The Spirited Baseball by Charles Sutphin, magical butterfly herbal tea

“I’m going to tell you a story I’ve never told to anyone.”

“Not even grandma.”

The boy tucked his knees under his chin. A sheet angled down the length of his legs and stretched tight to the end of the bed.

“Okay, fine– I’ve never told anyone, except your grandmother.”

The man looked at his grandson and recognized his own eyes staring back. Light blue and wide like almonds, the eyes reflected a shared lineage stretching through the centuries—and beyond. His grandson’s nose tapered long and slender but with a crease at the tip that originated from someone else.

“What about Dad?”

“What about Dad?”

“Has he heard it?

“You don’t seem that sick to me.”

The boy fabricated a sound like a waste disposal grinding a bone. At the age of eleven, the days of a free pass were nearing an end.

            “I am sick, Grandpa! Really I am.”

            “Of course, you are.”

The man scooted across the foot of the mattress until his back leaned against the wall. His long legs splayed off the edge of the bed. Pots clattered in the kitchen downstairs as the boy’s mother prepared dinner. A greasy smell suggestive of burgers or brats wafted through the back hallway.

“I was about your age when it happened,” explained the man in a gravelly voice, “maybe a little older. Standing on the mound, flawless in my delivery, I was pitching a perfect game when the umpire called it off on account of weather.”

The boy expressed incredulity that the old man had ever pitched a baseball, let alone a no-hitter.

“You were a pitcher—no way!?”

“A million years ago, Jack—yes, I was a pitcher, just like you. But the umpire told us to go home. Since my family lived close by, I moped my way through some fields before climbing a hill that sloped down to the backyard.”

“Where your family raised chickens?”

“We raised chickens. Can I finish the story? Are you sure you’re sick? You don’t seem sick to me?”

            The boy made another rattling sound before shaking his head.

            “At the top of the rise was a pasture. Clouds were rolling in my direction like an armada rushing toward the edge of the world . . . as if I were watching the beginning of some cosmic battle.”

            The man laughed and ruffled his grandson’s hair.

            “Answer me this —” he asked, “wouldn’t it be—I don’t know—epic to climb a ladder, stretch your hand into the clouds and feel the mist brush past your fingers? I wanted to reach into those clouds as they were preparing for battle, but that was impossible so I did the next best thing: I tossed a baseball into the air—just so--and watched it skim across the bottom of the storm. Then I threw the ball straight up, it arced, touched the clouds before falling back into my glove. After a few more throws, something happened. . .  ”

From the bottom of the stairs a voice echoed upwards: “You boys hungry? Are you staying for dinner, Dad?”

            “Just a minute,” answered the boy. “Go on, Grandpa, what happened?”

            The old man placed his hands in front of him like a magician at the end of a trick, flung them open and announced: “It vanished!”

            “What vanished?”

            “The baseball.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “On that final toss, I reached into the bottom of my being and threw that ball with all my might: it floated into the clouds and . . . disappeared.”

            The man looked upward as if tracking an object sailing through the top of the ceiling.

            “It never returned,” he continued. “Not that day at least.”

            “Grandpa, have you been drinking again?”

            Jack placed his head on top of his knees like a pumpkin waiting to be smashed.

            “I mean—” said the man, ignoring the comment, “I threw that baseball into the clouds, waited for it to fall . . . only it didn’t. I waited and waited, mouth open and . . . nothing. It vanished. I searched every inch of that field until the rain turned vertical. I ran home, changed my clothes, came back a few hours later. I’m telling you, Jack, the armies of the wind or spirits of the world, something blessed or infernal, grabbed that ball and there’s nothing more to say . . . except what happened next.”

            With a flat face and sharp chin that resembled her son’s, the woman from downstairs appeared with a tray of food. She asked if Jack was feeling better. The boy acknowledged his symptoms were improving but remained uncertain how he might feel in the morning. After a brief discussion the older man instructed his daughter to take the tray back and explained that he and his grandson would need a few more minutes to finish before joining the family for dinner.

            “All right,” said the woman, “but I don’t want this food going to waste.”

            The man continued elaborating upon the miracle of his life.

“Fifteen years later I’m thinking about marrying your grandmother. We’d survived Elvis and the so-called British Invasion when Mimi insisted that if we weren’t getting married, she’d better things to do than hang around with a scallywag like myself. She put the squeeze on me, Jackie boy, so we got engaged and were set to live happily ever after until the day before the wedding when I got a case of cold feet.”

The man stood up. His knees cracked as he walked to a chair and sat down to finish the tale.

“I was filled with doubt,” he explained. “I walked all over Eagle Creek Park, muttering to myself and resigned to live the life of a celibate when it started to rain.”

“A what?”

“Like a monk—you see, she wanted me to stop drinking, claimed I was making a spectacle of myself and that after the wedding I needed to quit. I was cursing everyone and everything when I wandered into Blakely Field.”

“Next to the abandoned house.”

“That’s right.”

“Where we found those magazines one day.”

“Yes, Mr. Honor Roll, thanks for reminding me. Now do you want to hear the rest of this story—or not?”

The man stood to leave. The boy begged him to finish.

“On one condition,” he said and seized the opportunity, “promise you’ll go to school in the morning.”

“What if I’m sick?”

“Promise.”

“Okay,” the boy whined, “but if anyone gets pneumonia, don’t blame me.”

“So I’m staring at the ground muttering about women when I hear a whizzing sound followed by a thump, like a meteor dislodged from the sky only….”

He stared into a pair of eyes that were also his eyes and wondered if the boy would have a life as blessed as his own had been.

“It wasn’t a meteor; was it?”  said the grandson.

“Buried a few feet in front of me was the baseball from when I was a kid.”

“Come on, Grandpa—you’re making this up!”

“True story,” said the man. “I’ll tell you want I think. When I threw that ball into the air, a current in the universe or some kind of vortex sucked that ball into the sky where it circled the globe as part of the weather until one day it plummeted into the ground as an affirmation that your grandmother was the woman for me.”

Jack waited for his grandfather to crack a smile. He blew snot into a tissue before saying, “That’s not possible, Grandpa.”

“Not possible?” said the man leaning forward to rub his long legs. “From my experience, Jack, much of what a person sees and does every day is not possible. Birds, bees, you and me—a dream of improbability, so that baseball hurtling from the sky to land at my feet while I’m contemplating not marrying your grandmother—one more coincidence in a universe filled with meaning, if you open your eyes and look for it.”

“And it was the same ball?”

“I’m not sure. I won’t embellish and say otherwise. You know that word?”

Jack shook his head.

“It’s a fancy word for lying, but I’m not. It was the same ball because that’s what I believe. Do you understand? I’m not worried about proof. I believe it was the same ball telling me to create a family—to create you. I believe what I choose to believe. At the end of the day, I think we all do.”

“And you still have it?”

“I don’t. I found that ball buried in the mud, some relic from the sky, and I married your grandmother. A few years later when the clouds were thick, abnormally low, and my arm was strong I . . .”

“Don’t . . . ”

“ . . . threw the ball, watched it sail, arc into the clouds and . . .”

The man waited for the youngster to fill in the blank.

“Disappear,” he said dejectedly.

“To swirl around the world and fall again and inspire someone else to contemplate the miracle of a blessed life—maybe even you, Jackie boy, maybe even you.”

 Bio:

Charles Sutphin is a retired professor, attorney, journalist and capitalist. He volunteers at the Northside Food Pantry and serves on several not-for-profit boards. Married for 35 years, he has two children. His writing has appeared in Eclectica, Vita Poetica, Metaworker, Literally Stories, Helix Review, Agape and many other fine publications.

The puffer coat by Judith English, hot chocolate with whipped cream.

 Stella made a New Year’s Resolution.  But it was now late February, and she was no nearer tackling it. Decision making and being proactive were not her strong points.

            She needed to address her housing situation. It was no good pretending that the landlord had not issued an eviction notice, but it made her angry. Which is why she tried not to think about it. He had no right. She had always been a good tenant, paid her rent on time, kept the flat clean and tidy. He said he wanted to sell, but Stella suspected he simply didn’t like her. Thought she was too bolshy. Which she was, but then, since Mike had abandoned her years ago, leaving her with two energetic children, life had been a struggle. She needed to be bolshy to survive. 

            She had three months to find somewhere else, or more precisely, two months, since she had spent a month procrastinating. She thought she might buy a flat. She had rented long enough and wanted a place of her own. She deserved a bit of security. Now that the children had left home, she would only need two bedrooms, one and a half would do at a push. She looked at a flat locally, turned out it was too near the river, in a flood risk zone, so she would never manage to insure it. Then she hit upon the idea of moving further away, where prices would be more favourable.

            And so, on a sullen February morning, when sleet and rain were lashing against each other, she found herself waiting on Platform 3 for the train to Leamington Spa. Her friend said it was too far away, but she argued with herself that it was only fourty-five minutes on the train, a perfectly reasonable commute, even if the walk from the station to the office added another ten minutes. She was sure it would be fine, it would all work out. 

            Arriving at Leamington Spa, she hesitated, not sure which exit to take. 

            ‘Well, you’re dressed for the weather!’ came a voice from behind her. She turned to see a tall chap appraising her in her long brown puffer coat. She smiled at him, pulling the coat more tightly around her, snuggling into it like a duvet, and hoping it showed off her shapely hips. It was a good investment, this coat. Good old M and S sale.

            ‘I needed it! It was jolly cold when I left home this morning, ’she laughed.

            ‘It’s still freezing now.  That’s the wilds of the Cotswolds for you; the wind fairly blows across from the Northeast. Not the kind of day to be standing around on a station platform. Which way are you headed?’

            ‘I wish I knew. I was trying to work out which exit I needed.’

            ‘There’s a nice café just across the road. D’you fancy a coffee?  Then I can point you in the right direction.’

            ‘Thanks, that’s kind.’ Crikey, it feels like he’s asking me on a date! Calm down. Play it cool.

             Stella hesitated. ‘I’d love to, but I’m not sure I have time. I’m due to meet an estate agent in 10 minutes to view some flats.’

            ‘Oh, you thinking of moving up here then?’

            ‘Maybe, I’m just looking at different possibilities.’ Stella left this remark hanging elusively in the cold air.

             There was an awkward silence, until Stella showed him the address of the estate agent, and he explained how to get to the office on the high street.

            ‘Well, you’d better get to your business meeting then! Nice chatting, take care of yourself.’ His face had lost its former enthusiasm. He walked slowly away, leaving the station by the other exit. 

            Stella soon found her way to the agent and turned her mind to the serious business of finding a flat. The agent was young, annoyingly cheerful, and too talkative for Stella’s mood. They entered the first flat, which was adequate, in good condition, and well located on the ground floor with immediate access to outside space. The agent continued to point out the benefits of the flat, and although Stella feigned interest, her mind had already moved on. Looking at the agent’s animated face, she thought that his eyes were nowhere near as kindly as those of the man at the station. The second flat, with a larger second bedroom, was of more interest. The view from the main bedroom was over a park, which she liked. But the kitchen was pokey, just a galley kitchen, and she wouldn’t enjoy cooking there. As the agent carried on with his persuasive talk, she wondered whether it would have mattered if she had accepted the invitation for a coffee, arriving half an hour later. Probably not.

            By the third flat on the list, Stella was becoming more immune to the sales patter of the agent and filtered it out quite successfully. His voice became edgy as his desperation to make a sale increased, and she remembered the gentle tones of the friendly chap on the station. They had fallen into conversation quite easily. When the agent had exhausted his supply of suitable flats, and Stella had sat with a coffee and sandwich, mulling over the events of the morning, she walked back to the station, and waited for a train back home. It was a long twenty-five minutes waiting in the cold, and she suddenly felt a very long way from home. She realised that Leamington Spa was too far from work, her friend was right, and she didn’t want to leave familiar surroundings so far behind.

            As she sat on the train, she mused about how events might have unfolded if she had gone for the coffee when invited. Would they have carried on talking, so that coffee merged into lunch? And then?  A drink in a pub? A walk together? An invitation back to his place? Her thoughts roamed over a romantic landscape, filling out an idyllic canvas with companionship that developed into romance and love. But in her heart she knew he was not the one. It was the rural accent, which, although endearing at a first meeting, would become tiresome if she had to listen to it for too long. 

            Looking out of the rain spattered window as the train rattled its way towards Banbury, it dawned on her that housing was not the real priority, or at least, not buying a flat. She could just continue renting, which would be so much simpler. Perhaps her New Year’s Resolution should have been to find a suitable man, like the man on the platform, but with a less pronounced accent. Was it too late to make a new resolution?

Bio:

Judith English has taken writing courses at UEA and City St George’s. Her first novel Layers of Silk is currently out on submission. She was longlisted for the Henshaw Short Story Prize, and winner of City Writes Autumn 2025. She loves kayaking on the Thames.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/people/Judith-English-author/61566359135133/?_rdr

Substack: https://judithenglishauthor.substack.com/

The Secret by Gail Vallance Barrington, Small Latte with Oat Milk

‘Tell me a secret,’ she says, eyes blue and trustworthy.

There is a story inside of me, fluttering like a bird, desperate to escape. She may not be as trustworthy as she looks, but I know, piece by piece, that I am losing my memory. It’s a Swiss cheese kind of loss. Nothing left inside but holes full of radio static. If I forget this story too, no one will ever find out.

‘When I was seventeen, I killed a man.’

She sucks in air, a fish on the hook. She wants something titillating, but not this.

‘It was a friend of my father’s. He gave me a lift after church every week. One Sunday, he pulled into a shady park and raped me. Then he drove me home and waved to my parents. Such a cheerful fellow. I felt a slow-burning anger, but I was patient. I could wait.’

She looks at me, breathless.

‘You know I’m a diabetic.’

She nods.

‘I had a kit of syringes and knew you could kill someone by injecting air into their bloodstream. It’s why every nurse gives the needle that little spurt before sticking it in you.’

Her eyes beg me to continue.

‘My parents had a party, and of course they invited him. I hid my revenge behind a vase of flowers. When he arrived, his wife on his arm, he gave me a knowing smile. I smiled right back like I always did, like nothing was wrong.

My job was to circulate with plates of food. I was invisible like the rest of the waitstaff. The noise level rose as people got a little drunk. Everything was funny. As he waved his glass and told a story, I pulled the syringe from behind the vase, dropping a napkin at the same time. As I picked it up, I stabbed the needle into the back of his thigh. Then I yanked it out, wrapped it in the napkin, and moved on. He winced, his hand running down his trouser leg, pressing away the pain.

What’s wrong? people asked.

He shook his head, then toppled to the floor, dead on arrival.

A heart attack, they thought, and went to his funeral. His wife made a good grieving widow, but I could see relief in her eyes.’

I look at my listener. ‘That’s the end of the story. No one ever found out.’

‘What about you? Did you turn to a life of crime?’ she giggles, wanting more.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Nothing like that. I felt I had done enough evil for one lifetime and tried to live a good life.’

‘And you did,’ she says, nodding to the certificates and awards on my bedroom wall.

‘Well, dear, I guess that’s enough for tonight.’ She smiles and straightens my pillow. ‘It’s time for your insulin.’ She flourishes my syringe.

Bio

Gail Vallance Barrington has published short stories and poems in literary journals and has published a pop-up series about an irrepressible young starlet on her website. She is writing a mystery set in the Rocky Mountains and is a NovelNovember 2025 Champion. She is now working on her second draft. See https://gailbarrington.ca/creative-writing

 

Passing of a Pet by Melissa L Vardy, MD 20/20

 

There are many situations in life that can make you feel uncomfortable. Farting during a job interview, for example or worse still, during sex. Here’s another one, bumping into an old friend and then congratulating them on their pregnancy, when in fact.......Well, we all know how that one goes.

Then there’s the old favourite, snogging a work colleague after a night of heavy drinking. Then, having to face them every bloody day at work until you manage to find another job. I have experienced all of these and more, but yesterday I found myself in an awkward situation entirely new to me.

At the time, I was on the 10.59 a.m. train from King's Cross to Stevenage. Two miserable children were sitting opposite, and a snotty woman in a red puffer jacket was next to me.  I could tell this ‘tutting woman’ didn't want to sit near me. I’m intuitive like that.  I sensed she was in a bad mood just by the way she sat down.  As for the children, well, they were mine and had good reason to be miserable.

This wasn’t a journey I’d been looking forward to, and being kettled in this hot, stuffy train wasn’t improving my mood any. It was so crowded that strangers were pressed up against each other and looked like they might snog at any moment, if they weren’t so agitated that was.

Impatiently, I waited for the train to pull out, now and then glancing over to see how my children were holding up.  The pair of them were sitting there silent with tears in their eyes and sadness in their hearts. It was all very ‘Dickens’.  I, on the other hand, felt more anxious than sad. Having to sit with a corpse on your lap will do that to you. Now, I realise straight away that sounds kind of bad, and I’ve gone from awkward to obscene in one sentence, so let me explain.

You see, two weeks previously, our hamster had died. Well, actually, Avril Lavigne, as she was regrettably named, died slightly before then. But for the first two days, I’d tried to convince myself that she was in fact hibernating. Then, for another day, I agonised over how I was going to tell Aaron and Esme, my kids. Luckily, in the end, I didn’t need to. On that very same day, they found out for themselves, which was fortunate, kind of.

They were devastated, of course, death was still new to them, for me, less so. It’s not that I’m a cold-hearted bitch incapable of loving a small rodent, far from it. It’s just that no sooner had ‘we’ got Avril than I found myself becoming a parent yet again. My children's cries of

“We’ll look after her, we p-r-o-m-i-s-e” flowed quickly into cries of.

“Mummy, I’m tired,”.

“Why don’t you just get the word mug tattooed on your forehead?” My husband had suggested. Yep, thanks for that.

Now, if you are fortunate enough not to know much about these creatures, then let me enlighten you. For starters, they smell, well, not so much them, more their cages, if you don’t clean them out regularly, that is. Obvious, really, it would be weird if they didn't. And have a guess who cleaned our hamster's cage out every week? Yep, you got it, me, me and me. Then there’s the noise. A hamster can run up to six miles a night in the wild.   And I’m pretty sure she ran that same distance on his wheel each night, that’s when she wasn’t gnawing on the metal bars trying to escape, I mean, who can blame her?

Now, to my next point. Whose room do you think the hamster lived in? Yep, me again. You see, Avril’s nocturnal noises had a propensity to keep my children awake. Whereas, obviously, for me, her racket was like whale music. You can see what I am getting at here, can’t you?

Finally, you know what hamsters don’t do? They don't live long; the average lifespan of a hamster is two years. In conclusion, hamsters make shit pets, Christ even rats live longer, and they can learn their name.

But still, I was genuinely upset when she died. I’d spent more time with Avril than anyone. Admittedly, most of that time was spent on my knees making elaborate treat-laden mazes. The ‘twist’ in my maze, though, was that the final exit was actually a dead end, leading directly back into her cage.  As you know, what else hamsters are fabulous at?  Escaping.  Honesty, I didn’t enjoy it, and sometimes I’d just let her have the run of the house for a few days.

In death as in life, it was the same; it was me that was left to organise the funeral.

Now you wouldn't know it to look at me, but I actually live in a council flat in Peckham, South London, and my flat, being on an estate, doesn't have a garden.  Oh, also, we are on the 5th floor, so having a garden would also be, well, weird and certainly unusual.

Eventually, we decided to travel to her mum's house in Stevenage for the burial; my mum's place didn’t have a garden either, but she did have a small allotment. This felt like the perfect resting place for Avril, after all, she’d always loved carrots.

As my place of work didn’t grant special leave for the pet funerals, it was a couple of weeks before we were able to make the journey. Until I’d had to store Avril's body at the back of the fridge. No, no, I know that sounds horrible, but she was in a box, her body wasn’t just lying there next to the Feta cheese. It was the only place she could think of that would work as a makeshift morgue. After a couple of days, however, her body was removed. I won't go into the reasons why.

I’d hoped to put Avril in my bag for the journey, but Aaron had said he was worried the body might be disturbed. Jesus, I thought, we’re not in an episode of Silent Bloody Witness. But still, he was upset, so I respected his wishes. I carefully wrapped Avril in tissue paper and placed her body in a Nokia phone box, which, if you are interested, makes an excellent coffin for a dead rodent, as well as a brilliant ‘sleeping quarters’ for a living one.

So, there I was, on the train, feeling extremely uneasy, convinced that the passengers could smell Avril's decomposing body. And I thought to myself, you know what, I'd rather be back there, farting my way through that job interview. But still the discomfort was brief, and less than two hours later we were at the allotments.

My mother was crying, of course; oh, she does love a good funeral. Next to her was my stepfather, towering over everyone and wearing his huge trench coat. Accompanying him were his Bible and his garden spade; it was all very apocalyptic. And opposite my parents were the kids and an overweight slobbering black Labrador. The dog belonged to my stepdad, you understand; it’s not like we just let some random dog rock up to the funeral.

Despite the weather, many hardy gardeners were still out, and our presence was attracting their attention. Turns out Avril's funeral was far more interesting than the harvesting of root vegetables, imagine that! Although huddled together in a circle and standing in the rain, we must have looked like some kind of strange religious sect performing a sacrifice.

Mrs Mad Bastard, as my mum called her, happened to be standing nearby, staring, weird as ever, with a pitchfork in one hand and a cigar in the other! A young couple in their twenties were also in earshot. I noticed both of them were wearing matching floral Wellington boots, and they had the audacity to stare at us.

By now, it was raining more heavily, and I just wanted to get the thing over with. But if I didn’t give Avril a proper send-off, I knew I’d regret it.  My children were looking at me expectantly, as was the dog, although it may have been that she just wanted to go home, and so I began. I started the ceremony by reading the goodbye note that my daughter had written. This was difficult, mostly because she’d written the letter in blue felt tip and cried as she’d done it. Esme's hot tears had washed away most of the words, and what remained were just some inky blue stains. In the end, I looked up to the heavens and ad-libbed. If she asked, I’d say the words came directly from God.  You learn to lie well, and quickly when you have kids.

After the reading, I recited the Lord's Prayer, at least the bits I could remember.  However, I could tell by the expressions on my children's faces that the service was inadequately short. It needed something more. That’s when my mum suggested we sing, Hallelujah’ by Leonard Cohen, Christ knows why. Still, no one would be complaining it was too short after this little number, and I did know all the words.  So, I began to sing, and this time everyone joined in, even, surprisingly, Mrs Mad Bastard. Finally, the coffin was placed in the ground, covered with peaty soil, and Avril was laid to rest.

She was buried just near the strawberry patch. A huge paving slab was placed on top of the grave to make sure the foxes didn’t dig her up. Esme inserted the obligatory lolly stick cross in the ground, and everyone agreed it was a lovely service.  I reassured the kids that Avril was now in Hamster Heaven. I mean, I can’t imagine how any hamster could end up in hell, can you?

Then it was time to go back to the house for tea, cake, and a packet of orange Chewits. Nothing eases the pain of loss for a child like chewy sweets.

It was my stepdad who suggested we sing a song to cheer us up, and I agreed. Esme walked slowly through the allotments, deep in thought once more. Her mournful steps gradually quickened, and soon they’d turned into a skip, and then she sang, and she sang loudly,

“I kissed a girl, and I liked it; I liked it. No, I didn’t even know her name.”

It was an unusual song for a funeral, but then it was an unusual funeral.

As my stepfather yelled for Betty to hurry up, I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before the kids started pestering me for another Avril, and if they did, would I weaken once again?

Bio

Melissa Vardy is an up-and-coming standup comedian and spoken word artist who has performed at several venues across London. She also writes short stories and is currently attempting to write her first novel. She describes herself as desperately dyslexic, fiercely left wing, openly bisexual and proudly South London.

Mavis, Cuddles and the End of the World Alan Jacobs, Lambrusco

World War III started at 7:27 pm on 11^th May; it was a Thursday but, before I alarm you unnecessarily, dear reader, I should clarify that the cataclysmic events to which I refer, occurred, not in the real here and now, but in the virtual world that is Other Life.

“You haven’t really lived until you’ve lived your Other Life,” stated the announcer for the online ad that Mavis had clicked on.

“Be the person you always wanted to be,” it continued.

Up to a few seconds earlier, Mavis had been looking at videos of cute cats but had been side-tracked by one of those ‘clickbait’ links always present on web pages these days.

The advertisement from The Genesis Corporation was for a “Brand new virtual experience.”

The announcer went on to explain that, for a reasonable monthly charge Mavis could be one of the thousands of people worldwide who had already signed up to this twenty-first century phenomenon that was taking the world by storm – but to hurry as this was a once in a lifetime offer.

Intrigued, Mavis drank a few more mouthfuls from her second glass of red Lambrusco and watched on.

As soon as the video had finished, Mavis clicked on the link, signed up and purchased her new existence in Other Life.

Two days later all the paraphernalia: virtual headset, DVD, cables, controllers, password and documentation arrived by courier at the solicitors where she worked in the word processing department. With just a little bit of help from Steve in IT, Mavis had installed the software on her laptop and was ready to go.

Mavis Bracegirdle had lived alone since her mum died; alone that is if you didn’t include her seven cats. The wrong side of forty, and dress size twelve a distant memory, thanks mainly to a diet of junk food and chocolate, she appeared a lonely figure. She’d never had a boyfriend – well not since Colin when she was seventeen, and even he hadn’t been what you’d really call a boyfriend. They’d only gone out the once, to the pictures, where he’d tried to get his hand in her knickers in the middle of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. She’d stood up with a shriek, tipping most of a shared giant tub of buttered popcorn over a crestfallen Colin. Running out of the cinema, she’d never again set foot in one since that night.

Mavis finally got to see the whole film when it had been on the telly a few weeks back. Even after all these years, it had immediately brought back memories of that night: Harrison Ford, the smell of buttered popcorn and Colin’s short-lived fumblings; she’d idly mused that these days she might quite like a hand in her knickers.

The cinema incident had put her off men for a while and then her mother got ill; a mean spirited, self-centred person at the best of times, she had turned into a demanding, selfish harridan and it was a relief for Mavis to escape the house to go to work each day. The demands of her mother in the evenings precluded any sort of social life but, ill or not, the old witch had hung on for another twenty-odd years, and it wasn’t until she’d just turned forty-one that Mavis was finally free of her.

By the time she buried her mother, she’d just simply got used to not having a social life and, lacking in self-confidence, wasn’t even sure she’d know how to start one. The other girls in WP had always tried to coax her out for a drink on a Friday night and involve her in their out of work activities but Mavis had always cried off, citing her sick mother as the reason. Since Mum died, she’d started using the cats as her excuse for rushing home. She was affable and friendly enough with the other girls: joining the lottery syndicate, bringing cakes in on her birthday and sponsoring their charity walks – all the usual stuff of office life – but at going home time she had done just that and gone home.

 

The day the software was installed, Mavis travelled home on the tube, aware of a frisson of excitement as she felt the weight of the laptop in her bag. She arrived home burdened down with a takeaway pizza she’d stopped off for, a bottle of red Lambrusco and a family size bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. Struggling through the front door, she pushed it shut with her backside, narrowly avoiding tripping over two of the cats as they attempted to weave between her legs. Dumping her purchases on the kitchen counter, she made a fuss of the cats that were present, filling the bowls with dry food and, while a few more cats drifted in through the cat flap in the kitchen door, checked and refilled a couple of water bowls.

Cats fed and watered, she grabbed a wineglass and carried her evening meal into the living room. Shucking off her coat, she let it fall to the floor, where it was immediately claimed by one of the cats. She plopped onto the sofa and set about pouring the wine and pulling off a wedge of pepperoni pizza. Mouth full of pizza, she pulled her laptop out of her bag, opened it and switched it on.

Since placing her order she had avidly read the forums of other users and discovered all sorts of useful stuff. For instance, in the alternate reality world, all the usual laws of physics still applied, so, just as in the real world, no one could fly or have super powers and, when a user was not signed in, their avatar waited to be animated like some lifeless virtual puppet.

Before putting on the VR headset she went to the online store to pick out and personalise an avatar, which she named Emma Stone. Emma was a dress size ten and looked remarkably like Mavis herself had at the time of the cinema, knickers, popcorn episode. Avatar designed, Mavis followed the instructions to upload Emma into the system and, switching on the wireless headset, with some trepidation, put it on.

And from the very first time she hesitantly walked into the universe that was Other Life, she felt she had come home.

 

Over the next few years Mavis created in Emma Stone the complete antithesis of herself: a confident, attractive and gregarious twenty-something, world-class, (well, Other Life world-class), gymnast who regularly represented her nation in the sport. This gave Mavis the opportunity to live vicariously through Emma and experience a life she would not otherwise have enjoyed.

A keen and enthusiastic citizen of Freedonia (the fictitious country Emma inhabited), Mavis had crafted a much loved, admired and respected  member of the virtual community; indeed she had even pursued and now enjoyed an intimate relationship – as intimate as one could be in a virtual world – with Guy Manley. Guy had, in a landslide victory, just been elected President of Freedonia. In reality, Guy was Kenny Pratt, a flatulent, greasy, twenty-stone security guard from Rhyl with a dodgy comb-over.

Following Guy’s election victory, a huge inaugural ball had been planned and was being held at the virtual Government House. Naturally, as Emma was Guy’s significant other she’d been invited to sit alongside him at the main table while he gave his acceptance speech. She’d arrived early and was shown into the Round Office – Freedonia’s equivalent of the Oval Office. Mavis didn’t know it at the time but Guy was being briefed by his defence chief on the intricacies of their nation’s nuclear deterrent launch system. As this was a social function, the defence chief wasn’t in uniform, instead she was wearing a strapless black ball gown which barely restrained her enormous breasts. Freedonia was an equal opportunities nation after all so why shouldn’t the defence chief be a stunningly beautiful woman called Norma Stitz? As a side note, Norma was in real life a pre-op transgender sex worker from Dudley called Barry – but I digress.

To Mavis’s insecure eyes, the tableau that presented itself appeared to be a way too intimate tête-à-tête. Mavis’s self-doubt took over and, immediately leaping to the wrong conclusion, she experienced what can only be described as a crisis of faith in herself and the life she had created.

Back in the real world, sitting on the sofa of her ground floor flat, Mavis was in shock. Reaching up to snatch the virtual headset off, she accidentally knocked over the generous, nearly full glass of Lambrusco that had been on the arm of the sofa, emptying its entire contents over a soundly sleeping Cuddles, one of the aforementioned cats. Now, if ever a creature had been misnamed it was he. Cuddles was neither good-natured nor cuddly, in fact he was one of the most miserable animals one could ever have the misfortune to encounter, only tolerating Mavis because she fed him.

So, given Cuddles’ temperament, it would be something of an understatement to say he was not best pleased at being woken from a deep sleep, quite understandably taking exception to the entire contents of a glass being dumped on him. In a display of agility that belied his advancing years, he leapt up with a hiss and a howl and darted across the coffee table where Mavis had her laptop. Scrabbling over the keyboard, his feet managed to hit the precise key sequence required to propel Emma, at great speed, into the Round Office. Hurtling towards the two occupants, she hit them with such force that all three tumbled onto the floor where, in the resulting melee, one of Norma’s voluminous breasts unfortunately escaped from her strapless gown and accidentally pressed the launch button.

As this was supposed to be just a demonstration of the system, the missiles had been targeted on Gigantia, the largest nation in the whole of the Other Life universe. Gigantia had, up to this moment, been an ally and strong trading partner of Freedonia – indeed its ambassador was attending tonight’s inaugural ball.

Events took their course – Gigantia retaliated as did their allies, likewise Freedonia’s allies and, over the space of a very few minutes, the peaceful world of Other Life was destroyed.

 

Footnote:

The Genesis Corporation are currently creating Other Life II.

Mavis Bracegirdle’s application for membership has been declined.

 

Find your copy here:

Tales from the upper room

 

Echoes of a Father by Prof Rajeshwar Prasad, espresso

Rikha was born as a girl about eighteen years ago. Her father used to call her saying, "Dear daughter, come to my lap...and I used to run to him.

    She was born into a family which was economically and socially maintained by her father, Avarnath, who used to work in a small jewellery shop in my local city, Ghosi. She had not only one or two dreams, but innumerable, which always haunted her heart and mind.  She had her mother Sheelam, her brother Vayank, and her elder sister Vandini in her family, who had no fewer dreams than hers. Her father was the only person to earn and maintain the expenses of the family and fulfil their dreams.

    They used to eat, sleep, play and do together and enjoyed our lives as pleasantly as monarchs, as they were paragons of contentment.

    But a tragedy overwhelmed their family with the untimely and sudden death of her father due to cardiac arrest. With this, they lost everything in their lives – their hope, joy, light, patronage, and everything. He is no longer with them, and all her dreams have been shattered.

    After his demise, they suffered enough – a lot of problems they faced in their lives. Economic crises to maintain the expenses of the family, and the sense of loneliness and helplessness surrounded all around them. They pined even for a shower of human mercy and compassion – and in this condition, a few kith and kin came to help them.

    She sleeps alone and dreams, "...dad has brought toffees for us...biscuits for us...he is giving to us...he is playing with us..."

    But all this is a dream, and this will never be true in any situation in the world. Thinking about this, she pines...She sighs...She weeps..., but she regains much more power and ability to survive and do something for herself and humanity.

    Sometimes, she dreams at night, "...there are thorns all around me...I am sleeping on it. The roof will fall upon me, and some has come to fire on me...there are incurable wounds on my body..."

    This frequently happened to her. And her family members consoled her, saying, "This will never happen..."

    Then a series of social separations began. Her brother went to her cousin to study, and with his help, her sister also went with her cousin to study. Her mother always sighs over the loss of her father. And she alone lived in the same house, which was built by her father.

    Her mother, Sheelam, used to say, “You’ve to care for yourself, facing all the troubles. I’m not in a situation to guide you...”

    Thus, she remains lost in the tragedy which destroyed their dreams and future to prosper.

    Her sister also chose her own path in such a tragic situation, and she left her alone.     

    Her sister, Vandini, said, “I am going to live and study with the cousins with their help...”

    After some months of her departure, her brother Vayank also left home with his cousin to live and study with them. Hence, Rikha became alone and lived in the same state of loneliness, bearing all the troubles around her.

    While departed, Vayank consoled her, saying, “Don’t worry. Live at home and study here. You will be in my heart, and I will be in your heart as sister and brother...” 

    Some years ago, saying this, they, who lived, ate and played with her, departed from her, awarding tears in her delicate heart and leaving her at home. She felt agony but tolerated this because she understood their helplessness.

   When her sister and brother went for their studies with their cousins, multiple ideas began to haunt her mind, and I dreamt, "...I am sleeping alone on a barren land. There is none...all around me naked rocks and mountains and dried grasses...there is no way for me to return to my home..."

    Now, there is none to console her.

    Thus, her heart turned into stone. Since then, she has lived alone at home waiting for the final decision of her Fate. Sometimes, she sees stars at daylight and in the image of stars, I see the nakedness of the world, which lacks mercy and compassion in need. She frequently remembers the philosophic, thought-provoking and didactic lines written by Matthew Arnold to console myself:

 

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

 

    The above lines show the reality of the world and give them the light to live happily in the same situation that Almighty Fate awards them. She lives in the same situation as the Fate register allows them and encourages all mankind to live in present, whatever one has. Everyone must know and understand that the world is not a bed of roses, but a dim and dark one where no formula is fully applicable to lead a happy life, and suddenly anything wrong may happen to anyone anywhere, whether one is a monarch or a beggar. 

    She frequently remembers the days and repents for some time, and later she stands alone with double power to survive and to do something for the betterment of mankind.

    These lines console her for some time, and again, she enters the same state of isolation and loneliness. She began to recall her past with her father, who used to come in every evening with toffees and biscuits for her and her brother and her sister:

    “... Rikha...Vandini...Vayank ...come and take toffees...”

    They ran towards him and clasped his feet with our hands, taking as much as we could as soon as possible, saying, “...Give us much more, my dad...”

    Her dad offered all the edibles with fatherly love and choice. She used to eat – and she eats now, but the taste was different, which he offered by his hands and love and choice. This is the difference which she obviously sees and feels. The joy, love and human bond which she felt in her life with him was never experienced after his demise.

    When evening comes, she waits for him, but instead of him, darkness comes and envelopes her in its realm for hours. She waits for him in the morning, when he used to get her raised, shrill whistles of the vehicles come, but not the voice of her father. Thus, she is enveloped in the darkness at night and during the day in despair and loneliness.  This is the cycle of the tragedy which she faces.

    How pleasant was the lap of her father! How tasty were the toffees and sweets offered by him! How fatherly was his love and passion for her! Whenever and wherever she feels or sees his voice or face, she is compelled to recall memories of bliss with him and the current miserable situation in lack of him, she finds only and only darkness all around her – and a sense of isolation and despair. The vent she tries to forget, but she is helpless to forget it. She is quite unable to see him back and sit in his lap for the fatherly love and passion.

    Whatever the situation is, however very miserable, she lives in it expecting that she is one of the luckiest persons in the world, who weeps and sighs but never bends to her aim to work for the betterment of herself and mankind.

    I feel isolated and despairing. It seems that there are drops of blood on the walls, furniture, garments, shelves, beds, and other things in my house. But whenever I am in the lap of Nature, I see letters of hope, reality, and the parts of Creation even in my tragedy. It seems that these are the necessities for the continuation of Creation.

    She wishes her message communicated to the world: "Every sorrow is followed by fresh joys – Every joy is followed by sorrows".

    This is the reality in which we all live, we all face and follow the laws of Nature. This is the law of Nature, and everyone in the world, whatsoever powerful and influential, has passed through this divine and natural process to live and survive. No one should look back to see sorrowful days, but to see a lesson, and everyone should work for the good of the common people. One’s welfare is hidden in these good deeds for the world by man.

    Now people used to say her a woman, but I feel and understand...she is a human...she wants to be recognised neither as a woman nor as a man because it limits us. So, it is better to be recognised as a human.

    Aha! She is sure and hopes the day of joy will welcome her the next morning, and she will live in the realm of heavenly bliss, surrounded by pleasures!

    Now, she wants everything changed within a minute – her sorrows turned into bliss and only bliss.

   It is night, and she is going to bed. She wishes the next morning, "Joy and joy all around her...her woes will be gone...bliss will overwhelm her..."

    What a great thing, if it is so!

Bio

Rajeshwar Prasad is a literary titan, acclaimed poet, playwright, novelist, thinker and philosopher, who pioneered Absurd Theatre in India, penning 14 thought-provoking books and 26 research articles brimming with philosophical depth. His dedication to teaching and prolific writing, evidenced by numerous awards and publications, elevates both mind and soul.