Passengers by Norton Hodges, bBlackccoffee

 

1.

 

At Kings Cross, Adam stood next to his wheelie case with the rest of the crowd, staring up at the departures board. Around him, other travellers were waiting then rushing off in a sudden surge when a platform number clicked up.

            The 17:23 for Newcastle was delayed by 10 minutes.

            The 17:52 for Edinburgh was on time.

            The platform for the 17:19 for York flashed up and a section of the crowd turned and hurried off

            However, his wheelie case was empty and he turned and headed for home.

 

*

 

The next day, Adam was again in the crowd with his suitcase.

            The 17:30 to Birmingham was on time. The 17:10 for Sheffield was just boarding.

            A young woman was standing next to him, also studying the departures board. She was petite, with brown hair, a padded coat and trainers. She was carrying a coffee mug which she sipped frequently while peering at the board.

            She looked at him.

            ‘Going far? Boring isn’t it, waiting?’

            ‘Birmingham. 17:30. You?’

            ‘Cambridge. I commute two days a week.’

            ‘Nice journey, I imagine.’

            -’Do you work up here?’

            ‘No, just been visiting a friend.’

            The platform number clicked into place.

            ‘Sorry, there’s my train. Good to talk to you. Good luck with yours.’

            He trundled his case towards the platform with the rest of the hurrying crowd. But when she was out of sight he bypassed the gates and left the station and went home.

            His case was still empty.

 

*

 

She watched him go and kept sipping from her cup with nothing in it.

 

*

 

A week later, industrial action by drivers had thrown out all the schedules. He waited by his case, watching as the cancelled trains piled up.

            She appeared by his side.

            ‘Hello again. Chaos isn’t it?’ She was holding the coffee cup.

            The crowd was thicker now.

            ‘Sure. I don’t know if I can get back tonight.’

            ‘Me too. Not sure what to do to be honest.’

            She paused.

            He held out his hand.

            ‘Adam. You?’

            ‘Bethany.’

            ‘Nice to meet you.’

            ‘And you. Can I ask you a question?’

            ‘What is it?’

            ‘What’s in your case?’

            ‘Excuse me?’

            ‘What’s in your case? I suspect it’s the same as what’s in my coffee cup.’

 

*

 

McDonald’s was crowded with commuters and students so they found an Indian place further up the road.

            ‘Were you really going to Birmingham with that empty case? she said.

            He felt hot suddenly, found out. He bit into his chapati.

            ‘I recognised you. You’re like me. I’ve done it in most of the main stations’ she said. Blend into the crowd, sip on my empty cup. How would you feel about doing something together?’

            ‘What do you mean?’

            ‘We could change it up. What do you think? I could text you an idea.’

            They exchanged numbers.

 

*

 

The first time, she gave him a kiss on the cheek as she left for her train. No one seemed to notice.

            The next evening, a few of the crowd looked on with interest at a couple saying goodbye.            Others looked away, embarrassed.

            She seemed to be crying and holding onto him. He patted her back and held her close.

            Eventually, he broke away with his case and followed the crowd to Platform 9 for the 17:23 for Newcastle. He turned away once, looked back and waved and she waved back, sniffing, then turned away and sipped at her coffee cup.

            Some of the waiting crowd looked on sympathetically.

            With his empty case, he headed home again.

            She sent him a text: ‘Well played.’

 

*

 

On Thursday, she wasn’t there. He waited, then went home with his case.

            She texted him a scenario for Friday.

            A couple were sitting in Costa over coffee and sandwiches. His case was close to his knees.          She must have poured her coffee into her portable cup.

            He picked up his phone to read a text.

            She tapped her fingers on the laminated table top.

            ‘Who is it from?’

            ‘No one.’

            ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘Come on. Tell me the truth. Is it her?’

            People at nearby tables had begun to take notice.

            ‘You can deny it all you like, but I know you’re seeing her.’

            She slammed the coffee cup down on the table and rose from her seat.

            ‘Well, she can have you. I’m going home. Don’t bother following me!’

            She left, carrying the cup.

            Her script had been generic but fairly convincing.

            He was aware of other customers’ eyes on him and felt ashamed as if he’d really done it.

            He finished his coffee, got up and left, dragging the case behind him.

            Soon after, he went home,

            She texted: Well done, you love rat!

 

2.

 

Bethany left the hotel where she worked on reception and took the tube.

            Her Mum and Dad were pleased to see her as she was early from work for a change. Later, she phoned her boyfriend and they went for a drink at the Adam and Eve. She was only mildly surprised when he produced a ring and proposed. When she accepted the whole pub cheered. Her Mum and Dad were very pleased. It would be an autumn wedding.

 

            Adam received another text. A longer one this time.

 

3.

 

On Friday night, Sophie and James boarded the 17:40 to Cambridge. Both had wheelie cases.      James’s felt a little heavier than usual.

            James checked his phone and they found their seats.

            As the train drew away, Sophie turned to him.

            ‘What did you tell your wife?’

            She was talking just loudly enough that the passengers in front and back could hear.

            ‘Meal with some clients. Overnight hotel. You?’

            ‘I told my husband it was my friend’s hen night and I’d be drinking.’

            As they sat and watched the suburbs disappear, he briefly touched her leg and she smiled back.

 

*

 

The girl on reception could always spot a couple up to no good.

            Another guest easily identified sounds of sexual activity as he passed their room.

            The attendant in the art gallery had to have a quiet word with the couple who were commenting too loudly and laughing at the Magritte exhibition.

            The waiter in the fish restaurant tried not to listen as the couple argued about intimate details of their relationship.

            The same guest was further amused to hear more sexual activity from the room as he returned later that evening.

            The cleaner pushing her trolley the next morning listened wearily as she heard something similar.

            The girl on reception noted their sated faces as they left the next morning. She knew why.

 

*

 

In the London train, the couple in seats 52 and 53 disappeared one after the other to the carriage toilet from which certain sounds could be heard.

            Passengers coughed and disappeared behind their newspapers or ensured their headphones were in noise cancelling mode.

            Later, Adam got a text. ‘Great reviews for us! By the way, I’m getting married.’

 

*

Several months later, Adam was standing next to his empty wheelie case staring at the departures board when a familiar voice said:

            ‘Going far? Boring isn’t it, waiting?’

 

 

 

Norton Hodges is a poet, editor, translator and a recent short story writer.. His poetry is widely published on the internet. He is the author of ‘Bare Bones’ (The High Window Press, 2018). He lives in Lincoln UK.

 

he Right NotebySharon Boothroyd fizzy, cool cola

 

The Right Note

 

'Kate, could you cover the pop star biography book launch, please?' The Ed, Rachel, asked me at our Monday morning staff meeting.

My pulse raced. 'Oh, I'd love to!'

Rachel smiled wryly. 'Even though The Dark Hearts haven't had a chart smash since 1989?'

I waved a hand. 'That doesn't matter to die hard fans like me.' 

I worked as a senior features writer at my local weekly newspaper, The Chronicle.

Now in my fifties, I'd worked my way up here from being an apprentice junior reporter.

Back to Rachel's request....in my teen years, I'd been a huge fan of lead singer Brandon Mason, and his goth band, The Dark Hearts.

So I was thrilled when I learnt that Brandon had chosen to launch his autobiography book tour in our town - which also happened to be his home town.

He didn't live here now. Brandon had moved to London decades ago. 

A bachelor, he'd taken early retirement from the music business and lived a quiet life apparently, but his early years as a struggling musician were very different.

With a group of friends, I'd been to see The Dark Hearts when they were starting out. Their gigs were often held in tatty pubs.

Back then, their songs had a raw, punky sound. My friends weren't impressed but I developed a huge crush on Brandon.

It had been a long road to find recognition, yet The Dark Hearts had finally hit the big time in the mid- eighties with a jangly guitar melodies and lyrics people could relate to. 

They enjoyed a string of catchy chart hits, but in the 1990's, the fresh boy bands came along. Teeny boppers threw away their black eyeliner and embraced new music – but I never forgot them.

                                                                    ***

On the evening of the bio launch, the rather glamorous lady from the book shop, Stella, was warm and welcoming to the local media and press.

The shop was crammed full of enthusiastic, excited, middle- aged female fans, so 

she placed me at the front of the stage area.

When Brandon appeared, the crowd broke into cheers and applause. He still looked so cool... my heart skipped a beat.

Over the years, he'd put on weight (hadn't we all? I thought dryly) yet he still resembled the attractive, charismatic pop star, sporting his trademark mane of dark brown messy hair, striking black eye make- up and sparkly, lilac lipstick.

Dark layered clothes and heavy boots completed his familiar outfit.

When I peered closely, I wondered if he'd he gone a bit OTT with the make- up. I was certain he was wearing foundation and powder... 

I'd done my my research. Brandon was now 56, childless, single and currently not in a long- term relationship.

I was in the same boat, but a few years younger... I had to keep reminding myself that I was no longer a star stuck teenager!

With Stella's help, I managed to ask a few basic questions. I hoped that he'd recognise me as an early, dedicated fan - but he didn't....

I took some snaps, got my copy of his bio signed and then suddenly, it was over.

He waved goodbye and Stella skilfully whisked him away out of the back exit. Then a back list of The Dark Heart's songs played out.

I grabbed a glass of wine, hung about and chatted to his devoted fans. I'd fill out my piece with their comments and thoughts about his bio.

My finished product wouldn't just appear in the paper – it'd be published on the paper's website and linked to their social media platforms, too.

                                                                  ***

Later, I mulled things over.

An in- depth interview with Brandon would certainly hit the right note with Rachel...  but his agent and PR team had stated no formal (or informal) interviews.

I understood that interviews could be draining, but surely he'd want his bio to sell well?

On the off- chance, I rang Stella at the bookshop.

'I don't suppose you know which hotel Brandon's booked into? I'd like to set up an interview before he hits the next book shop on the tour,' I began.

She was puzzled. 'Haven't you arranged an official interview with him already, Kate?'

'I tried. Apparently, he doesn't want to do any interviews. It's book shop appearances only. I stressed that his family and friends here probably still read The Chronicle, but it cut no ice.'

'Well, if he doesn't want to do any interviews, I guess you have to respect his decision.' Her tone was firm.

I did, yet...  as a former fan, I knew that Brandon sometimes changed his mind about things. He could be impulsive.

'I understand, but there's the possibility that if I turn up out of the blue, and he has a spare half hour, he could relent and speak to me.'

'Would he?' She sounded doubtful.

I tried another tactic. 'Look, I'm only from a local paper, Stella. I'm not a hard- nosed hack from a national.'

Her tone softened. 'Yes, I realise that.'

'So...' I ventured.

'I'm sorry Kate, I don't know where Brandon's staying. He didn't mention it to me. I mean, why would he?'

Hmm. The 'why would he?' sounded odd to my ears... but wisely, I didn't pursue it further.

'Don't worry. It was a long shot. Thanks for your time, Stella.'

There was no point in ringing all the hotels. They'd simply deny that he was staying there.

                                                                  ***

I was still thinking about my dilemma one evening after work.

Busy on another story, I'd stayed late at the office, but it was now clocking off time.

I threaded my way through the town centre and took a short cut off the beaten track.

When I passed a classy, discreet restaurant, in the window, I stopped when I spotted Stella at a table flirting and giggling with a guy, who was her dining companion.

Her date was kind of chubby, with a pasty, jowly complexion.

He was almost bald, and he wore ironed chino's, polished shoes and a smart, white shirt.

The guy seemed kind of familiar, yet I couldn't quite put my finger on where I'd seen him before..  then a gust of breeze swept something across my feet.

It was a publicity flyer from the book shop.

Suddenly, light dawned. 

Stella's date was Brandon, minus the wig, make- up, baggy clothes and black boots!

Well, I chuckled, it just shows the power of creating an image!

Not one photo in his bio showed him as a down to earth, average guy.

Stella clearly didn't mind his 'off duty' look! I guessed I'd never find out if she'd known what hotel he was staying at. 

Well, I mused, I hoped that they'd make a go of it...I needed to grab this opportunity, though.

I whipped my mobile out and took several secret snaps.

The snaps would remain unpublished, yet I had a funny sort of feeling that my photos would act as a gateway to that precious interview...

Abopu the author

 

Sharon is fftty- something and suffers from anxiety. Writing short stories acts as a kind of occupational therapy for her. Sharon is fitty- something and suffers from anxiety. Writing short stories acts as a kind of occupational therapy for her. Did you enjoy the story? 

Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author th otrht eehalf goes to expense se.g. Maintaining rhthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Saturday SampleTh Prophecy by Gill james, sparkling water,

 

It

"It’s quiet, isn’t it?’ said the commander of the Scouting Vessel2195, Western Sector 3.
‘Well, that’s what you’d expect, isn’t it?’ replied his young  trainee, Kyle Thomas. ‘No craft landing. Nor any coming fromit,’ remarked Kyle. He looked down at the milky blue planet.
They were quite close to it now, and it filled almost half of the
screen. It seemed so still, as if it were surrounded by a pool of
quietness.
The rest of its solar system was buzzing. Small scouting
vessels like their own, and bigger cargo ships were busily going
backwards and forwards between the planets. It made navigating this stretch of the Sector 3 rather tricky. He was glad the autopilots were amongst the most sophisticated Well, it sure is still a fairly blue planet,’ Nielson continued.‘Shame, though. It used to be so much prettier than this. It was
even bluer. And you could see greens and brown as well, before
the poison cloud.’
‘Why do they bother?’ asked Kyle. ‘They have a poison cloud
and they’re still living there? They could live anywhere.’
‘I suppose they feel safe enough down there, ‘replied Nielson.
‘What with all their farms and things tucked up nice and safe in
those caves of theirs. The rest of us could learn a thing or two, if
only they’d let us get a bit closer.’
‘Not much chance, though is there?’ replied Kyle. ‘What with
them wanting to keep disease out. They won’t let anybody in.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said the Commander. ‘That’s something else it
would be great to learn about. It’s funny how they’ve gone so
shy. Considering it all started there in the first place.’
 

‘When was the last time anyone moved from the planet?’
asked Kyle.
‘2309,’ replied Nielson.
‘Just after the first colonies formed?’ asked Kyle. ‘So, over a
millennium ago? It’s mad.’
‘Yep,’replied Nielson, ‘and they’ve reported being disease -free
for just over two hundred years now. So, it ain’t just tha',"treplied Nielson, ‘‘I want tosee how well you can steer this thing.’

Kyle felt the power surge as the scout switched over.

‘One wide orbit around Terrestra and then out to the end of the solar system,’ said the Commander.
Kyle turned the craft. It wobbled and juddered a little.  hard with the controls for a few seconds and then she beganto glide gently back over Terrestra.
He began to get the scout under control. He had the measure of her now. She was purring along.
It was then that he noticed it. A flash of green lightening ripped through the soft blue mist that surrounded the quiet planet.
A cascade of sparks followed. Kyle opened his mouth to  say somehing.
‘Watch it,’ said Nielson suddenly.
A smaller scout was nudging its way across their flight path.
‘Watch the dataserve,’ said Nielson. ‘You must follow its coordinates.’

Kyle concentrated on the controls again 

FInd you copy here 

A Hunting He Will Go by Fleur Lind, spider coke,

A Hunting He Will Go

 

For Pete’s sake, how much longer must I wait?? Harold muttered exasperatedly.  This was not the plan at all. I was meandering about the house, doing my hunting and gathering thing to share with the clan, and now I’m going to be late for lunch!

Harold’s thoughts ran away with him as he considered his options, of which none existed.

There is no way around or out of this mess. ‘I’m stuck. I’m cornered.’

As question marks bumped into exclamation marks in a caricature fashion, and swam in a haphazard orbit around his head, he heard the continuing, gesticulating conversation taking place on speakerphone out on the back patio.

She’s still jawing away, flapping those lips. The last time her sister called, she clocked up over an hour.  At least she replaced the batteries in the wall clock in the kitchen. I can now keep track of the day. 

 

The conversation rambled along like tumbleweed, ”I know, Fran, I know.  That’s what I said, too.  But It’s not my call to make, she’s got to make her own mistakes, I guess.”

“It’s not the end of the world, Martha, but it’s not a great start either, is it?”

I have no idea what they are on about, nor do I care.  What bothers me, there is no way out of this corner I am in.  Why didn’t she use fast-drying paint? How long will it take to dry? There’s no way I’m walking across it, I’ll get stuck -  and that will be that.

 

Harold thought he had time to get across to the breakfast bar before her paint roller got too close to him, but when Martha is on a mission, there’s no holding her back

Worst still, she’s wearing that darn green bandana so nothing is going to get in her way…except her sister with fresh gossip. So she took the call and settled on the lounger out on the patio. Meanwhile, the roller dries up and I’m left waiting.  So very inconsiderate!

Inconsiderations aside, Harold was still wondering how he was going to get down from his spot. It was going to become very tiresome indeed in his current position beside the light shade covered with fly poo. That’ll be the next thing, she’ll take all the light coverings down and wash or buy flash new ones.  The new paint will show up the dust and whatever else.

 

As Harold contemplated the complexities of this moment and life in general, there was a shift in gear out on the patio.

“Okay, Fran, you call me.  I’m painting the ceiling so I had better make a move. Let me know how you get on.”

“Okay, Martha. You haven’t got ideal weather for painting, this rain is meant to set in.”

Well, you know, when the mood hits me, it’s hard to dampen the fire in my belly.’

“True, take some anti-acids, that’s  good for heartburn, but nothing generally stops you when your mind is set.’

“Yup. You know it! Talk soon! Bye.’

Martha sighed, getting out of the lounger, ‘Now… where was I? I’ll finish that patch, and that’s the job done! She glanced at her phone as she entered the kitchen, ‘Darn it, one bar left. I better charge it up before she rings back.’

Harold sighed. Any time today would be nice…

 

Martha examined the roller, which was a little crusty to the touch with drying paint. ‘Darn it, but it’s not worth starting with a new roller for that last little bit…’

As she looked up to see where she had left off, Harold held his breath.

Martha, almost cross-eyed, peered through a splotch of paint on the left lens of her glasses. It impaired her vision somewhat, hence she had not noticed Harold thus far.

 

‘What’s that?’ She squinted, knowing it was futile to remove her glasses for a better examination of the large dark round shape on the ceiling, her glasses aided her vision, so removal was inviting a complete blur.

‘I hope it’s not mould…’ she muttered to herself.

 

Don’t roll that wet sticky crusty roller over me, for goodness sake! Harold said a prayer as his life flashed before his eyes. He also gave thanks to Pablo, who had shown him the benefits of praying when times get tough. The praying mantis community had become an ally with his clan.

As much as he tried to remain as still as possible, his leg was starting to cramp, so he agonisingly stretched it out.

“Ohhhhh…No!  Argh! How long have you been there?’

Martha, don’t get me started! The answer is - too bloody long - so if you can hold the dramatics and assist me, I’ll get out of your way, pronto!’

‘Ohhh, creepy darn thing.  I know you’re not venomous but you give me the creeps.  Ohh, what to do??  You’re so BIG! Oh, my God! Ray next door is away for the weekend, he could sort this out.  Bugger!’

Steady on, Martha, that’s one for the swear jar!

‘Ohhh I hate this…’

Stop being such a sook! Go get the broom and I’ll hop on…

As if such a thing as telepathy existed between humankind and Arachna, Harold almost saw a lightbulb glow above Martha’s mess bun. And this lightbulb didn’t have any fly poo on it.

“I know! I’ll get the broom. Don’t move! Wait right there!”

Trust me, I’m not moving, but be quick about it eh?

 

Martha was on a new mission. The painting was no longer the prime focus. As she rushed to the cupboard in the laundry, kicking the basket filled with dry washing across the floor as she went, she pulled at the broom which was at the back of the long narrow cupboard behind the mop and bucket and other assorted cleaning equipment, all with long shafts or handles. Included in this disorganisation, was the vacuum cleaner with a bag of useful attachments. There was a crash as handles went this way and that, falling forward and landing on the floor like a game of Pick-up sticks.

‘Bloody hell!’

 

I heard that…are you going to be long?

 

Martha appeared in the kitchen with a soft-bristled kitchen broom. The yard broom would be too heavy and awkward for the job at hand. Despite himself and his stressful dilemma, Harold chuckled. Martha looked quite a sight with her trusty bandana on a crooked angle to its normally composed status, and holding the broom as she did, all she needed was a black peaked hat.

 

‘Right…” Martha had never felt so unsure.

Well, that’ll do the job nicely, just don’t squash me…

‘Okay, pal, just… don’t.. fall.. on.. me.’ she stuttered as she gingerly raised the broom handle up to Harold.

Harold saw his moment. He was expecting the broom head to be his escape route, but okay, the handle was going to work equally well.  Beggers can’t be choosers. He took a big step then a leap and landed on the end of the handle. He half slid - half ran down the length, heading straight for Martha’s shaking hands.

All Martha could see was a massive Huntsman coming for her.

 

‘ARRGGH!’ Martha yelled, throwing the handle aside to avoid contact with Harold. The broom went one way, and Harold was flung to the other.

It was a bumpy landing as he hit the dinner table and skidded across the smooth shiny surface.

Holey crap! No brakes! Harold wished the salt and pepper set was in his path to break his slide.

Finally coming to a stop just before the tabletop edge, he righted himself and scrambled down the table leg to the sanctuary of the large, potted ‘Elephant Ears’ Begonia in the corner.

 

‘That went well, I wonder where he is now…’ Martha looked warily around the kitchen, hoping she would not encounter this creepy house guest again any time soon.  

Harold sighed and said another little prayer of thanks for his safe return to the ground.

Be damned if I'm getting up on the ceiling again, ad what a good job the cat wasn’t playing any part in that drama. Now to find out if they saved me any lunch!

About the author 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fleur is a Kiwi living in SE Queensland. She enjoys the fun, challenge, and possibilities of short stories. She is a member of the local writer's group - The Squabbling Scribblers. For more of Fleur's work: fleursfabulousfables.wordpress.comDid you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author th otrht eehalf goes to expense se.g. Maintaining rhthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.