Visitation by Kyle Yandle, lavender London Fog

She was pronounced dead at exactly the right time. It didn’t really matter if the mortgage had been paid, the hedges had been trimmed, or if the toilet that always ran would run or not.

On the way to the funeral, Elaine nestled snugly in her casket—makeup perfect, hair just so. She was no longer concerned with what other people thought. She was dead and, contented by that fact, decided to hang out a bit longer.

The oak doors to the funeral home parted for her grand entrance. The tacky, over-decorated interior with its inoffensive, whitewashed walls and delicate lighting gave Elaine a calm reassurance that death was the right choice.

The hearse driver was joined by two men in suits who, smelling of cheap cologne and sweat, helped load her onto a dull black cart so she could be wheeled to the appropriate place for viewing.

“Got any big plans this weekend?” the driver asked the room.

“Just watching the Bills lose,” one of the sweaty men said, apparently answering for both of them.

Elaine remained silent. The question wasn’t for her anyway.

Carting her down the middle aisle of the sanctuary, the men continued their conversation. One had placed bets on a sports betting app and thought he wouldn’t lose any money. The other was taking his wife and children to the zoo. Elaine thought it was too cold to take anyone to the zoo, even the animals.

Grunting, the three men lifted her casket haphazardly from its transportation and onto a fine mahogany pedestal, freshly shined with furniture wax. It seemed like the perfect location to her, centered adjacent to the podium where the pastor would say some kind words.

“It’s almost time,” one man said to the other.

Elaine thought he must be one of the hourlies that tended to the funeral. He was dressed well enough—black suit and black tie, average mourning attire.

Now, Elaine would wait.

Jason, her husband of forty-one years, wandered into the sprawling room, and, noticing him, her attendants turned in greeting. Why were they so worried about him? She was the one who was dead.

Condolences were passed between them, hands shaken. Elaine was still waiting.

Her husband didn’t walk straight to her. Instead, he paused at the threshold like he had forgotten his reason for attending, then drifted toward the front. Elaine watched him take in the flowers, the pews, the podium, ignoring her.

Elaine listened as one of the hourlies cleared his throat. “Mr. Hart. You can… you can have a minute, if you’d like.” This was likely common practice.

Nodding, Jason agreed. Suddenly reverent, the other men backed away and the room quieted to a carpeted hush. The lights seemed to dim themselves for the occasion.

Approaching the casket, Jason stopped, hands hovering over the polished wood like he was afraid she would jump out at him in reanimation.

Elaine waited.

He leaned in, close enough that if she’d still been breathing, she would’ve smelled old coffee grounds and Old Spice on him. Scanning her face, he stood there, searching for something that wasn’t there—irritation, judgment, instructions.

“You look…” he started. “You look like you’re about to tell me I did it all wrong.”

Elaine watched him, waiting.

Jason swallowed, nervous.

“I fixed the toilet,” he said.

Elaine almost laughed—not that it was funny, but because it was exactly the kind of thing she had been waiting for: the smallest change in him, the most domestic proof of love.

“You always said it sounded like an animal dying,” he whispered. “You were right. I fixed it yesterday. I didn’t tell you because you are gone now… and I can’t. I just can’t…”

Elaine could see the tears in his eyes. He pressed his fingertips to the edge of the casket, gentle.

“I paid the mortgage,” he added quickly, like a man checking a list of items before heading to the checkout counter. “And I trimmed the hedges. They look… acceptable. Not great. But acceptable. Don’t be mad.” Elaine always did have strong opinions about the state of her shrubberies.

Just a bit longer now. Elaine felt herself fading.

Staring at her, Jason wept for a short moment, seeming to allow himself to feel.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” he said. “I kept thinking you’d just… keep going through the chemo. Like you always did. Just keep fighting.” He stopped, voice cracking on the thought.

Elaine felt his voice, an echo, deep inside her, as if she still were alive.

Behind them, a line began to form and the first visitors trickled in: their friends and family, children, grandchildren, some people Elaine didn’t even know. Maybe some ol’ bitties from church. Jason straightened, wiped his face, waited to greet the procession.

But before he turned away from her, he leaned in close one last time.

“If you can hear me,” he murmured, “show me you are still here.”

Considering the room, the delicate lighting, the whitewashed walls, the overdone decor, Elaine made a decision. She wasn’t interested in rattling chains or making a big deal of anything. She had always hated a fuss.

So she did the only thing she could think of.

The lamp nearest her flickered once.

Jason froze.

Elaine flickered it again.

Gasping, Jason nodded slowly, understanding.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I love you too.”

Approaching Jason, someone said, “She looks so peaceful,” and Elaine thought, That’s because I know he’s going to be fine.

Hands shaking, Jason turned to greet the people. But every few seconds he glanced back toward the lamp, like he expected it to blink again.

Elaine decided against it. One visitation was enough.

Contented, Elaine let go, knowing she was leaving him with the mortgage paid, the hedges trimmed, and a toilet that, for once, didn’t run.

 

Bio:

Kyle Yandle is a fiction writer from North Carolina. His work has been featured by After/Thought Literary and Down in the Dirt. His debut novel, Finding Sound, is forthcoming from Moonshine Cove Publishing, February 2026.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Celine, Scion of Yorkshire by Anita Noelle Green, vanilla steamer

    The red barn’s morning sun reveals the overwhelming excitement and thin weight of sorrow present within the confines of the only home I’ve ever known. The giants have arrived with bright smiles. Mother sits glumly to the side awaiting the inevitable.

    It is upon this day I shall leave Mother. The giants have come to take us. It is time to evoke my powers of allure.

    My siblings beg and plead for their attention. Have they no dignity? I shall wait next to Mother with my pride still intact.

    I see Crispin has released his kisses of seduction upon the giants. A wise move. He is the first to be chosen.

    Elias has chosen the eyes of charm. Clever. He is the next one chosen.

    Gabrielle—gabbing Gabby—has chosen the siren’s call. She is chosen next. Good. That spell annoys me.

    A young behemoth runs her fingers through my coiffed hair. She lifts me into her arms. I hear the young one plead to its mother.

    “Oh, Mama! This one! She’s so cute! Can we get this one?” She exclaims excitedly.

    Yes, yes! My chosen method is working.

    “The runt? Are you sure? She’s so much smaller than all the rest, honey,” her father butts in.

    Runt? How dare he!

    “But she needs to be small to catch all the rats,” the girl protests.

    Catch rats. Yes, just as Mother taught us.

    “Sarah has a point, Hugh. Besides, you told Sarah she could help pick the puppy,” her mother says.

    “Oh, all right,” Hugh concedes.

    That’s right, Hugh. Listen to the wise.

    Sarah holds me in her arms. My head slumps over her shoulder as I’m carried away. Mother and I catch each other’s eyes and exchange our final looks of goodbye. She tries to give a hopeful look through her misty eyes and drooping ears.

###

    Sarah holds me snugly in her warm arms as we make our way through the filthy streets to my new forever castle.

    “What should we name her?” Sarah’s mother asks.

    Celine. My name is Celine. I use my powers of telepathy to convey this to them.

    “What about Sparky?” Hugh suggests.

    Sparky? No, Celine!

    “Do you really think she looks like a Sparky?” The mother asks. “What about something a little more regal, like… Sophie?”

    Okay, we’re getting closer… kind of.

    “Regal? Rose, she’s a dog for goodness sake!” Hugh scoffs.

    “What about Cece?” Sarah suggests.

    Cece? Hmph. Well, all right. I’ll take it.

    “Cece…” Rose chews it over. “I like it.”

    “Cece it is then,” agrees Hugh.

    I reward Sarah with a kiss.

    “Cece seems to like it too!” Giggles Sarah.

###

    It is a grand castle. Much different from the one I’m used to, but rather fitting for one such as myself. An ornate rug red runs from the entrance of the home to the polished flooring. They really went all out for my homecoming, but I would expect nothing less. My nails click against the oak floors. Rays of sunlight pierce through the reading room to my left.

    “Let’s go to my room, Cece!” Sarah says excitedly. She runs up the staircase lined with same material they used for my formal entrance. I happily chase after her.

    I dart after her into her room. Beams of light breathe through the white muslin curtains billowing from the large window in the corner. The walls are painted an appetizing mint. A large bed hides behind a tall four corner canopy draped in a sheer pastel pink mosquito net. The room turns into a sudden blur as Sarah twirls me around. Her dark ponytail flies behind her. The only thing in focus is her freckled, adolescent face smiling at me. It is as though I’m in a spinning globe and Sarah is the center of my world.

###

    The next morning, Sarah and I awaken to a knock on her bedroom door.

    “Come on, Sarah, it’s time to get up,” Hugh says as he walks through the door.

    Sarah reaches for the sky with a long stretch and wide yawn. I follow her lead and straighten my legs across the soft cotton bed.

    Hugh trudges over to me and plucks me from my resting place.

    “What’re you doing, Papa?”

    “I’m taking her to work.”

    “But we just got her!” Cries Sarah.

    “She’s a working dog, Sarah. Not a lapdog. I need her at the mill. We’ve talked about this,” Hugh says sternly.

    She gives a sad sigh, “All right… You be good for Papa, Cece.” She gives me a gentle kiss on the forehead.

###

    When Hugh and I arrive at mill, I’m met with a rude whirring of contraptions. The big giants are tending to the noisy machines. There are younger ones present, as well. Some of them appear to be Sarah’s age, though some of them are even younger. Skittering around the feet of the giants are the filth I have been hunting since I have been able: rats.

    Hugh sets me down on the ground. “All right, you know what to do. Get to work.”

    I race for the one nearest me, snapping its neck within my jaw. I toss it aside and move on to my next victim. Two, three, as easy as lapping up milk.

    The remaining vermin do a coordinated scatter; I sprint after them. They slip into a hole in a corner wall just out of my reach. I quickly shove a paw in, hopelessly gnawing at the hole.

    There is an eerie silence. I take a couple of steps backward. Just as I am about to direct my attention elsewhere, a strong, bulbous rat easily nearing half my size squeezes through the hole in the wall: the rat king.

    His once-dark coating is wizened with streaks of silver. He props himself up on his hind legs, “Who dares disturb my kingdom?” His voice rings with regal authority.

    “‘Tis I, foul beast. I, Celine, Scion of Yorkshire, have come to bring your demise. Your reign of terror ends now,” I proclaim.

    “You? Pah! Step aside, pipsqueak. Leave now--else I end you,” the rat king balks.

    “You end me? And how do you propose to do that? I am nearly twice your size!” I laugh.

    “Cease now, Celine, and I shall spare your life.”

    “You bring disease and contamination to the kind giants. Do you not feel it in the air? Your quietus is here,” I say.

    “Then I, Ratagast—King of Rats—shall grant you your death wish.”

    The rat king pounces at me sending us into a tumble. He sinks his incisors into my chest. I release a loud yelp. I clench him by the nape and rip him from my chest, slamming him against the nearby wall.

    He staggers to his feet. We steady ourselves, staring each other down. Ratagast gives a smirk.

    “Something funny, Ratagast? Does death bring a smile to your face?” I say mockingly.

    “Why, yes, Celine, it just so happens that it does,” Ratagast sneers.

    I feel a low vibration underfoot. It rolls into a thunderous, rapid rumble. I look behind me and see a stampede of rats. Before I have time to retreat they are upon me. Each bite like a dagger, piercing me. As quickly as I toss one off, another descends upon me.

    I’m overwhelmed. Drowning in a blanket of rats. I cry and scream. I am alone being swallowed into a smothering, writhing darkness.

    “Git. Shoo!” I hear a familiar gruff voice yell.

    A large hand scoops me up from a pile of rats dripping from my body.

    “There, there, girl. Let’s take you home.”

###

    I awaken to a bloodied, warm cloth gently rubbing against my fur. Every nick and scratch pulses.

    “Will she be all right, Papa? Will she make it?” A fretful little voice whispers through the strokes of the cloth.

    “I think so, honey. But she’ll need some time.”

    The heavy weight of sleep washes over me.

###

    I awaken atop a familiar soft bedding. A gentle breeze and soft ray of light reveals the lovely young face I shall never tire of seeing, peering down at me.

    “Cece! You’re awake!” Sarah exclaims. She smothers me in kisses as I lather her in mine.

    She reaches to pick me up, but I yip from my stinging injuries.

    “Oh…” she whimpers sympathetically.

    Sarah leaves the room and returns with a bowl of water setting it in front of me. I lightly lap it up before resting my head down on the bed. She sits on the floor in front of me and runs her soft fingers like kind secrets through my fur. I slip into another deep rest.

###

    This time I awaken in the most undignified manner I’ve ever experienced: I’d soiled myself.

    I stagger to my feet and pounce to the floor. Oof. I take a moment’s rest before I wobble to my feet again.

    Sarah returns to the room. “Oh, poor girl… let’s get you cleaned up.” She effortlessly picks me up. There’s still a dull ache pulsing through my body, but I bare it. She brings me to the kitchen sink and runs the water warm. It isn’t the most comfortable experience, but I’m too weak to resist. After Sarah finishes rinsing me she rubs me dry with a towel, I note patches of pink are left behind on the cloth.

    Sarah brings me to the reading room where Rose is found reading a book on the corner of the couch nearest the window. She is wearing a light blue tea gown. Her dark brown hair—the same color as Sarah’s—is neatly pinned in a fashionable updo. The sunlight bathes her in a light glow. The sight is comforting.

    “Oh, my sweet girls. How’s she doing?” Rose asks.

    “Better, I think. She’s cleaner, anyway,” Sarah responds.

    “ I can see that,” she says with a light giggle. “Come, sit with me. I’ll read the two of you a story.” Rose pats the beige brocade couch. Sarah rests her head on Rose’s lap as I nuzzle beside Sarah’s torso. Rose begins to read us The Epic of Gilgamesh.

###

    The next day, I find I’m regaining most of my strength. Sarah can tell. She carries me down the stairs, past the reading room where we once again find Rose.

    “I’m going to take Cece outside,” Sarah says.

    “I’ll join you. We can have lunch outside,” Rose responds.

    Sarah takes me out to the green front lawn. Rose brings out a silver tray with sandwiches and tea. She sets down a parasol and sits underneath it in the grass with her book.

Sarah finds a long brown stick she seems to like. I don’t know why, but she keeps throwing the thing. She seems to like the stick, but she can’t seem to keep hold of it so I bring it back to her over and over again. I don’t understand giants.

    “Don’t be too rough with her. She still needs time to heal,” Rose calls.

    Sarah giggles as we run through the yard. I heed the advice of Rose and eventually rest next to her. Her delicate hand strokes my fur. The day of relaxation prepares me for tomorrow’s impending battle.

###

    I recognize the knock on the door the next morning. Before Hugh enters, I sit up proudly on the edge of the bed. I know what is expected of me.

    “Here, girl,” Hugh calls me to his side. Like a noble knight, I obey.

    “Are you sure she’s ready, Papa?” Sarah sits up in her bed and asks.

    “She should be. I need her to be. We need her to take care of the rest of the vermin.”

###

    As Hugh enters the shop, I closely follow behind. As I make my entrance, it is as though I’m stepping through a film of grime veiling a corrupt domain. Scat litters the floor. An air of Ratagast’s triumph still lingers overhead.

    A couple rats turn their heads towards me.

    “Back for more, I see,” one of the rats taunts. It’s jagged, yellow teeth hang over its bottom lip like stalactites.

    The two charge at me. I steady myself. The chatty one lunges at my face as the other pounces on my torso. I quickly pivot sending the talker sprawling across the ground. The other still manages to sink its teeth into my torso. I release a brief cry before tossing it in aside and ripping out it it’s jugular. Its sinew drips from my jaws. The chatty rat scurries off to the corner hole in the wall. I’m hot on its tail. It bolts through narrowly avoiding my grasp. I take a quick step back readying myself for what is to come.

    Ratagast once again shoves his body through the hole. He bellows a maniacal laughter, “You must be a glutton for punishment. Foolish, mutt. You should never have returned.”

    “Your reign ends tonight,” I declare.

    “Didn’t you say the same thing last time? My kingdom has flourished in this land for generations. I will end you,” Ratagast bares his serrated teeth and furrows his brow into a devilish stare.

    The both of us charge after one another. We simultaneously lunge and meet midair. He digs his teeth into my nose. I sink my jaw into his torso.

    A warm rill drips across my snout just as blood oozes from the puncture wounds left on Ratagast’s belly.

    I notice Hugh sliding a wooden contraption in front of the hole. Ratagast turns his head to look behind.

    “Hah! You think one rat trap will bring an end to my dynasty? There are dozens of us!” Ratagast jeers.

    He stands up on his hind legs his front claws outstretched. I bolt after the king. He narrowly misses my bite as he pounces to my face leaving a gash underneath my eye. His tail hovers momentarily over my snout, long enough for me to take hold.

    “Arrrgh!” He cries.

    I swing it violently from left to right, left to right, left to right and slam him against the wall. As he stumbles to his feet I lunge towards him. His neck falls squarely into my jaw. With all my strength I clench my teeth together. A warm gush of liquid spills from my mouth. As I open my jaw as his black and silver head rolls to the floor.

    I look to the hole in the wall. Several horrified faces are jammed against the entrance fixed on the sight before them. I make an intimidating flex towards them. They scurry away. Cowering deep into their shadowy home.

    “Good girl! Good girl!” I hear Hugh’s voice call out. He picks me up and gives me a proud pat on the head. “I’ve been trying quite some time to get that big fella and you got him!”

###

    That evening, I return home with Hugh like the proud warrior I am.

    Rose and Sarah give us a warm greeting.

    “Cece got him! She managed to get that fat old rat I’ve been trying to get rid of for ages!” Hugh announces.

    “Good girl!” Exclaims Rose.

    “Good girl, Cece!” Praises Sarah. The two shower me with approval.

    “See, Papa. I knew she was the one,” smiles Sarah.

    I look upon their faces with grand satisfaction. I am Celine, scion warrior of Yorkshire.

 

Bio:

Anita Noelle Green (she/her) is a transgender woman. She has a BA in Sociology. Her work has been featured in Tiny Seed Journal, Cathexis Northwest Press and Beyond Queer Words.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

And Is There Honey? by Mike Everley, hot chocolate with a spoonful of honey

 

              “The lies, and truths, and pain?… oh! yet

Stands the Church clock at ten to three?

And is there honey still for tea?”*

 

The last honeybee died on the 24^th of August last year. No one really knew the cause of that final wave of Colony Collapse Disorder. Jared suspected the genetically manipulated crops promoted by the big Agri Corporation. They denied it of course, they always did. But, whatever the cause, the apiaries of the world now stood empty and abandoned. There was still honey of course. Synthesized in the chemical laboratories of the same Agri Corporations, insipid and pale in comparison. But, in time, people would forget the taste and texture of real honey.

 

Jared Hunter was no film star. At 35 he stood at a slightly stooped 5 foot 9 inches and had a string of broken relationships to his credit, or rather discredit. His sandy hair was rough-cut and his slate grey eyes held more than a hint of sadness. Although he knew little about people, particularly women, he did know about bees. He had a kind of empathy with them that he lacked with others of his own kind.

Today was the day that Jared would strike back on behalf of his fallen comrades. Today was the day that he intended to discover the truth and broadcast it to the world. He pulled the black balaclava low over his face, so that his eyes stared out of the two slits he had roughly cut in the wool. The dark military style parka had useful pockets for keeping the wire cutters and other tools safe. A quick glance in the mirror reassured him that he was ready. Picking up his car keys he headed for the door. Today, the bees would be avenged.

 

The weeks spent befriending the cleaner at the plant, and the money taken to buy him drinks at the Red Lion had proved to be worth it in the end. It was surprising what you could find out from those at the margins of society if you just chose to listen. They were so glad to be able to talk about their lives to someone. Jared was a good listener. He knew when to add a consoling remark and when to remain silent. Now he knew more about the layout of the plant than many who worked there. After all, cleaners went everywhere and at all hours. He knew where to cut the perimeter fence unseen and which window could be quietly broken without sounding the alarm. He even knew the keypad code to the labs. All of this, just because he listened.

 

Jared had waited through all the phases of the waning crescent moon with its silver crescent growing smaller and smaller. Now it had become a new moon with its far side facing the sun. From earth the moon was dark and offered no reflected light to hinder his task.

He parked his car about two miles away and cut across fields he had studied on countless Ordnance Survey maps. He kept the torch beam low, so as not to attract attention and cursed several times when he fell on rough ground. After climbing several gates and pushing his way through a rough hedge that blocked his way, Jared reached his objective.

The wire fence stretched tall in front of him. Behind it was the concrete and glass of the plant. Everything was dimly lit. He had chosen a Sunday, as it was the only day when no night shift operated. He would be alone, except for a few security staff huddled in their cabin on the other side of the plant, playing cards and drinking tea.

The wire cutter felt heavy in his gloved hand as he extracted it from his parka's pocket. With the torch in his other hand he knelt and started to work. The wire strands proved harder to snip than he had anticipated and his knuckles and wrist began to ache. He should have practised this at home to build up his hand strength and grip. He quickly realised that he would have to settle for a smaller gap and somehow squeeze through. At least the fence wasn't electrified so he didn't need the jump cable he had brought along.

A shuffling noise behind him made Jared freeze. Were the security staff doing a perimeter sweep? Slowly he turned and shone the torch beam. Illuminated in the cone of light was the black and white shape of a badger burrowing into the hedgerow. Jared took a deep breath, swallowed and returned to his task.

 

Eventually the gap was wide enough for him to crawl through with only minor damage to his clothing and a few scratches to his face. The balaclava had taken the brunt of the force from the jagged metal edges and now hung useless on the fence. Jared wasn’t particularly concerned about anonymity now he was inside the grounds. He wanted to reveal to the world what the Corporation was guilty of. Hence the mobile phone in his trouser pocket. This was war and Jared was the advanced guard.

He quickly sprinted across the grass to the concrete path that snaked around the outside of the building. Like many modern plants the outer wall was mainly windowless, but Jared knew that further along was a small window belonging to the cleaners' storeroom, here they often gathered for a smoke. Opening the window to let the telltale haze out into the fresh air. For this reason the alarm on the window had been mysteriously disabled sometime in the past by an unknown hand. Jared intended to smash a pane and then reach inside to open it before climbing in. Hopefully, the alarm remained disabled or he was in real trouble.

The window turned out to be slightly higher than expected but just about reachable. Jared wrapped the thick cloth he had brought around the head of the wire cutters and gave it a hard knock against one of the panes. There was a splintering sound and he had to close his eyes as shards of broken glass showered down over his hair and shoulders. Standing on tiptoes he managed to stretch his arm inside and undo the fastening. The window swung outwards over his head. With a great deal of effort, Jared pulled himself up and slipped through the opening. They made it look a damn sight easier in films, he thought to himself, as he fell rather than dropped to the floor. But, at least he was inside.

 

Jared went carefully through the storeroom doorway into the dimly lit main corridor. Glossy photographs of the products made at the plant adorned the plain brick walls as he made his way along the passageway and through various fire doors. Where the passage branched he knew to keep left and that he would find the entrance to the laboratory at the very end. This was where the main research on the synthetic honey was carried out. Here he would find the evidence he needed. Jared's heart was beating fast with excitement mixed with the fear of being caught when he was so close to achieving his aim.

The passage grew darker the further he walked away from the main corridor. Only a ghostly light from the charging emergency lighting fittings illuminated his way. He had switched off his torch to save its battery and to help avoid detection, although the deserted windowless passageway made this unlikely. Finally he came to a large reinforced glass door that blocked his way. On the bare brick wall next to it was the keypad.

Jared typed in the six digit code and pressed the green enter button at the bottom of the pad. For a few seconds he held his breath hoping that the code hadn't been changed. The metallic clunk told him that it had been accepted and the door mechanism released. He pushed open the glass door and went inside.

 

Jared switched on his torch and scanned the lab. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, perhaps some evidence of the Corporation's guilt in the bees demise. What he did see shook him to the core. A massive glass hive stood in the middle of the room and above it was a large steel hood fed by pipework. What the hell! He thought.

Quickly he read some documents on a desk near the hive. The truth slowly dawned upon him. These were virus resistant bees captured by the Corporation and housed in hives in their plants worldwide. They were being experimented on in an effort to produce more of the vile synthetic honey at a greatly reduced cost. The hood obviously supplied a gas that kept the bees docile in their captivity.

Jared quickly took photographs of the hive and of the documents on his mobile and sent them to a long list of addresses he had researched before starting his quest: international environmental publications, activists and academics. The news would now be circulating before going viral. Jared thought of the work that the Corporation's press office would have to carry out in order to skew the narrative, to somehow make the Corporation the hero trying to preserve the bees rather than the villain. Some would believe it. But the majority would see through it and the Corporation would be forced to release the bees back into the wild.

 

Following the pipework, Jared found the inlet valve and closed it. A quick release switch on the hive's side unlocked the hood and it slowly rose into the ceiling space. He knew the bees would soon start to recover and become angry.

A row of three small windows was located high up on the far wall. Using a stool, Jared unlocked each and opened them wide. He knew that this would alert the security staff. He imagined them throwing down their cards and spilling their tea in a rush to investigate what had spoiled their night. But, he had time.

The buzz from the hive told Jared that the bees were now wide-awake. Then it happened, a large bee flew from the glass prison and circled the lab. Then she sensed the breeze from the open window and flew straight for it. The queen was about to swarm.

 

A cloud of wings quickly followed her towards the open windows and out into the fresh air. The glass door to the lab swung open and two security men stepped inside. Jared merely smiled at them. The last bee perched on the window-latch turned to look at Jared, as if in thanks, before launching itself into the freedom of a new day.

 

*The Old Vicarage, Granchester by Rupert Brooke.

 

Bio:

Mike Everley has been writing for many years and has had poetry, short stories and articles published in numerous publications and online. He was a member of both the NUJ and the Society of Authors before retirement. Now, a silver scribbler, he devotes his time to creative writing.

  

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Singing my heart out by Rob Molan, the ocassional pint

I wasn’t really sure about joining a choir. I hadn’t sung since we performed West Side Story in my secondary school and that had been over forty years before and ,back then, I deliberately stood at the back to keep out of sight and sang as softly as I could. Also, there were over a hundred people in the choir and I didn’t like crowds. The thought of being stuck beside someone for ninety minutes wearing a strong aftershave or perfume, or even worse with personal hygiene issues, turned me right off.

But my new GP had been insistent I should give it a go.

‘One other thing, James,’ she said, peering over the top of her specs. ‘It would do you good to get out more. It is proven that choir singing is great for physical and mental wellbeing and there is a local one which would be ideal for you.’

She was very persuasive. At my previous appointment, she had convinced me – despite my protests - to cut down on smoking.

‘OK, I’ll try it out.’ It was true I had turned into a grumpy old git who rarely left the house so I could see where she was coming from.

Signing up online, I was stumped when I was asked to specify which voice part I was. The choice appeared to be between bass or tenor.

‘Would you say I have a deep voice?’ My newsagent gave me a funny look when I asked her this. ‘Or do you think it is warm and graceful?’

‘All I can say is that it’s manly. That´ll be two pounds for the paper.’

That wasn’t much help and, when I got home, I tossed a coin. It came down as heads which made me a tenor.

The lyrics and scores for the songs arrived by e-mail and I printed them off. I recognised Amazing Grace but none of the other numbers. Also, I couldn’t read music and worried I would be expected to learn how. It was all very off-putting but I had paid my membership fee so there was no turning back.

 

The first rehearsal of the term was in St. Mark’s church hall near the town centre. I decided to drive there but the evening traffic was heavy and I arrived just before the proceedings were about to start in an agitated state. The hall was big and the singers were sitting in rows on the stage, and a friendly young woman with blue hair took me in hand.

‘Grab that seat on the left next to the sopranos,’ she said, pointing to a gap in the seating between a man about my age with a red chubby face and a petite, blonde lady. I clambered up the steps, found the seat and the woman emitted an irritated sigh as she took her handbag off it.

‘Hi. I’m Peter,’ my male neighbour said, as I sat down. ‘Welcome aboard.’

‘Thanks.’ I was glad someone broke the ice. ‘I’m James.’

The conductor bounded onto the stage in front of us. He was a small man with a shock of curly black hair and matchstick legs.

‘Good evening, choir. Are you ready to sing?’ he asked with gusto.

‘Yes,’ everyone else responded loudly in unison.

‘Great. Let’s first do a breathing exercise. Stand with your feet hip-width apart and your weight evenly distributed and your arms hanging loosely by your side.’ It took me a moment to adjust my bulky frame to this position. ‘Take a deep breath in, and let it all out. Inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause. Now, with control, exhale all of your air.’

I tried to do this but found myself out of breath and stumbled forward.

‘Are you all right, old man?’ asked Peter.

‘Hopefully,’ I replied. ‘I’m not used to this type of thing.’

The vocal warm-ups were not as stressful. We did some humming, focusing on the vibrations in our mouths and heads, produced a buzzing sound with our lips and more besides.

The choir then learned a song called Besame Mucho. Everyone around me was reading the score and I listened closely to them as they sang the piece to try and pick up the tune. The other tenors were a mixture of males and females around my age or older and their voices seemed similar to mine. Sitting next to the sopranos was not ideal though as I was distracted by the bright, ringing sound of their voices.

Eventually, I summoned the courage to open my mouth.

‘Each time I cling to your kiss

I hear music divine….’

I looked around nervously but no one took any notice of me so I kept going. But I found the whole thing nerve racking and was relieved when the rehearsal ended.

‘Coming back next week?’ asked Peter.

‘Possibly.’ I hedged my reply as I had my doubts.

‘Hope you do. Fancy a pint before you go home?’

‘Maybe another time.’ I was sorely tempted but was trying to cut back. But I did succumb to a fag when I got home.

 

On the day of the second rehearsal, I felt some pains in my chest around lunchtime and had to lie down for a bit. Fortunately, they soon passed but it gave me another reason to question whether I should go. However, I pulled myself together later in the day and decided to give it another bash. I chose to go by foot as I had been urged to exercise more and it made a change from jogging on my treadmill, and I gave myself lots of time to get there and avoid being late.

Peter hadn’t arrived when I got to my seat but I got some friendly nods from those sitting behind me.

‘Hello,’ said a voice from my right. ‘Sorry I was a bit short with you last week.’ I turned to a shamefaced looking blonde lady.

‘No problem. You’d probably enjoyed having a bit more legroom before I arrived.’

‘By the way, my name’s Jean.’ She had a radiant smile which highlighted the crow’s feet around the corners of her eyes.

‘They call me James.’

I didn’t risk joining in with the breathing exercise this time but enjoyed the vocal workouts, especially the one which went boom chicka boom.

‘This week we are going to learn Amazing Grace,’ said our conductor whose name was Cal. Hurrah, I thought to myself. I remembered singing this in church when I was a lad. Before long, I was belting out the words with abandonment.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost but now am found

Was blind, but now I see

My nervousness disappeared and my voice was immersed in the sound of the choir, and I felt exhilarated, as if a load had been taken off my shoulders.

‘You sing really well,’ Jean told me at the break.

‘I never thought anyone would say that to me,’ I replied with a croak.

‘Would you like a sip of water,’ she asked, putting a bottle of water in front of me.

I almost gulped down all of the contents but she didn’t complain.

The second half was equally enjoyable as we learned the rest of the song. By the end of the session, I was starting to feel part of something special as we harmonised our voices together to create something of beauty, leaving me with a sense of both awe and satisfaction. I slept like a log that night and woke up the next day feeling more rested than I had been in a long time, and I didn’t feel the need to take one of my tablets.

 

Week three brought an unwelcome surprise.

‘Have you got the date of our next concert in your diary?’ asked Peter during the break.

‘What concert?’ I hadn’t bargained for strangers watching me singing.

‘We perform in public every six months. The next one is on the twenty-ninth of October.’

‘That’s the day after my birthday, if I last that long.’

He frowned.

‘Don’t worry. It’s just my gallows sense of humour.’

I resolved to enjoy the rehearsals and worry about the concert later.

With my new found confidence, I mastered the rest of the material which we learned over the three sessions which followed with ease. When we sang Lovin’ You, Jean startled giggling after failing to hit the high note for sopranos, and turned to me and said in a low voice.

‘I noticed you didn’t have any difficulty reaching your part, clever clogs. It’s such an intricate number for us poor mortals to learn.’

‘I’ve been practising at home,’ I replied. “’You should try it.’ I remember she was wearing a pretty, floral print jumper that night.

I felt my posture improve over those weeks as my shoulders straightened when I stood up to sing and, even if I’d had a bad week before a rehearsal, I knew I’d be walking on air at the end. I joined the others in the pub after the rehearsals and stuck to alcohol free beer but didn’t miss feeling tipsy as I was chilled out. Cal joined us on the third evening and sought me out. He studied me with his piercing black eyes before speaking.       

‘For a laid-back looking guy, you have a powerful set of lungs.’ I was flattered by his remark but doubted if he would have described me in that way if he had seen me shouting at the television when Question Time was on or screaming at some lunatic driver after being cut up on a roundabout. ‘You have come on leaps and bounds, and I think you carry some of the tenors now.’

“I wish my old music teacher could hear you say that!” I quipped.

But I was filled with dread at the thought of the concert. I’d always hated standing up in front of other people giving presentations or talks and being watched as I spoke, and more often than not I lost my thread. I had a hospital appointment during the afternoon before the occasion which I couldn’t miss and should have headed down to St Mark’s straight afterwards to join the pre-concert rehearsal but bottled it and drove home. I made myself a strong cuppa and put on the TV and tried to forget about the whole thing. But my phone rang.

‘James, where are you?” It was Jean. ‘Are you alright?’ I could hear the concern in her voice.

‘I’m not sure I’m up to tonight.’

‘Everyone missed you at the rehearsal. It’s not the same without you singing beside me.’

‘OK. I’ll drag myself down.’ I owed it to her.

I had to drive as time was tight and, as the gothic spire of St Mark’s came into view, my stomach tightened. On arrival, I took a deep breath before getting out of the car. I received a big cheer from the others as I entered the hall and Jean smiled when I slipped in beside her but I was nervous about blurting out a line at the wrong moment and making a fool of myself. We watched the audience arrive and take their seats, and by the start of the concert they numbered around three hundred. I was not best pleased to see the neighbour from across the road who objected to me parking outside of his house sitting in the front row.

Peter sensed my edginess and slapped me on the back.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘You’ll smash it,‘ Jean whispered in my ear. Her fragrance had hints of rose and jasmine.

Cal skipped onto the stage dressed in a blue shirt and pink trousers.

‘Thank you so much for joining us tonight,’ he said to the audience. ‘We have a fantastic selection of songs for you and I thought we should start with one which most of you will be familiar with. It’s called Amazing Grace.’  He turned around and signalled us to rise.

It was a perfect start. I rose, looked up to the ceiling and sang my heart out. I almost forgot there was an audience in front of me but that illusion disappeared when I heard the loud applause at the end. We went from strength to strength with each song and got a standing ovation at the end, at which point I felt brave enough to look out to the audience and take a bow along with the others. A few people shouted ‘encore’ and - quick as a flash – Cal said we would do a reprise of Amazing Grace. That was a great climax to the night.

A gang of us went for a meal in the boozer after our triumph.

‘They’ve got a good steak deal on offer, if you fancy it,’ said Peter with a big grin.

‘I think I’ll go for the chicken caesar salad instead but washed down with a pint of best bitter.’ I had worked up a big thirst and decided to treat myself.

‘I’ll have the salad too,’ said Jean, slipping into a free seat beside me. ‘And a glass of Chardonnay, if you are buying.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ I asked her.

 

This all seems a long time ago now.

Tonight’s concert will be the fourth I’ve performed in. I’ve learned the words to all of the songs off by heart and love to sing some in the shower. The neighbours must be sick of hearing me sing It’s Now Or Never while eating their corn flakes.

‘What are you wearing tonight, darling? You usually put on something eye-catching on these occasions.” Jean looks me up and down.

‘I thought I’d put on the pink shirt which you bought me. I can fit into it now.’

‘You’ll look very smart in that.’ She steps forward and kisses me on the lips.

She has brought calm into my life and does all of the driving now and changes the TV channel if she thinks I’m getting agitated, and insists I spend a few minutes each day doing breathing exercises. It will be our first wedding anniversary next week and we’ll be going out for dinner to a nice Italian place with another couple who belong to the choir. The discussion with my GP this morning suggested I’ll be able to enjoy more of these celebrations in future.

‘The consultant’s report is very positive, James.’ She took off her specs and smiled at me.’ The risk of you having a second heart attack is now greatly reduced as your blood pressure is lower, your cholesterol has reduced, and you have lost weight and quit smoking. Dieting and only drinking on special occasions have clearly helped.’

‘It’s a relief to know those sacrifices were worth it.’ I still get cravings but have learned how to resist them.

‘Also, you appear to have become more relaxed since you first became my patient. Being less stressed is another positive. What’s your secret?’

‘You might remember a conversation we had a while back……’

 Bio:

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing.