A productive morning by Andrew Joshua Kerr, espresso

Lying curled in the darkness, he tried to resist the temptation to hit snooze. No, he thought, turning onto his back and kicking away the bed covers. Today is going to be different. Today I’m going to succeed.

            Ten a.m. was far earlier than Doug usually got out of bed. Normally it was more like dinner time.

The cluttered room seemed strangely unfamiliar to his bleary eyes. Piles of books stood like miniature models of Babel, though some were more like Pisa, complete with ashtray battlements manned by old dog-ends with filter-tip muskets.

Every surface that was not piled high with books or ashtrays was strewn with pieces of paper in various sizes and states of repair, scrawled with notes and ideas and lists of 'Things To Do Today'.

The sunlight that streamed in through the narrow window caught every mote of dust thrown into the air by the discarded bed covers that knocked a Pisa into a Babel which, in turn, sent its full contingent of dog-ends to infiltrate the carpet.

‘Damn!’

Doug threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood up amid the wreckage of his bedroom. He'd clean up later. It was time for breakfast.

He looked around for his dressing gown. Where had he put it? Normally it lived amongst the pile of dirty clothes at the foot of his bed.

He began to search through the sock-rich deposit of t-shirts and jeans. Then he remembered. Hadn't he begun to do some laundry a few days ago? Had he succeeded? If so, what had happened to it?

The vision of clean clothes made him smile. Today will begin with clean underwear. He tore open the top drawer of his cupboard. “Ah.”

He had definitely not succeeded in doing any laundry previously. One lone sock stared up at him from the white drawer, its tutti-frutti colours highlighting that it was not even one of his own.

Oh well, he thought, closing the drawer. He left the room wearing only the off-white boxer shorts he had slept in and the day before yesterday's black socks.

He walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle. Bacon and eggs and a cup of tea. Today will start with a good breakfast. He opened the fridge and removed a half-full packet of smoked bacon. It was two days past its 'Use By' date.

Doug looked at it. Little rainbow ribbons glistened when he moved the packet from side to side. It was as though someone had treated the surface with a thin layer of petrol.

He sniffed the packet. It smelt like smoked bacon. He turned on the hob. The frying pan was already there, pre-lubed with the congealed grease of a previous day's bacon sandwich.

Doug took a table knife from the sink, wiped it on his boxer shorts and wrote his name in the white fat. Once it had melted, he put the remaining rashers of bacon into the pan and turned back to the fridge for the eggs.

‘Damn!’

There was nothing else in the fridge except an almost empty tin of baked beans that had developed a downy fuzz and a cucumber that had entirely abdicated any semblance of structural integrity and was now trying to spread itself as far as possible in directions that, presumably, it could only have dreamt of in its solid form.

Miles away, the kettle clicked off the boil. Even though he knew the answer already, Doug re-scanned the interior of the fridge.

‘Damn!’

            Reassess, Doug thought, looking into the frying pan at the bacon that was almost ready. No milk. No eggs. He scratched his chin and the solution came to him.

‘Sandwich,’ he said to himself, nodding. He opened the bread bin and removed the contents.

Three slices of green-blue, dusty bread and a ginger-nut biscuit. Oh well. At least I have a biscuit. He popped it into his mouth.

‘Eugh,’ he said as he swallowed. ‘So that's why no-one keeps biscuits in the bread bin.’

He reassessed again. It was a beautiful day and he needed to do some shopping. So, the only thing to do was, therefore, to do some shopping and enjoy the beautiful day. Doug smiled to himself and began to ponder the problem of where his laundry might be.

The washing machine, of course.

Doug nearly laughed out loud at the obvious logic of it. He knelt down and opened the port-hole door. A smell reminiscent of freshly cut turf met his nostrils.

‘Damn!’

 He felt the mash of sodden clothing. Why hadn't he hung the load outside to dry after the spin cycle had finished last time? Oh well, he thought, setting the machine to 'Fast Coloureds' and closing the port-hole door. It would be clean again by the time he returned from the shops with breakfast. He switched off the hob, went back into his room and uncovered a curry-stained pair of blue jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt that he had worn all last week. Then he headed outside into the sunlight. 

            That was a narrow miss.

            Doug congratulated himself as he side-stepped the large dog turd that lay just outside his front door. As he walked past the coatings factory at the bottom of the hill, he waved to the handful of workers that were having a cigarette outside the gate.

“Good morning,” a large lady in blue overalls called over. “Good morning,” Doug called back.

            It’s actually morning! He mentally congratulated himself again.

As he walked towards Yazeem's Corner Store he thought, Today would be a glorious day for a walk in the park. He paused at the door.

If truth be told, he really wasn't all that hungry. “The park first, then,” he said to himself. “It'll give me an appetite.”

He walked down the cobble-stone short-cut, past the ruined graveyard and entered the park, thinking about nothing in particular. The little stream glittered beside the path and Doug was only too happy to enjoy its distracting reflections as he walked along.

To his right, a black poodle was doing its very best to run through the symmetrical gardens carrying a stick nearly as large as itself. Doug smiled.

Those poor tulips, he thought, as he reached the fork in the path.

The duck pond was outside in the spectacular sunshine but the hot house was itself spectacular. All those cacti and living stones and avocados. Not to mention the carnivorous plants.

Doug had briefly kept a small collection of Venus fly-traps and pitcher plants by his kitchen window before they all succumbed to hypo-hydration.

He sat down on a bench to mull over the possibilities. Suddenly, a great cloud rolled across the sun and opened itself out into a sheet of rain. The breeze picked up enthusiasm, hoping to be promoted to wind. Doug suddenly found himself cold and soaked through.

Oh well, that solves that.

He stood up, put his head down and made for home at a hasty saunter.

            Once he was in through the door he put the kettle on.

‘Damn,’ he said as he remembered he hadn’t gone to the shop yet.

‘Damn,’ he said as he looked down at the half cooked bacon in the frying pan.

‘Damn,’ he said as he looked from the washing machine to the window.

‘Shit,’ he said as he went to take off his shoes and noticed the faecal footprints that led back to the front door.

‘I'm going back to bed.’

About the author:

Bio:

Andrew Kerr is a Belfast-born writer living in Vietnam whose short fiction explores humour, memory, and the small absurdities that quietly shape everyday life.

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Millennium Chilled Rice Wine by Lynn Clement, Chilled Rice Wine.

 ‘What are we doing for the turn of the Millenium? I asked Soo Yin.

‘I thought a visit with your grandmother might be appropriate.’

‘Not a bad idea,’ I said. ‘How about my birth person too.’

‘It can be arranged,’ Soo Yin answered.

‘A party?’

‘Wait …’ ordered Soo Yin. After a short pause - ‘Party is a non-word.’

‘Oh, I’m apologetic,’ I said.’ Why?’

‘Remember your manners.’

I looked at Soo Yin’s dark eyes framed by a perfectly straight black fringed bob. The face was enlarged to fit the screen. The eyes were emotionless and there was no smile on the lips.

I bowed my head. ‘Again, I apologise.’

Keeping my head lowered, I listened to the silence buzzing in my ears. I knew what was happening. I had slipped up before. My heart thudded.

‘You are to be warned,’ Soo Yin eventually said.

‘I was about to speak but Soo Yin’s voice cut across me …’this is the last time!’

I remained head down and muttered, ‘it won’t happen again.’

‘A visit with your ancestors will be arranged. At 12.01LC, your grandmother and your birth person will appear on your Flashwall. You will be reverent. The memorytime will last 5 minutes. You will wear clothes that they would have worn – red for Tet. It is the homeland’s new year. A millennium since we colonized this satellite. That will be strictly acknowledged in all you say. I trust you will research the correct language.’

‘Can’t you guide me; you are my favourite AI companion.

‘I have been deemed to have failed because you are now on a warning. I am to be removed to archive, pending decisions. You will be assigned Chow Jiang.’

Soo Yin disappeared from my Flashwall, and my tiny Pod fell silent. The darkness enveloped me as the screen shut itself down.

My body shook.

I reconciled to burn the secret book I had been reading, deciding it was that which was giving me ideas above my station. I had thought I was clever smuggling it into my Pod on my latest authorized trip to Maintown. I knew that would be my last visit for a while.

I rubbed my arms trying to keep warm and my thoughts drifted to Gang, our kiss, and the chip he passed into my mouth containing the book written over a millennium ago, with the strange title 1984. It was such a long time in the past and yet, the messages resonated. I wondered what would happen to Gang if my thoughts were swept.

My toes began to tingle. It was hard to feel my fingertips. I could see my breath in  front of me as I wheezed.

This was part of my punishment. Heat and light deprivation.

I had to get to the chip and destroy it before I fell asleep.

Feeling my way, I headed for my rice tin, hoping the cover of darkness would keep my secret.

Hands in front of me I turned left from my chair, a move I had rehearsed with my eyes shut at night. Remembering to maneuver round a small table, I was four steps away from the rice tin.

Usually, this light and heat deprivation lasted thirty minutes. I had time.

The silence magnified the importance.

My eyes were adjusting to the dark and I was able to recognize the outline of shapes.

Reaching out, I felt the cool metal work surface. It was sleek, cold, and yet soothing. I crept my fingers along it like the mechanical spider I’d seen in a film I  was allocated to watch - searching for the perfectly square rice container.

The nail of my finger made a ting on the aluminum-lid. I held my breath.

A flicker of light came from my Flashwall.

‘THAT WILL DO FOR NOW! A robot voice announced. YOUR HEAT AND LIGHT WILL BE RESTORED. IN ONE MINUTE, YOU WILL RECEIVE A KNOCK ON YOUR POD DOOR WHICH YOU MUST ANSWER. YOUR POD WILL BE SEARCHED.

I pulled the lid from the tin, my back to the Flashwall, felt inside and retrieved the chip.

There was a loud bang on my Pod.

Reaching to my mouth and made the chip disappear, swallowing strongly. It made me cough.

‘You are cold,’ said the Poliznaser, as I pulled back the shutter.

I nodded my head and kept it bowed.

‘We are here to search,’ it said.

I pushed the door wider, wondering what tomorrow’s new Millennium would bring for me.

Bio:

Lynn is a regular writer for Cafelit. Her first flash fiction collection, The City of Stories,' is published by Chapeltown Books. See 5-star reviews - #amazonthecityofstorieslynnclement Lynn has stories in The Best of Cafelit 11 12 13 14 &15. 

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x

No Gods here by Alexandra Henry, Mexican Mule

          He certainly wasn’t the first man I have killed. And if all goes well, he won’t be the last. It doesn’t bring me joy knowing I am a murderer, but it brings purpose: vengeance. Retribution for those who deserve it. Some may say I’m playing God, deciding who lives and who doesn’t. But I know what I am, and it’s not any immortal being. I’m just doing the work that our systems fail to execute. No pun intended.

  It’s not easy work, but I push on, nonetheless. Most don’t understand, or don’t have the strength to do it themselves. So I do it for all of those who can’t. It’s a thankless job, too; it’s not like I can tell people about what I do. And each client requires months of extraordinary preparation. It takes time to do this job well, and it has taken years for me to perfect my trade. But I am getting older and tired. I need to find someone to take over when my mind and body can no longer uphold this service. But until then, I will continue.

This most recent client, a young man with an exceptionally long list of offenses, had been the most difficult assignment of my career. All in all, the job had taken nearly 18 months to complete, which wasn’t the longest time I had spent on one individual. What made this particular case so difficult was his fame. I knew there would be a lot of questions asked when he went missing. Many people praised this man, despite what he had done. His millions of social media followers stayed loyal fans, through accusation after accusation. He was rarely in public alone, often followed by paparazzi and a horde of young women longing for even a taste of his attention. Even in his home, late at night, there were always others lingering. It was like the man couldn’t stand being alone. And that made my job onerous.

I had to be extremely cautious this time, more so than I had ever been. The job was only half done. Yes, he was dead; I had made sure of that by slipping a hefty dose of aconite into his mezcal. Now, I had to make sure no one ever found him or traced his disappearance back to me. I went to work, scrubbing down every surface I had touched. This was the one place he frequented where there were no cameras, no creeping fans or bodyguards. He paid the hotel staff to keep quiet. This is where he brought his dates, or more accurately, his victims.

As his body began to cool to an ambient 68 degrees, the temperature at which he had set the thermostat just an hour ago, I called on the spirits for help. I chant the spell, which I know by heart now, the Latin words rolling off my tongue so effortlessly you’d think I actually spoke the language. A soft hum filled the room, getting louder with each word. Every inanimate object in the room began to vibrate with a terrifying force. The spell was working.

This is the part where I usually black out. I always come to, after who knows how long, and the body is gone; the job is done. This time is no different. The world went dark, and then, there I am, lying on the stale hotel carpet. Alone. I stood up, straightening out my little black dress, which I had retrieved from the depths of my closet. I hadn’t worn this one since the night with the strip club manager; that had been a particularly fun night. For me, at least.

The dress was uncomfortably tight, sticking to every curve and crease like plastic wrap. The neckline plunged so deeply that I had to move with such precision so as not to involuntarily give the general public a show. I saved that for a select few whom I could find no other way to sequester. Those were the lucky ones, I suppose, who were bestowed a final gift—a coup d'œil of my breasts before they saw whatever it is that comes after life.

 As clarity returned to me, which seemed to take longer and longer these days, I did one final sweep of the hotel room. Had anything fallen out of my purse when I tossed it onto the credenza? No. Had any of my hair clips fallen out during the night’s affairs? One, two, three, four, I counted. No. Had all his belongings disappeared with the body? Nothing on the carpet. I looked under the bed. Nothing there, either. I turned, still on my hands and knees, craning my neck to look under the oversized armchair that took up too much space in the cramped room.

“Fuck,” I cursed aloud. A wallet. I would have to dispose of this later. “I really am getting too old for this job,” I sighed, tucking the remaining evidence into my bra. I stood, a little too quickly, and had to catch myself from falling over. The world spun for a moment, and then it was still again. A feeling I couldn’t quite place rushed over me; fear, maybe? It passed, just as quickly as this episode had. I grabbed my purse and slipped into the hallway. The door shut silently behind me as I joined the rest of the world. I pulled a scarf from my purse and wrapped it around my head, being cautious to avoid looking directly at anyone. I stepped into the busy hotel plaza, becoming just another nameless shape among the crowd.

In the morning, I woke to find an intense ache had spread across my body. I must be getting sick, I thought as I forced myself out of bed. I popped a handful of extra-strength Tylenol because, despite the pain, I had work to do. I needed to finish last night’s job. I needed to destroy the wallet. I knew doing magic two days in a row was risky, but I couldn’t take a chance that someone might find the single remaining item that tied me to his murder. I began the recitation, focusing all of my energy on this shiny, leather object, barely the size of my hand. The dark leather was smooth except for the cursive initials, J.W., carved in the corner. This should be easy, but nothing was happening. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to see, feel, smell, and hear nothing but the wallet. And for a moment, there was nothing.

When I came to, the wallet was gone. “Thank God,” I muttered, gingerly picking myself up from the floor. I must have been out for a while this time because the sun was already on the verge of retreating for the night. The ache was gone but was now replaced by a sharp throb in my side. I needed food to replenish what energy the incantation had taken from me. At first, it took only a day or two to recover, but now I often need at least a week to regain my strength. This time would likely require longer because of that damn wallet. I shuffled my way to the kitchen, half bent over from the pain, and rummaged through the fridge. I stared at the nearly empty shelves: a carton of almond milk, some questionable-looking berries, an unopened jar of pickles, and a handful of nearly empty condiment bottles. I shut the door and tried my luck with the freezer. I pulled out a frozen meal and stuck it in the microwave, watching as a fine layer of accumulated ice crystals began to melt, trickling down the polypropylene packaging.  

I thought about my next client. I didn’t have the luxury to wait until I was fully rested to begin the next steps for that case. I try not to work multiple cases at once, but with how busy I have been, there’s a lot of overlap these days. I already completed the research phase of this next job; now I needed to begin putting the pieces in place. I fly to Minneapolis tomorrow for a dermatology conference. I have no particular interest in dermatology. I do, however, have a keen interest in one of the doctors who will be attending.

Like the last job, the accusations had been all over the news. Fortunately, this client did not have nearly the same amount of popularity, but still, this job would require extra caution. The doctor had managed to keep his license due to a lack of evidence, according to the judge, which meant it was time for me to step in. I grabbed my dinner from the microwave and went upstairs to pack. Between freezer burned bites of pasta, I stuffed clothing and toiletries into a duffel bag. There was no need for my little black dress this time. My plan for this client involved a different type of temptation: money.

The next morning, I was on the first flight out of Burbank. I shifted around in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position that eased the growing ache in my side. I’ll see a doctor when I get back, I thought. I tried to distract myself from the pain by looking out the window, but the scene of airport workers who were spread across the tarmac quickly turned into an open runway, which then transformed into an aerial view of sprawling Los Angeles. And then we were in a monotonous stretch of austere clouds, which stood no chance of diverting my mind from the sharp throb. I was well past the daily amount of Tylenol one is supposed to take, but I took three more anyways. I needed to focus, which meant I needed the pain to go away.

The flight felt like the longest five hours and two minutes of my life, but eventually I was in Minneapolis, waiting for my Lyft to the hotel where the conference was being held. Tonight, there was a welcome dinner at the hotel restaurant, where I would introduce myself to my target, using an alias, of course. I would tell him how impressed I was by his latest work onatopic dermatitis instead of eczema because it sounds more doctorly and pretentious. I will pretend to be fascinated by everything he tells me, and I will applaud him when he tells me how innovative and life-saving his research is. Finally, I will make him a proposition he surely won’t turn down, which will lead to a meeting to further discuss the details in private. Once we are alone, I will do what I need to do, and then I will make him vanish.    

The Lyft pulled up to the curb where I stood. I crawled into the back seat of the silver Honda Accord and did my best to greet the driver. But my attempt at good afternoon came out in a gargled jumble. The driver didn’t seem to notice over the noisy stereo, or maybe he just didn’t care, and departed the terminal. On the way to the hotel, I replayed the plan over and over in my mind. I thought of all the ways it could go wrong and how I would adapt if it did. I memorized my backstory about inheriting a fortune from a great aunt who suffered from dreadful eczema. I was looking for a physician who could run a clinical trial, and, in honor of my great aunt, of course, I would fund the entire project.

I was ready; I just needed to make it a few more hours. Still, as we inched along in the rush hour traffic, the pain intensified. I tried to get the driver’s attention, but my vision began to blur and no words would leave my mouth. All I could do was lay in a sitting fetal position, clutching my side, trying not to scream. Was this what appendicitis felt like? Or maybe it was ovarian torsion. I think I had read about that somewhere. My entire body shook, and if I had eaten anything today, it would have been expelled, redecorating the back seat. I could feel something warm and wet on my fingers. I raised my hand to my face, watching as blood dripped down my arm and onto the vinyl seat. I managed to uncurl myself enough to look down at my abdomen. Something dark and smooth was protruding through my pale flesh. I watched in horror as the object slowly dislodged itself from my insides, becoming more discernible with every strained breath. Even covered in blood, I could make out the familiar cursive letters.

I had never questioned where things went when I made them disappear. I never worried about what the magic was doing to me all these years, but now the damage was apparent. Maybe this is what I deserve for deciding who lives and who doesn’t. Or maybe this is some kind of necromantic karma. Who knows? Some may say I’ve been playing God, but I know what I am, and it’s certainly not immortal.

About the author:

Alexandra Henry is an educator and writer based in the Pacific Northwest. Drawing from lived experience, they write fiction that explores resilience and the psychological aftermath of trauma.

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A writer's tale by Shivangi Gajwani Jain, turmeric milk

 

I sit for long hours, I ponder longer. I weave words and worlds until my neck hurts and my legs tingle with little invisible things that crawl over and under it. The longer I sit, the more they grow, bite my flesh and numb my senses, refusing to ever stop. Unwillingly I stand, locking my thoughts in place lest they fall off my head before they are inked on paper. Dobby, my cat purrs. I roll my shoulders and slap my legs to shake off the old ache, tame my oddly behaving nerves.

I do this- every thirty minutes. One foot distance between my feet, back straight, hips turned out, perfect posture, my therapist would be proud. I bend at the waist, first left, then to the right, then forward, I continue counting. One, two, three… it happens then, mid-stretch, mid-count, my torso folded in half.

A string of words, not quite mine, an idea, almost divine, appears as though from another dimension. A spark, holding a fresh universe. We’ve all experienced this, haven’t we? When the really good bits, the ones we have waited for days, choose a random unremarkable moment to arrive. Today is that day, that moment. A story eager to be told, wiggles between the gyri and sulci of my brain and I know; it won’t wait for me to be done with my stretches or my aches to be gone. I hop-run to my desk, to the open notebook, and the laptop thrumming in anticipation. Oh, to be this alive!

My alarm buzzes, I turn it off. I can’t be bothered, can’t let life get in the way of this profound moment. This is beyond human intervention. I breathe, stilling myself, allowing a little trickle of this ‘grand thing’ to leak out of my body, through my fingers on to the page. My pen hovers, this is it, I can feel it in my teeth.

My phone vibrates, I flip it face down. The doorbell rings, I ignore the sharp ‘Tring’. It chimes again, accompanied by a loud thwomp against the wooden door. A delivery. Agitated, I grab the parcel and open it: more pens! When did I even order those? I fling myself towards the waiting desk, the blank page, the inviting glow of word doc.

I sit for long hours, I ponder longer. Words don’t come. Thoughts don’t fly. My fire is burnt out, my ‘new world’ sucked into a black hole of nothing. I sink to the floor, quite literally, my back rubbing against the greying tiles as I wonder at my life choices. Can I build a life around this? Can writing be considered a profession if I still need a day job to support myself? Will I ever be enough? Doubts climb out of my throat, lingering and filling my mouth with acid. I swallow and focus on breathing.

Dobby curls up on my chest, settles in. Her eyes half shut, she locks onto mine. She mews, tells me truths. ‘It could be worse. Life could be flat. Every day the same.’

I agree, remembering the thrill of the ‘little-giant’ things: a story bursting onto the page, a poem that wrings me dry and yet leaves me wanting, a recent acceptance letter, my first publication. I sit up, ‘Oh, to be this alive!’

Dobby, The sage cat nods in agreement. She is wise.

I stretch my arms, fold my legs underneath. I twist left, then to the right. I continue counting: my blessings.

…

About the author:

Shivangi Gajwani Jain is an award-winning prosthodontist, published academic, and a lifelong storyteller. Her essays and poems have been accepted in Gordon Square Review, The Adelaide Lit Magazine, The Hemlock Journal and The Wingword Magazine. She is represented by The Redink Literary Agency and lives in Mumbai with her family.

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The Take Away War by Henry J.E. Lewi, a glass of tap water

 It was Friday night when the war started; he’d phoned the local Chinese restaurant to order his take away and got the message, ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised, please check and dial again.’ He checked his phone, checked the website and tried again, and again heard the same message. It was the same with the local Indian restaurant with the identical message, ‘the number you have dialled has not been recognised, please check and dial again.’

  ‘Fine,’ he thought, ‘I’ll go for a pizza,’ but on ringing the local Italian pizzeria he got the same message, just as he did when he rang the various food delivery companies, Deliveroo, Just Eat, Uber Eats, and every time it was the same, ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised, please check and dial again.’

   The news alert notification on his phone announced ‘Breaking News: Cyber-Hack takes down all take-away food delivery services – More to follow.’

  The next alert read: ‘roads around take away restaurants have become congested and grid-locked as customers travel to order and pick up their Friday night take-away meals.’

  The Radio and Television broadcasts were now interrupting their services announcing the details of the Cyber-Hack and stating that the Government would clarify the situation over the weekend, with the Minister of State for Food Security and Rural Affairs stating: “this threat to our country’s welfare must be quickly dealt with, any attack on our country’s take away industry is a monstrous act and amounts to a declaration of war.”

  The following day the Cyber-Hack had spread to the petrol station forecourts of the major suppliers as well as the major rail networks, compounding the traffic congestion and gridlock.  On the Saturday afternoon the e-ticketing facility of the Premiership and Championship and most of the EFL clubs went down, as their digital entry facilities were similarly hacked, and access to the stadiums became impossible, causing near riots outside the numerous football stadiums all over the country. The overworked and overstretched Police already attempting to deal with the widespread traffic congestion, plus the increasing problems on the petrol station forecourts were unable to effectively deal with those football fans unable to gain entry to their various football stadiums around the country, the normally peaceful Saturday afternoon was now being overshadowed by riots and civil unrest.

  The Home Secretary made a statement via all the news networks asking for people to remain at home and clear the roads, stating: ‘these attacks on the very fabric of our society indicate that Foreign Actors are trying to bring down the country through an attack on its most basic services, but the Government were dealing with the problem and it would soon be resolved, “We ask for patience” was the underlying message.

  On Saturday evening all streaming services to the UK including YouTube were blocked, and the population could only access terrestrial channels for their evening viewing, but ‘Match of The Day’ was still available on the BBC, showing the Premiership teams playing in front of near empty stadiums.

 By the end of the weekend the air traffic control systems for the UK’s major airports including all five London airports as well as Manchester, Edinburgh, and Glasgow had gone down preventing all flights from both arriving and departing.

   As Monday dawned and the Supermarkets re-opened, their shelves were now being stripped bare as people rushed to stock up with food, but then the automated checkout systems failed and the bar codes could not be read.   Customers now had to endure queues of over two hours or more as the harassed supermarket workers had to slowly and manually checkout all items being purchased. Tempers frayed as customers fought over food items, and tried to cut the queues, and the supermarket security staff who were now being overstretched and overwhelmed, as were the police, and little could be done to calm the supermarket customers.

  In an emergency statement on the Monday afternoon, to a packed House of Commons, the Prime Minister stated that he, the Foreign Secretary and the Secretary of State for Defence were now in a ‘Dialogue’ with a number of Foreign Governments who were acting on behalf of those involved with the Cyber Hacks, ‘to reach a peaceful agreement to end this attack on the very fabric of our beloved Country.’

  The Leader of the Opposition pledged their support to the Prime Minister, ‘in this hour of need, when our country is being threatened with its very survival.’

  By Tuesday Morning, the supermarkets were empty, petrol was not being delivered at the pumps on the station forecourts, the trains were not running, food deliveries were at a standstill and the major airports were closed.   As the electricity grid now slowly shut down, an emergency declaration was made by the Prime Minister that afternoon, stating that, ‘an agreement had now been reached with a number of Foreign Powers; and the Government was resigning to be replaced by a ‘Government of Unification’ whose members had been selected by these Foreign Powers, and a return to normality could now be slowly expected.’

  The Prime Minister added that once everything had returned to normal The Country would enter the sphere of influence of these Foreign Powers and all current military and defence and trade treaties would be terminated, and replaced with more favourable treaties with their new partners.  

   It had taken 5 days and not a shot had been fired to bring down the country, and it had all started with a Cyber Attack on the country’s take-away food industry.

Bio:

Henry is a retired Surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group.

He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site.

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Saturday Sample: The Brothers Alyson by Faye, Lager and lime

Me and Ma stare at the black and white photograph in the faded leather album. “That’s your Da and Dom,” Ma whispers.

She strokes the glossy image with a shaking finger.

Her whole hand shakes now, it’s part of her illness. “They were so strong, so handsome. All the girls

in the village wanted to marry them.”

“And you got Da and Lizzy got Dom,” I finish for her, as Ma gazes around the bedroom, as though she’s never seen it before.

In truth she’s lived here, in the Bridwood Nursing Home for nearly half a decade.

“They loved a flutter,” Ma wheezes. “The dogs, the ponies or…” She is getting tired I can tell.

Da and Dom, twin brothers, born two minutes apart, but as alike as two peas in a pod, rampaging around the sleepy village of Tressick and charming their way through their lives and livelihoods. Da had gone first, in his sleep, and Dom had followed a year later, exactly to the day, which everyone in the village found – inevitable.

I close the photograph album, very very gently, and stroke the surface. It holds so much and it’s worn out by the touch of our fingertips.

“Time for bed, Ma.” I help her up and walk with her Zimmer towards the bed, smothered with the vintage Paisley duvet, her favourite.

“Night, night,” I say. “Sweet dreams.”

Ma blinks up at me, from her pillows, child-like and trusting. I kiss her papery cheek, smell her lavender talcum powder. The scent takes me back to my childhood days – of me sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging my legs, whilst Ma got ready to go out for a night out with Da, Dom and Lizzy, and she’d be wearing her best pearl studs and high-heeled black sateen shoes.

I still have the earrings, but Ma broke the heel on one of the shoes running for the night bus to our village and Da carried her home up the hill, even though he’d had a few pints and was staggering all over the place.

Tears prick my eyes, as I’m blind-sided by memories. Looking back – it really hits you in the present.

I close the door, but leave the night-light on. The glow makes Ma look like a caterpillar cocooned – ready to become a butterfly.

Ready to be reborn.

Find your copy here

About the author

Alyson’s fiction has been published online – most often on the Horror Tree site – and in many anthologies. Her work has been read recently on BBC Radio and her latest collection, Darkness Calls is out on Amazon.

http://author.to/AlyFayeamazon

Unleashed by Moossa Casseem, death wish coffee

I take you back to the night over a year ago when a pack of wolves rushed at me from a forest of data on my computer screen. I shot up, knocking over my chair, my immediate response being one of shock and fear. But I would soon recognise the event to have been a timely intervention from my unconscious, a warning to heed of wolves circling.

I had recently returned from visiting several sites in my capacity as Chief Investigator for a clinical trial, and been absorbed in reviewing data on the efficacy of the drug concerned, a nootropic with the potential to transform users into the most complete individuals cognitively: supremely perceptive, alert and flexible.

I was both exhausted and exhilarated that night. While part of me longed to abandon all thought and effort and simply sink into a deep sleep, I would have pried my eyes open with matchsticks, if necessary, captivated as I was by the trial results, which included numerous participant reports of feeling intensely powerful.

Morning came with the rumbling sound of a refuse truck and the crashing of bins, the last thing I was aware of before slumping to sleep at my desk. I had a dream that the trial data was a symphonic score, and I was conducting an orchestra, creating music that was the most rousing and triumphant ever, when harsh, dissonant trills took over, and I awoke to the din of my phone disrupting the coda in my dream. The Principal Investigator at one of the research sites was calling, concerned that a newspaper was planning to publish a report alleging multiple incidents of serious rage reactions in the drug trial. We agreed that she would investigate the source of this story, and I would ask our media lawyer to caution the newspaper editor.

A thrum of trepidation clung to me as I turned on the radio, and someone said,

‘You better be ready. They are coming for you. You either fight or you die, that’s the truth.’

I opened a file I worked on during the night. A series of doodles and incoherent phrases was all I could find. My computer had been hacked!

*

In a hotel lobby, a growing crowd was jostling a group of us into a tight cluster. It was the day of the Society for Cognitive Enhancement conference, where I was to present a paper on New-generation Nootropics and Human Evolution. One of my colleagues was performing a frantic attempt to loosen his shirt-collar, while Blake, his lanky frame augmented as he grasped his raised head in his hands, stared at the ceiling; until he looked down his nose at me and spoke. Unscrambling the cacophony of voices, I decoded his utterance, a question about whether I was ready to ‘spill the beans.’

As my friend, Blake was privy to aspects of the drug trial that no one else was, outside the study. We had also discussed self-experimenting with the nootropic, which we referred to as ‘Bean,’ from the string of symbols, namely B34N, in the sponsor protocol code. Yet there he was, challenging me to publicly acknowledge that information about adverse drug reactions involving violence was being suppressed.

An announcement over the P.A. invited attendees to take their seats in the auditorium, and I and other speakers were directed to the green room to relax and prepare; but I found myself pacing the floor of that small room, to the consternation of others there. Then, when I finally stood at the lectern to deliver my speech, Blake in the audience motioned towards me as he leant into his neighbour, his mouth concealed behind his hand, spitting spite, poisoning other Society members against me, provoking a snigger that rippled like a metachronal wave through the conference hall.

‘It was Blake all along!’ my inner voice reverberated as I hurtled to my residence from the train station that day; and I chewed, swallowed, regurgitated, and re-chewed indications of hostility towards me. I told myself this was in order to evaluate and counter the threats I was facing, but I became stranded in a labyrinth of dark thoughts that laid bare my own failings, and my mood plunged. I switched on the radio and cranked up the volume to blank my mind. Someone said,

‘He who would live must fight. He who doesn't wish to fight has no right to exist in this world, where permanent struggle is the law of life and only the powerful survive.’

There and then, I removed a bottle of Bean from the drugs cabinet, and in a parody of self-experimentation and an attempt to fix my mind, took a swig of the bitter-sweet potion.

What happened next I’ve described in my book Unleash the Power Within, a testament to how the drug liberated me from a fearful state of mind to one of extraordinary lucidity and creativity, enabling me to come into my strength and make a deep impact on the world.

*

Blake phoned, and we met that evening. The ease with which he made-believe everything was hunky-dory between us was impressive. We discussed the Bean trial; I revealed that I had taken the drug; and as I talked further, I had the impression of sitting at a loom, weaving apparently disparate strands of information into a richly textured, vibrantly colourful tapestry that depicted a brave new narrative about the human condition. We arranged for Blake to visit me one weekend when he would have the opportunity to give the drug a try if he still wanted to, after looking over a detailed analysis of the efficacy data. He said he had noticed an aura of such authority around me when we met that evening that he had initially failed to recognise me; a fitting comment, as I felt that I had changed shape. 

When Blake arrived with a bounce in his step on the appointment day, someone on the radio was saying,

‘Swarms of vermin are invading our homeland, spreading misery, crime, poverty, disease and destruction, and we don’t do anything about it. It’s like a death wish for our country.’

I switched off the radio, installed Blake at my desk with a hardcopy of the trial results, tailored to reflect his needs and preferences; removed a key from the door of the drugs cabinet; dropped it in a box with a digital lock inside the desk drawer. Then I left to walk the city backstreets and feel its hidden pulse; and I stopped in an alley once to watch a game. It was as if I was in the cubiculum of an amphitheatre overflowing with a baying crowd as a cat stalked a mouse among the bins, leapt on it, repeatedly released it to seize it again, and tossed it in the air.

Blake was still at the desk when I returned, so absorbed in his task that he didn't hear me call his name. I prepared a lamb heart and liver casserole, which we enjoyed with a bottle of Syrah; and we discussed the report. Then, after we agreed that Blake would take his dose of Bean the following morning, we withdrew to the sitting room, and I brought out the port, most of which I alone would drink.

We reminisced about the time we first met over thirty years ago when we bonded over our shared interest in the application of nanotechnology in drug delivery. Perfidious Blake did most of the talking, and he soon slipped into a relentless exposition of his virtues while I wondered how the night would end; whether he would seek out what was mine when he supposed that wine had veiled my mind. Then I rose up from my chair and unmasked him for the fake and traitor he was by deploying a weight of inferential evidence he couldn't refute. Whereupon, I declared that it was payback time, and he would never lay his hands on Bean, and collapsed to the floor in a drunken heap - my final move in the test I was setting out for him.

*

I can see you now, my erstwhile friend, if I half close my eyes. You’ve moved out of your chair and are towering above me. You watch me intently, exhale a plaintive sigh. Next, laboriously, you lift me under the arms, drag me backwards to my bedroom, shove me on my bed, and leave.

            I was up at dawn. I proceeded to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then went to open the study door. The drugs cabinet was wide open, and there you were, outstretched beneath the desk. Next to you on the wooden floor was a bottle on its side, and a patch of oil from its open throat.

            Do you wonder how easy it was for Blake to get hold of the key to the drugs cabinet that night? He wouldn't have known that the Bean potion he drank contained a lethal concentration of active ingredients and wasn't intended for administration in its current form.

Several months have passed since then. So-called violence-related adverse events linked to Bean are increasingly seen as unexpected benefits, and instances of direct and strong self-expression.

A number of participants in the drug trial have joined me to launch a new political movement. We aim to bring about a radical restructuring of society through a programme of national renewal, with individual empowerment at its core.

Regimes come and go in a semblance of change. Power elites replace one another in never-ending circulation. Such has been the way of the world. But real change is finally coming. The old structures are about to tumble.

It’s been a protracted and arduous journey, but I’m nearing my destination. I’m the leader people have long waited for, and when I take the reins of power, my first act, on day one, will be to make Bean freely available to all who follow me.

About the author:

Moossa Casseem is a short story and poetry writer. He has been published in Bath Flash Fiction Award Anthology and The Other Side of Hope: journeys in refugee and immigrant literature.

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