Sowing Seeds by Keith David Robert McKibbin, Ice cold tea

We only saw the Malcomsons twice a year and I dreaded each visit. There was Boxing Day at ours with my presents on display, then the return visit to their detached house with the big back garden on the far side of Belfast. Our visit was always in early August, when they would regale us about the splendours of their recent continental holiday. Only two days out of three hundred and sixty-five. 
It felt like a lot more.
The summer one was the easier of the two. Dad’s dislike of driving through the city in the dark meant that there was a blessed time limit and you could keep your eye on the magic eight. Easier also because our dismal little caravan week in Portrush couldn’t in any way compete with the icing sugar sands of the Seychelles or wherever else they had been (Wendy’s husband Eric had a great job in the Civil Service). No comparison – so it was just a simple case of listening and nodding in all the right places and not spilling your lemonade on the new suite. Their living room was spacious, and when they visited us their elbows were always tight to their sides, a slightly concerned look, as if they feared our pokey little house was about to swallow them. 
Mum had known Wendy Malcomson for thirty years. They had danced round the lampposts, played squash to a high county level, then gone to teaching college together. It was Mum’s slight edge on the squash court that had sown the seeds of competition in their relationship down through the years. Mum got engaged to Dad two whole years before Eric dropped to his knee – and there’s a candid photo of Wendy at the engagement party looking like she’s chewing on a slug. Wendy’s ring, when it eventually arrived, was twice the size of Mum’s and had so many carats that Dad used to say, “What’s up, Doc?” every time the thing was mentioned.
I suppose it was inevitable that Julian, her son, should inherit some of her competitive fervour.
Losing a game of any sort was something beyond Julian’s realm. He simply could not contemplate it, and so he would blatantly cheat. I remember a board game called Operations where you have to extract parts of the body with metal tweezers without touching the sides and activating the buzz. It would be his turn, and there he’d be with his tongue between his teeth, and it would be – zzzz…zzzz…zzzz – and not a flicker of shame on the bastard’s face.
Dad knew the score and the devil in him bought two identical 500 piece Disney jigsaws which he revealed for the first time an hour after one of their visits. I can remember it in vivid detail. Mickey front and centre with his eight fingers in pristine white gloves, Minnie all coy by his side, Donald looking exasperated as others clambered into the frame. I had practised on it for so long on Christmas Day I could have done it handcuffed and blindfolded. I started slow, making a big show of not being able to find the corners, watching the twinkle of glee on Julian’s face as he streaked ahead. I let him click Goofy’s gormless grin into place before I made my charge. Oh, the thrill and pleasure of it! But what really sold it – what really pissed him off – was Dad, seemingly oblivious to the drama, making intermittent quacking noises from the far side of the room. 
After that there was no direct hand to hand combat. Instead, Julian would take delight in playing with my presents and then (subtlety, I’ll give him that, he had been brought up genteelly) denouncing them in favour of his own. Yet, oddly, my toys – albeit superior versions – would often feature in his birthday celebrations in early February. Dad would wink at me when Mum gave us the rundown after one of their phone calls.
“I’ve no doubt he’ll one day win the Nobel Prize to go along with his Oscar,” Dad chuckled. “But our boy’s the puppeteer, is he not?” and he made us laugh with a Pinocchio style walk, whilst yodelling, “High on a hill was a lonely goat, olayee olayee olayee – ee ee!” My dad could be a funny bugger sometimes. 
The two thousand piece domino set I received one Christmas caused him considerable consternation. The obvious response was to giggle at his dad’s banter about cloth caps and beer soaked tables. But there was a method in my own Dad’s madness. We had recently seen an episode of Record Breakers that was dedicated to domino toppling – hundreds of thousands of the things. These beardy types had spent ages meticulously setting them up in a huge sports hall – big ones, small ones, multicolours, up and down and round and round, dozens of different designs and patterns. It was strangely impressive in a dorky, milk bottle glasses kind of way. Norris McWhirter was there with his clipboard and stop-watch. Roy Castle sang a song about it with his trumpet. Pompity pomp.
I knew Julian wouldn’t have the patience for any kind of set-up, so after they had had their little giggle we took them up to my room to show them the lay-out. The whole floor had been cleared of toys and clothes and me and Dad had spent hours positioning them and praying that the province wouldn’t suffer a freak earthquake. 
I’ll never forget the shadow that crossed Julian’s face when he looked down upon the display. It was weird. Like he thought he’d been hoodwinked.
“Who would like to do the honours?” I asked, and all the grown-ups laughed at my pronouncement, but it was kind laughter and I didn’t mind. I think I must have remembered the phrase from Upstairs, Downstairs. Then, the coup de grâce. “Julian, would you like to? Just a gentle little prod …” 
And then to see them all topple and splay out exactly in the fashion me and Dad had designed. That wonderful whirring, rippling effect. The feeling was electric. Every single one of them flattened. They all burst into spontaneous applause – even Julian, but only because he knew how churlish it would look if he didn’t.
Shortly after his next birthday, Wendy breathlessly reported that him and his Dad had successfully toppled all six thousand dominoes (three boxes of them) stretching from his room, all the way down the stairs, and into the new kitchen with the mahogany centre island with the special built in storage. 
Boxing Day 1980 marked the last ever visit. After that it was just Christmas and birthday cards and the occasional phone-call. Families can grow apart like that sometimes. 
It was my best present ever: the Evel Knievel stunt bike.
Mum had been warned not to leak anything down the phone in the weeks before Christmas. I might add, in case you have never heard of him, that Evel Knievel was an iconic America stunt rider of the 1970s. Rock star crowds gathered to watch him fly his Harley Davidson over London double decker buses. They’d run the tape in slow motion and you’d see his stars and stripes cape fly behind him like a super hero. Julian and his dad were heavily into motorbikes. He was always yammering on about a Kawasaki Z1000 he was going to get when he was older. If you showed the slightest interest, and even if you didn’t, he would start on about its air-cooled four-cylinder engine and the horsepower it could produce. Apparently, it could reach speeds of up to 130mph.
They arrived around noon baring wine, selection boxes and Wendy’s famous Christmas pudding – which to be fair was delicious. Julian was annoyed because he had wanted to bring his brand new Grifter bike to show us. A Raleigh Grifter was a bike to be coveted. They had proper mud guards and three speed gears that were controlled by a handlebar mounted twist grip. They were as close to an actual motorbike as you could get. I would have killed for one, but knowing Mum and Dad’s financial situation I hadn’t even bothered to ask.  
Julian clearly wasn’t overawed by the Evel Knievel stunt cycle toy. He did at least show a polite interest in the box which promised Top Speed Jumps, Wheelies, Crashes, and Much More – and so there was nothing else for it. I set up the jumping and landing ramps – Blue Peter and Grange Hill annuals – and attached him to the plastic red energiser. Then it was just a matter of turning the crank to wind up the back wheel and letting him rip.
“Very impressive!” Eric said, sounding not very impressed at all. But then another thought occurred to him and he perked up. “I wonder what percentage the man himself gets for each unit, you know, for each doll.”
Everyone pretended to think about this for a moment before moving back to the living-room. Everyone except me. I didn’t care how much he made on each one. The way I looked at it, if you broke every bone in your body jumping over buses and cars you deserved a few fringe benefits. What I did think about, quite a lot, was the shared smile that had passed between Eric and Julian at the mention of the word doll.
“You’re so lucky where you live,” I said to Julian in the back garden, far out of earshot of any adults.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, because of the hills; it’s flat as anything around here. When I get my Grifter, you know what I’m gonna do?” I gestured for him to lean forward and whispered fervently into his ear. “I’m gonna be the first to do it. What do you think of that?”
He threw back a shrug; but I noticed that his eyes were bright and eager.
About a month later Mum took a phone-call in the hallway and Dad held his hand up for silence when he heard the strange pitch in her voice. We both scrutinised her through the obscure glass, unnaturally hunched over, cradling the receiver to her face with both hands as if she was listening for its heartbeat. 
Julian had broken his neck.
Apparently, he had taken the Grifter up to the top of the Cavehill Road and then flown down it as fast as he could. It was as if he was trying to set some kind of speed record. Eric later tried unsuccessfully to sue Raleigh but the brakes were found to be in perfect working order and it all came to nothing. The problem had been at the bottom of the hill when he had run over a rotten old plank – a sort of a ramp I suppose – lost control and landed on his head. These were in the days before cyclists wore helmets.
Mum and Dad visited him in the Royal Victoria Hospital but I never saw him again. Our pokey little house, with its narrow hallway and bulky electrical sockets, wasn’t wheelchair friendly, and there was therefore no reason for the reciprocal visit. 
That was a long time ago. If he’s still alive, I wish him well. 
Sometimes I think of the Grifter I never had as a boy – but I have no regrets. 
Last month I treated myself to a present that had my teenage daughters in fits of laughter – cracking midlife crisis jokes and making Easy Rider references. It’s a vintage Kawasaki Z1000. A beautiful machine. Apparently, it can reach speeds of up to 130 mph! 
Not that I’ll ever know. I’m always very careful on her.

 Keith McKibbin is an English teacher working in Glasgow. He is married with four daughters and two beautiful granddaughters. His favourite short story writers are O. Henry and Raymond Carver. He has been published in both the Bath and Edinburgh short story competitions.

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

Fried Eggs and Leather Belts by Keith Mckibbin ,ice cold te

My sister cried all day long, and I had never been so happy.

That is no exaggeration. All day long. The very picture of misery she was. Sometimes her body would need a break or she would momentarily forget herself. I recall my fascination as she caught a song on the radio – I think it was Get up and Boogie, pumped up loud by Mum as a distraction – and how she began to mouth the lyrics and bop her head, before remembering where she was and hiccupping herself into another bout, face folding into that constipated gurn, that made you want to both laugh and then punch a dent in the side of the caravan.

            “Sure, you’re going to dehydrate yourself,” Dad said. “Like an Ethiopian. God, Doreen, does your mother not realise the damage she does?”

            Mum shot him daggers but said nothing. She lit another Embassy and had it down to the filter in two or three drags, then over at Miranda, her scabby knees up under her chin; opened her mouth to suggest something, then clamped it shut and stabbed her cigarette out with a grunt.

            The summer of ‘76 was the hottest July ever recorded. All the windows in all of the caravans were cranked wide begging for the tiniest breath of wind. Car bonnets were hot to the touch. My friend Philip Pelan tried to fry an egg on his granddad’s Morris Marina. He had seen it in a movie. It kind of worked, although it took a while and none of us wanted any part of tasting it. We figured that no matter how clean he kept his car, he was still frying an egg where a seagull must have shat. And the old boy wasn’t impressed when he found out. I can still remember his whiskery leer as he beckoned him with a crooked finger, whilst slowly, with great deliberation, unbuckling his thick leather belt. You could do things like that back then.  

            Jesus sake, Miranda, give it a rest. Are we going to have to listen to this all day?

            Dad had bought the caravan the year before for seven hundred pounds (Mum later told us that his hand had been shaking as he signed the cheque) and he was rewarded by two glorious summers which saw us all roasted on the beach like lobsters. Like most of the other Irish mothers, Mum was unaware that the newly bought sun lotion had to be reapplied after each sea visit. My slug hite six year old back blistered and peeled; I had to sleep on my stomach at night and every time, every time, I would roll over onto my back and scream myself awake.

            Miranda was two years older than me and we had a kind of telepathic connection that might have had a more positive application, but was used instead to deride and undermine me at every opportunity, whilst skilfully operating under the radar of Mum and Dad. I had to have my meals with her at Granny’s. She only had a little table so Mum and Dad got served before us. Mincemeat, potatoes and carrots. Miranda would look disdainfully at me as I heaped it up and forked it into my mouth.

            A flick of the eyes, then: “Granny, we were learning about snakes the other day in school.”

            “Oh, I hate snakes, Miranda – horrible things. Thank God for Saint Patrick.”

            “But they’re really interesting. Did you know that a lot of them can dislocate their jaws to get more food into their mouths?”

            “They can do what?”

            She was happy to demonstrate by yawning her mouth wide. “Can you imagine how disgusting that must look? Greedy, fat things.” The eyes and the smile again; but then she added something new to the mix, just to further highlight my gluttony and underscore her victory: a quiet, barely audible double snort, like a happy little piglet contemplating the trough. She was so smitten by this sound effect that it was added to her repertoire, not just when I was at the table, but sometimes apropos of nothing, just to remind me of my place – and always so subtle that only I would get it. Oink oink.

            Miranda, this is ridiculous behaviour – there are people dying in the world.

            Our next-door neighbour at the caravan site, Mister Mackie, was built like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s little brother. Sometimes you would see him lifting dumbbells just for the fun of it. He had a UDA tattoo on his left bicep – which was about the same size as my dad’s left calf. Friendly enough though, in a gruff beer can crushing way. He and Dad had spoken for the first time a couple of days before the glorious twelfth.

            “He wanted to know if we’d be at the parades,” he told Mum over the fish and chips. “He plays the Lambeg for the North Down Lodg.”

            “What did you tell him?”

            “That we’d look out for his sash and his great big drum.”

            If you’ve only ever seen a Twelfth of July orange parade on the television you haven’t really lived it. It doesn’t matter how high you have the volume, it’s just not the same. You can have the ornaments dancing on the mantelpiece and you still won’t get it all. You need to drown in it. The buzz of camaraderie; a thousand little Union Jacks clutched in chubby, ice-cream hands; seagulls squawking greedily above fat chips; orange everywhere; red, hite and blue.

            And the anticipation of it.

            Shush, shush, listen.

          A massive cheer as they strode into view, banners aloft. There was Good King Billy on his hite charger, off to stomp on the Catholic hordes. Scores of spruce Protestant men with lips pursed and trousers perfectly creased. Marching and blowing. Flawless notes, and the little chap at the front twirling and somersaulting his stick fifty feet in the air – always managing to catch it.

            The magic was that the music never completely dissipated. It grew fainter but always loitered, waiting to pass the baton on to the next band. Thus, with the flute music still in the air you could begin to hear the accordions and a roar would emerge as they rounded the corner, all sash and splendour, squeezing the life out of their instruments.

“There he is Dad! Mister Mackie, over here!”

He was working up a sweat with his Lambeg drum, leaning backwards, walloping the bejesus out of it – and when he saw us, he jerked his jaw in acknowledgement of our support and shared Protestantism. Long after he had passed we could still feel the blood thumping in our ears.  The trace of its resonance would follow you into your dreams, where it grew bigger and bigger, dwarfing first the drummer, then the street – a drum that only a folk giant might play, its thunder heard and felt around the world.

I swear to God, Miranda, if you don’t quit it now I’m going to walk into sea just to get a bit of bloody peace.

After the parades the only thing we had left to look forward to were the visits to Granny.

We each had a week (she only had one spare room) and the attention she lavished was something you just never got at home. It was like you were the most important person in the world. You got the T.V (a lovely big Ferguson in its own laminate cabinet) all to yourself and could watch whatever you wanted provided there wasn’t a Howard Keel or Yul Bruner movie playing. She would take you out into the city on the top of the bus (this was long before her angina kicked in) to the big shops, then the snugness of a café for buttery scones that melted in the mouth like snowballs in a frying pan. Grandad had dropped dead of a heart attack when Mum was only wee, and I remember hearing her tell Dad that the royal treatment was an over compensation for her own austere upbringing. Granny, as a single mother struggling on a widow’s pension, had been a cold fish back in the day, too exhausted from night shifts to address anything beyond the basic needs of Mum and Uncle Graham. I can hardly remember her smiling, Mum said, and she never hugged me.

 She was never done hugging me. She’d sweep you up into her great bosom, and the delicious smell of her – the rosy cheeks and mint imperials, the shock of her lovely hite hair.

            And it was my turn next week. That’s what was really eating Miranda. She was missing all the attention – you always felt an aching sort of homesickness after a week with her – but the real cause of her angst and misery, and the source of my barely suppressed glee, was the knowledge that I was about to enjoy what she was mourning the loss of. For the telepathy thing worked both ways. Thus, whilst I had been careful not to openly crow and had, in fact, presented as sympathetic and sorrowful, I’d made sure that she caught me drumming my fingers at lunch and, a little later, whistling a happy little tune to myself.

            But the devil comes to visit you in all guises, and when you least expect him.

            We were getting ready for bed, Miranda red eyed and hoarse from snivelling, me on the other pull out bed, giddy with anticipation for my week and hoping that her misery would continue indefinitely. I watched her glance over at me, take a huge breath, then with renewed vigour and gusto begin a high-pitched keening, like a shawled famine mother at the graves of her children.  

“In the name of Christ, Miranda, would you give it a fucking rest!”

His language managed to penetrate the wall of noise and she shuddered to a stop; but the look on her face said it all. This respite was only temporary. She was in it for the long haul.

“Look, pet,” Mum’s tone was placatory. “I know you really miss her. Here’s an idea. If you can make it through tomorrow without crying, you can spend another week with her. How’s that sound?”

Say what now!?

Mr Mackie was in my head thumping the shit out of his Lambeg drum.

Mum avoided my eye (the bitch); Dad had the good grace to throw me a tortured look of helpless apology.

It was obscene.  The greatest injustice ever perpetrated in the history of civilisation.  A fucking joke, it was.  I wanted to say all of these things but I didn’t, I couldn’t. I was only six, and I was scared of my sister.

“I suppose that might help,” Miranda allowed, wiping her eyes then slipping into her sleeping bag, her bronzed shoulders accentuated against the hiteness of her pillow. A flaking network of spent sunburn was clustered at the cleft of her neck, and I wondered what it would be like to pour battery acid over her during the night. The portable black and hite T.V ran off a car battery. Dad watched the news on it, but I figured he could just as easily listen to the radio.

“Good night, son,” Dad said, somehow managing to communicate, within these three mournful syllables, his deep regret and the promise of reparations at a future date.

I lay on my stomach for the next hour or more, the heat of my blistered back pulsating, imagining her smiling up into the darkness. She knew I was awake, of course, and as I listened to the sounds of the night time – my parents breathing, the crunch of a car on the gravelled pathway, the call of a dog – I heard her sniff one last time before allowing herself to sleep.

Actually, not a sniff at all. More of a double snort.

             Like a little fat piglet on his approach to the trough.

about the author

Keith Mckibbin is an English teacher working in Glasgow. He is married with four daughters and two beautiful granddaughters. His favourite short story writers are O.Henry and Raymond Carver. He has been published in both the Bath and Edinburgh short story competitions. 

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

Last Box byGareth Gorst, o rganic earl grey tea

Last Box

 

'They’re for Wednesday, that box. We want to end Deepavali with a bang not a whimper, nah?'

 

   He pats my cheek. 'Yes, Papi,' I manage to draw out in my disappointment, as he leans up and moves back to put the crackers on a higher shelf.

 

I want it now.

I want it now and forever.

I want light in my night,

Explosions in my fight,

I want just… to be together

Watching, not waiting, watching life complete

Hand in hand, understand the party that’s been planned, the

people I’ve come to meet, the wisdom of the streets, the shimmering of the heat, the tower blocks oh so neat, the other children that I greet, the

Here in this city of light.

 

   The last day of Diwali, papi’s brothers and sisters arrive and we eat our dinner by a bonfire, sing songs, tell stories; but at some point I can't fight off the urge and fall asleep in his arms. At five, the adults are still up talking as we snore in our tent. My eldest brother wakes us, speaking too loud. '…It’s tonight. Remember, what they saved. Come, come…'

 

   Papi lifts me gently into some blue dawn yet to be unfolded and holds me calm up to the firmament for my bleary-eyed wonder to begin.

 

   Then the box explodes, in its preordained sequence, festival of light, of hope, of knowing; the soreness of our eyes; breeze starts blowing, harbinger of the inevitable lunchtime thunder and afternoon rain.

 

Let it begin, let it end,

Let it drive me round then bend

This aching for us to mend,

aching of life for what she sends, for

No one else but us, under Saraswati’s stars

Let this family live forever.

 

   The last smoke drifts into the silence and we hear the singing of the constellations once more, yet to be enfolded in some blue dawn still ours for the taking.

 

Happy Deepavali.

 

    I look up at him and see tears are streaming down his face, follow his eyes to where nine pinpricks in the blanket of the night let her love seep through. It seems we stay that way for eternity, wondering at what life has planned for us before I turn to see if I'm doing it right and he finally looks down and smiles.

 

'We own nothing here,' Papi says, 'nothing but each other. We belong, just so, though we’ve been told… none of this is ours.'

 

    We turn, leave the last box smouldering in its grave, and Papi carries me back to bed.

 

about the author

 

Biography: A lifelong writer dedicating thirty years to teaching creative arts  in Leeds, London, Milan, Beijing and Kuala Lumpur. I see life as a map, the world as our children's oyster and my duty to redraw the parts of the map being stolen by the dream-catchers. I currently live and renovate in the Ribble Valley.

 

Suggested drink: a pot of earl grey

 

Biography (short): After thirty years teaching language in Leeds, London, Milan, Beijing and Kuala Lumpur, I now live, write and renovate in the Ribble Valley. I see life as a map, the world as our children's oyster and my duty to redraw parts of the map being stolen by the dream-catchers.

Paste story here  

 

Paste author bio here 

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

hose’re Roses by : Alan J Pawsey, coffee

 Harry was still miffed a week after Burt claimed victory and when the weather channel predicted pleasant temperatures and good air quality for the next morning, called Burt. “Hey, Burt, it’s been a while and it’s supposed to be nice tomorrow morning. Why don’t we meet out back for coffee and, “My treat, I’ll bring the pastries. You can pick up your coffee since I know how particular you are.”  He held back on his snicker until he hung up and then left a message on Philippe’s number in the kitchen. Philippe was the Home’s pastry chef. He was there twice a week, and Harry had made a special arrangement with him to make cinnamon crullers.

Harry fell asleep with a smile on his face. The game was afoot! In his sleep he dreamed of his childhood in Hoboken when he ran around with his friends like wild animals. When he got up in the middle of the night to pee, still half asleep, he was chuckling, “Mom didn’t like any of my friends in the Hellraisers, but we had fun!”

The following morning, he was up early and collected the crullers and his coffee in the Home’s cafeteria. Harry took the tray out to the patio, not wanting to chance someone else grabbing their table. It was still a bit chilly, and he zipped up his fleece jacket, trying to remember why he’d asked Philippe to make the crullers special for him. I thought something different would distract Burt, throw him off his game. Or maybe because he’s aways going on about croissants and French pastries. Five minutes later, he unfolded a tent card – RESERVED – and returned to the cafeteria for a refill. Burt was in the middle of the coffee line. The large clock on the far wall showed that they were still 10 minutes before their usual time.

Harry skirted the line, cleared his throat, and whispered, “Morning Burt, early bird and all that.”

Burt turned, nodding at Harry’s cup. “Refill already?”

Maggie was two back from Burt. She glared, pushed out her painted red-warrior lips, and announced in a not unsubtle way. “Just remember house rules: No cut-ins on the coffee or food lines.” Then she smiled. “Of course, Burt can join you at the back of the line.”

On the way outside, Burt mumbled, “Weather forecast says it’s supposed to be a good day; we’ll see.”

Harry, struggling with a too-full cup, muttered in return, “We’ll see.”

After they were seated, Harry extended the plate with the crullers to Burt. “I thought we’d have something different. I know you like cinnamon and asked Philippe to make some crullers special for us. Hope you like them.”

Burt didn’t wait and took a bite. “Mmm, nice. Choux pastry. There was a German bakery in our neighborhood in Brooklyn where I grew up, right outside of Bed-Sty. Yeh, just remembered what they called me: Brooklyn Burt. A name big enough to cover a lot of sins. Must be getting old, not remembering that last week. Up there with Hoboken Harry.”

Harry didn’t need another opening. “Hey, never told you how I ran with the Hoboken Hellraisers when I was a kid? They were pretty much my boys by the time I was eleven, not that I’m bragging. Considered me the brains of the outfit. Got me my start in life too. Smells.”

Harry tapped his nose. “Don’t have to tell you how poor neighborhoods stink. But there’s always a way to make it worse. No one would try selling stink bombs in Jersey, not with those refineries and what some claimed were Brooklyn garbage scows dumping in Jersey waters, but I thought maybe if I could make a real, real stinker, I’d have a seller. Lots of free ingredients behind restaurants and grocers in the hood for the picking. Heck, I knew about hard boiled eggs. Tried aging them and cabbage in discarded jars, I already forgot what else I threw in before tying party balloons over the top. Could light some of them and get a pop too.”

He paused and smiled inside, insisting that Burt finish the last cruller. Harry had to time this right, swallowing the last of his coffee.

“Yeh, I was saying, even went to the library, got the old spinster to show me a couple of basic chemistry books. Got me thinking. Even decided that’s what I wanted to be – a chemist. Easy stuff, but the other Hellraisers thought it was magic. I got a plastic bottle, dumped in some match heads and ammonia I liberated from the super in our building. Closed it up and waited a couple of days. Easiest was with an egg. Sulfur in them does the trick but in those days, eggs were expensive, so I had to wait until I found broken ones behind the grocery store. Best one was the easiest stink bomb. Just hair wrapped up in paper. I threw in a couple of chicken feathers and bones for a voodoo effect. Burning them releases the disulfide bonds in the hair keratin. Us Hellraisers boasted it was us that got Jersey the name ‘Garbage State’ with the extra smells we made that first summer.”

Harry finished his coffee and centered it on the now empty cruller plate. “Got me started. Ten years after I graduated with a degree in chemistry, I launched my first company. SLR, Inc. SLR – Smells Like Roses. Sweet sound too.”

Harry stood up and pushed back from the table. “The rest is history. I guess it’s your turn to clear off.”

About the author

 

 Alan is a retired cop and civil servant. Both occupations reinforced an inherent cynical attitude which he endeavours to control by drinking coffee and realising things ain't so bad. Or are they? 

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