The Clean-Up Operation by Rachel K. Gosling, Americano served in a china mug

Unhappy. Unimpressed. Ungrateful.

I could go on, but you get the gist, I’m sure. 

I’ll keep my presents to myself next time if that’s all the thanks I get. 

Better still, I’ll find someone else to shower my attention on; someone who’ll show some gratitude and love in return for all my efforts; and maybe offer some treats and rewards right back my way. Sadly, I’ve learnt that all relationships are transactional when you get past the initial lovey-dovey stages. I’ll scratch your back if you’ll scratch mine is all you can hope for.

I can’t believe this – I’ve been banished from my favourite spot on the sofa while Tony deals with what he calls ‘the holy mess’ I’ve made. He’s even called me a common criminal! Threatened me with the police if I continue with these ‘dirty tricks.’ Po-lice? Pl-ease! Such exaggeration. I’m not a common thief! I’m an opportunistic entrepreneur, willing to go after whatever I set my eyes on. It’s called business acumen, Mr. stuck-in-your-ways Tony White.

I’ve noticed this about men though. For all their, ‘Oh, I’m a completely relaxed twenty-first century guy’ posturing, they still don’t like a female to take the initiative or to strike out for what she wants in this world, not without his permission or approval. Well, boo-hoo, bah humbug, and tough luck to that idea! I’m a woman with a mind and personality of my own and I don’t need your permission or praise to validate my existence.

Anyway, if people leave objects lying about, they should expect them to disappear, that’s what I say. In fact, you could say I’ve done them a massive favour by removing the debris.

Tony’s sulking, hunched over on the sofa, using my favourite cushion to balance his iPad on his lap as he types embarrassed messages to all our neighbours. He has all my gifts lined up in a row on the floor and I know he is determined to list every single one of them. I can’t believe the petty-minded insensitivity of this man. After all, I put a lot of thought into those presents; surely, he should pretend to be slightly grateful for my efforts? That phone charger is brand new, the purple pen with the pineapple on top is unique, and the gorilla hand puppet is hilarious, even if it is a bit on the hairy side.

Not hilarious to Tony, apparently. He reads aloud his sentences, designed to make me cringe with shame. “Excuse me, does anyone recognise these objects? Thea acquired them in a tidy up of the neighbourhood this morning.” Oh, how he loves his italics – they express such sarcasm.

Unbelievable that someone of my stature and brilliance should be left to stew, with no comfortable cushion or treat in sight, while I listen to his determined defamation of my character. It makes my spine tingle with fury and I long to fly at him and swipe that sneer off his face. I clench and unclench my nails in anticipation.

I resist the temptation, turning my back on him instead, and march to the kitchen in search of comfort. Yes, I know; comfort eating is an emotional reaction to stress, you should do some exercise instead, think of your figure, blah-de-blah- de-blah. I’ve had that lecture thrown at me a thousand times by Tony. I’m perfectly content in my own skin, thank you very much, and I’ll eat what I want, when I want.

Turkey or beef are my favourite nibbles, just so you know.

I try to enjoy a biscuit but my right eye twitches with irritation as I hear Tony on the telephone. His tone is meek and beseeching, desperate for their good opinion, unconcerned about my bruised feelings.

“Yes, I’m so sorry... I know...I’ve told her it’s absolutely inacceptable... of course, yes, I’ll bring them back immediately.”

The door bangs behind him. He’s a great door-slammer when he’s cross. I know I’ll be getting the silent treatment all day.

Well, two can play at that game, Mr Sanctimonious. I leap up on the counter, seeking out the chicken he’s left out to defrost for dinner tonight. I don’t object to the icy patches; they add a nice crunchy texture to be honest. I feast on the tender meat, beginning to recover my usual joie-de-vivre.

Licking my lips, I jump down and head for the exit. It’s a bit of a squeeze, and my fur takes a bit of a pummelling as I push my way into the garden. Perhaps I shouldn’t have eaten all of the chicken. I shake myself to push away the negative thought. Positivity is the key to a long life. I hold my tail high in the air, my blue eyes twinkling once more.

Ah – the marvellous effects of freedom, fresh air, sunshine, and the smell of some rather nice fish next door, if I’m not very much mistaken. My whiskers tremble in anticipation as I leap on top of the fence to spy out the land. The grass next door is littered with exciting objects; a dog’s ball; an abandoned Chinese takeaway box (I’m instantly crossing paws for some left-over duck) and a pretty, shiny bracelet, glinting in the sunshine. Surely, even Tony would be impressed with that.

I lick my paws, flick out my claws, and jump down with ease. Time for a little clear-up operation. I really don’t know what state this neighbourhood would be in without me around to clean it up.

Rachel Gosling is a former teacher, now working part-time in a museum to concentrate more on honing her writing skills. She took her Master's in English Literature and is an avid reader and scribbler of stories

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Stage 5, Exit Left

“What’d he say?” my bud Carl asked, visiting me in the charity ward of the downtown hospital, a back room for those of us with “uncompensated care,” the insurance company’s PC term for “they ain’t got shit.”

“Stage 4,” I spit.  “Then the doc patted my hand, his voice mewling, him bent over like a wilted
willow, techniques he'd learned, I guess, in his second-year medical school class ‘Death Notice 101,’” and I laughed, like razor blades scratching on glass.

“Don't need his sympathy, Carl.  Don't want it.”  In fact, I wondered what the palliative value was of simpering. Maybe I'll look that up on Amazon Rx. If I have the time.

“When I see him again, I’ll tell that dude to grow some bark.  If he’s gonna deal with those of us who’ve lived a bit rough, he’s gonna need more skill and a riding crop, like my Marine drill sergeant used in basics to keep us green recruits in line.  Save his damned whimpering for the bridge club ladies.

I've got more concrete in my spine than he's got in his deluxe 4-car garage fit for a Lamborghini,
Maybach, Porsche, and Range Rover. And my spine is all stenosis and baling wire.

Yep, the hell with kindness and well-meaning bedside manner. Give me my morphine, some booze, and a toke of medicinal weed. I'm ready for stage 5, exit left,” I said to Carl, as he used his sleeve to wipe the bottle’s mouth, handing me the flask of Jack Daniel’s Black.

About the author

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows 

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THE GYPSY AND THE FROG by Guy Pratt, a glss odf cold water,

Roger Brownlee regarded himself as a prosperous middle class businessman in that later Victorian period just before the end of the nineteenth century. He owned a mill and a flourishing corn and seed business in a large East Anglian village, almost a small market town. He had worked hard to build the business up from scratch and now enjoyed the prosperity brought by his effort. He had married Agnes MacCrae, a no- nonsense Scottish woman, who had originally come to the area to occupy the post of village school mistress.

Roger Brownlee had always wanted a son to carry on the business into a new generation and could envisage the sign on his business premises, R Brownlee and Son Millers and Corn Merchants. Unfortunately Agnes had produced four daughters in rather quick succession, Julia the eldest, Jennifer and Jemima the twins and then Johanna. However much to the delight of Roger and Agnes this year little Timothy had arrived. “Wee Tim” as Agnes called him, retaining her Scottish accent. Girls were all very nice but producing and nurturing the male heir was of great importance to Agnes.

The family lived in a large, well planned Georgian house on the edge of the village, not dissimilar to the Vicarage, designed to accommodate a family and domestic staff. The “in house” staff included cook, Emma the housemaid, and Margaret, the nursemaid who had a very busy time looking after four little girls and keeping an eye on baby Timothy.

Agnes was a somewhat parsimonious housekeeper and did not feel the need for more staff than necessary and always kept a close eye on the domestic budget.

At the rear of the house looking out over lawn and flowerbeds was a veranda. Slung between the supporting pillars of the veranda was a hammock which Roger Brownlee would stretch out on Sunday afternoons after lunch. He usually took a book, but after a substantial roast lunch seldom got beyond a second page before dozing until afternoon tea was served. Just beyond the hammock by a pillar stood a large water butt that collected rainfall from the veranda.

It was a warm humid summer afternoon with a darkening sky threatening a possible thunderstorm. Margaret was in the nursery trying to keep four little girls amused. Agnes Brownlee had taken Timothy out onto the veranda and laid him safely in the hammock while she walked round the garden with scissors and a basket cutting some flowers; she wished make an arrangement  to go on the dining room table.

She had only got half her requirement of flowers cut when Emma the housemaid appeared. ”Ma’am cook’s got old Meg the gypsy at the kitchen door trying to sell us some clothes pegs.”  Agnes put down her basket and scissors, “We don’t need any pegs, I’ll go and deal with Meg” she replied. As they made for the kitchen door Emma said “My mum always used to say that’ll bring ill fortune if you don’t buy from old Meg.”

“Stuff and nonsense” responded Agnes “You shouldn’t believe silly things like that Emma.” Cook agreed with Emma, but Agnes was having none of it and chided them as “silly superstitious country folk.” Agnes firmly sent Meg on her way empty handed. Whatever could an old gypsy woman do to an educated woman like her.

Whilst Agnes had been engaged at the kitchen door Margaret had looked out of the nursery window and seeing the clouds threatening a storm and Timothy abandoned in his hammock on the veranda, she got up quickly and fetched him in from the hammock and laid him in his cot in the nursery.

As Margaret was leaving the veranda with Timothy in her arms a frog surfaced in the water butt swum to the edge and seated himself there. Returning from the kitchen Agnes suddenly remembered Timothy and made for the veranda. Hearing footsteps approaching the startled frog took a mighty leap and landed in the middle of the hammock. Agnes appeared and was about to bend down to her “Wee Tim” when a fork of lightening flashed against the darkening sky followed by a violent crack of thunder and she gazed down at a large green frog in the hammock who looked back with glassy bemused eyes.

Pale and trembling a little, Agnes rushed to the nursery. “Margaret have you seen my Wee Tim” she cried. “Why yes Mrs Brownlee” she replied, “You had left the garden and it looked like rain so I brought him into the nursery. You look a little pale – are you alright Mrs Brownlee, would you like Emma to fetch you a glass of water?”

“Come and look at this” said Agnes, leading Margaret back to the veranda, but the frog had disappeared again. Agnes went and found her purse and called for Emma. Taking a silver shilling from her purse she said to Emma “Put your coat on it might rain, and go as quickly as you can and catch up with old Meg. Tell her Mrs Brownlee has just realised she is in need of a few more clothes pegs after all and buy a dozen from her.”

About the author

guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. Did you enjoy the story? 

Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.  

Sarurdsay Sample: Th big Book of prompts, espresso

Paste story here Paste author bio here

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.  

The Big Book of Prompts

In 2020, 2020 and 2022 we published books of writing prompts, oen for each day of the year. We have now put thes togeterh to form this big book of prompts with the choice of three promts for each day.

Some are short and pithy, others are inspired by obscure days e.g. 8 January English Toffee Day and some go into a little more detail on an aspect of writing craft.

And here are a few challenges:

Use this book to give you ideas for CaféLit and mention the prompt when you send it in. Full submission

guidelines are here:

http://cafelit.co.uk/index.php/submission-guidelines-2 It would be really great if you work about a week ahead so I can publish your offering on the right day.

Is there a brave soul out there who is determined to write something for every prompt? Send me proof at the end of the year and I’ll send you a bunch of books!

You can also submit your work to me with “response to prompt” in the title and include the date. If there are enough of them of the right quality I’ll publish an e-book of them. If there are a lot there will of course be a selection process. Your submission can be to CaféLit and “response to prompt” at the same time.

Happy writing!   

15 August

Mixing up the genres 3

Re-write a fantasy story as science fiction.

 

Character profile

Make copious notes about one of your characters. Now write them into a scene. Show this scene to a writing buddy and ask them questions about the character.  Does your reader know as much as you do about this character? If so, why do you think that might be?  

 

Gill James

 

Social distancing

Will this go on forever? Do we like it or hate it? Has it stopped us getting other diseases as well as Covid? Do we become extremely cautious?  Or do we go to the other extreme once we’ve decided the pandemic is over?  Write a story set in this near future scenario.

 

Gill James

 

 

 

 

FInd you copy here