? It can't be a comfortable read. I know though I'll admire the artistry, the story-telling and the feel of the book in my hands.

As I make my way to the tram stop I think of that Holocaust: the blame, the hatred, the injustice and hope that it isn't coming back.     

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. 
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.)

Saturday 2 November 2024

Saturday Sample: Tripping the Flash Fantastic by Allison Symes, spring water

 


Introduction

I never anticipated I’d become a published flash fiction writer when I began my writing journey. I had been happily writing short stories (1500 words +) when CafeLit issued their 100 word challenge.

My first thought was you have to be kidding me? How can you tell a story in such a small word count?

My second thought was they wouldn’t have issued the challenge if it was impossible. Go on, Allison, give it a go. See if you can do it.

I did and discovered it was possible to write stories to a tiny word count. What I didn’t anticipate was how quickly I would become addicted to the form! Since then I have written across the flash fiction spectrum from five word stories right up to the top end count of 1000 words.

In this collection, you will find a mixture of word count lengths and styles. There is historical flash fiction included and some stories told in poetic form. Flash fiction is more flexible than you might think in what you can do within its structure.

I hope you enjoy this latest collection of my flash tales as much as I loved writing them.

Best wishes.


Allison Symes

 

 

 

Allison Symes loves reading and writing quirky fiction. She discovered flash fiction thanks to a CafeLit challenge and has been hooked on the form ever since.

In this follow-up to her From Light to Dark and Back Again, Allison will take you back in time, into some truly criminal minds, into fantasy worlds, and show you how motherhood looks from the viewpoint of a dragon!

Enjoy the journey!

 

 

 


 

          TRIPPING THE LIGHT FANTASTIC

 

The big boss sighed as he reset the consumer unit in his kitchen.

Someone decided now was the time to trip the light fantastic. Bloody inconsiderate, he called it.

Now he had the mother of all headaches as the power went through him. It made him feel like he was a torch. Still, he would have the joy of passing on the pain.

Power always cost something and tomorrow he would be doing the charging.

 

BRINGING UP BABY

 

Round toys, square toys, bashed but favourite, all were strewn over the lounge. Helena suspected the substance near the top of her curtain rail was jelly. That was the price you paid for hosting your two-year-old’s birthday party.

It could’ve been worse. In Helena’s case there would never be a need to book a “magician” to entertain the kids. Magic ran in the family. When she thought of what her daughter, Amy, could do if she had enough knowledge, Helena’s blood ran cold.      

Not many can do that to a witch.

 

  

TIME FOR SOME PEACE

 

As some inconsiderate beings insisted on interfering with her peace, she must show the sods how much she hated disturbances.

She padded to the entrance. About twenty feet away were the dwarves, digging out another mine. They were wasting their time. She knew where the gold was. She sat on it.

Still a moment later her problems were solved. A blast of flame, no more dwarves, and she could resume guarding her baby and enjoying her rest.

It was hard work being a mother dragon.

 About the author

Allison Symes is published by Chapeltown Books, CafeLit, and Bridge House Publishing amongst others. She is a member of the Society of Authors and Association of Christian Writers. She adores reading and writing quirky fiction which she calls fairytales with bite. 

Her website is https:\\allisonsymescollectedworks.com and she blogs weekly for online magazine, Chandler’s Ford Today, often on writing related topics – http://chandlersfordtoday.co.uk/author/allison-symes/

 

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