Them’s Goldfishby Kenneth M. Kapp coffee,

Them’s Goldfish

 

Burt and Harry were doing what they did best: sitting on the back terrace of the old-age home, swapping tales over the dregs of their morning coffee, and munching whatever was left on their plates after flicking the crumbs from the croissants onto the flagstones for the birds. The other residents gave them room, tired of being told whenever they came close that the two of them were just letting their choppers do the talking. “They get a good rest from the glass on the bathroom sink overnight, not having to get up a single time to pee!”

Maggie was one of the few residents to go up against the dynamic duo. Her quip that “It wasn’t funny even the first time!” got more laughs.

In any case, this morning turned out to be for walks down memory lane. A cardinal landed on the far end of the patio, having spotted the crumbs. Burt was first out of the chute. “I told you those birds have super sight.” Harry ignored the remark and tried to encourage the bird with his tweet, tweet, t w e e t, which didn’t play well through his choppers or 82-year-old lips.

Burt pounced, “Give it up Harry, your lips are past their prime.”

“Never. They’re the same ones I was born with.”

“Well, must be the teeth then.”

“No different than yours.”

There was a rumor circulating in the residence than once the two friends had gotten their dentures mixed up after laying them out on a dining room table for comparison.

Harry tried to deflect. “Too bad you weren’t around when I was a kid. You should have heard me whistle like a blue bird. Plenty of them back east then. They were more melodic than these red cardinals.”

And that started the trip down memory lane.

Harry’s family grew up in Hoboken. “They called me Hoboken Harry soon as I turned eight!”

Burt’s family was from the lower East Side. He would spend the next two weeks trying to come up with his own handle, but he was stuck as East Side Ed even though his name was Burt. Meanwhile as best defense is a strong offense, he had launched the following story:

“OK, Harry, let me tell you a story that my father told me about when he was eight growing up on the Lower East Side. Summers were hot then too. Maybe not as hot as they are now but then if you were poor the best you could do was open all the windows and pray for a breeze, trying to ignore all the smells coming in from the streets and alleys. ‘Whoo-ee, gardy-loo.’”

Burt moved on quickly, realizing his French wasn’t what it used to be, which never was much anyhow. “Yeh, on hot days he and his brothers and cousins – by the dozens – would go down to the East River and jump in to cool off. Dad would joke, ‘So our mother wouldn’t have to wash your underwear.’ We took turns, always making sure a couple of the family members stayed up to guard the pile of clothes and shoes.”

He paused for effect. “I bet that was at least one hundred years ago. They’d run down the pier, hold their nose, and jump in. On one such run some big kid from uptown stopped him and pointed out the shit floating in the water, guess there were even fewer sanitation regulations then, and asked, ‘Hey kid, what do you call that stuff floating there?’ My pop answered, ‘Them’s goldfish,’ held his nose, ran down the pier, and executed a perfect bombardier into the river.”

Burt figured his story won the prize that morning, so he pushed back from the table, looked around for anything he may have brought and left, and nodded to Harry. “Loser must bus the dishes. And don’t forget, ‘them’s goldfish’ and you heard it from me first, right here!”

About the suthor

 

Kenneth M. Kapp lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. Please visit www.kmkbooks.com. 

 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.

Nightstand by David Uri, Manhattan

Suggested Drink: Manhattan (consume before bedtime to erase the day)

Recipe: Use Amaro instead of sweet vermouth. 2:1 ration of Rye to Amaro. Never bourbon. Nothing expensive. Swirl or stir. Pour over ice and let it sit for 30 seconds while you stare longingly and caress the glass. I don't think it calls for a garnish but there are those who put cherries on everything. You know them. They don't know you.

Shortly before 06:00 am today, Mason’s days of killing time came to an end.

These had been long days stretching through each infinite moment. Boring days. Forgettable weeks consumed by vacant hours. Joyless television. Meaningless walks. Vacuous conversations. Wasted time for the singular purpose of wasting it.

Mason held it firmly. Time. Squeezing it tightly. Choking it slowly until the moment that it left him.

The bedside clock, with its stiff red numbers, displayed 05:59 am, as Mason reached over to his nightstand and prevented the alarm from going off. He stared as the 06:00 displayed and became aware of the sound of his own breathing. The simple cadence of his inhales and exhales continued as Mason laid on his side intently watching these numbers drift into the afternoon. The other needs of his own body ceased to exist as his eyes solely focused on the LED’s pushing each minute to the next.

The room’s twilight yielded to darkness as Mason watched the clock display 06:00 pm. With each breath, he knew that his days of abusing time were now at an end. Time had left him. And he could no longer manipulate it, cajole it, or kill it. Time couldn’t stand him anymore.

In the day that preceded this day, Mason discovered that his friend, more of a work acquaintance, had dropped dead in the middle of his life. The guy had just left the cardiologist after a great checkup and stopped for his favorite blue Slurpee at the 7-Eleven on his way home. An hour later, the convenience store manager found his cold dead body on the floor of the bathroom. A heart attack, they said. Only fifty, they said. What a shame, they said.

Mason turned fifty yesterday.

When he came home that evening, his wife told him of a young woman who was hit by two bicyclists while walking in the park today. They were apparently blinded by the glare of the sun and crashed into her simultaneously. It wouldn’t have been so bad except that the woman had some undiagnosed bleeding disorder. After her head hit the pavement, she died of a brain bleed within a few minutes.

Mason liked walking in the park.

On the same day, which was yesterday, Mason’s mother told him that his father had died today. He had always expected his father to die, but not yesterday. And not from a cancer that Mason was never told about. A cancer that his two brothers knew about for over a year.

Mason was a father.

Mason decided that he must apologize to time. How could he have mistreated it so badly? Now each moment must be sliced open and dissected in search of meaning. Nanoseconds would measure his life. Microseconds would define his days.

05:59 am. It was evening. It was morning. Day one. Mason drifted back to sleep.

David Uri is a writer and surgeon who focuses on the connection between memories and death. While David has been published extensively in medical journals, his upcoming novel is a fictional retelling of his own near-death coma. Good times.

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.

Gold By Jim Bates, iced tea

Wearing a pink tank top and tights, Lindsey Copeland danced out of her corner into the center of the ring. Her opponent, a kid named Frankie she knew from her seventh-grade art class, approached her confidently. She could see him smirking and she knew exactly what he was thinking. You’re going down, little girl. Or something like that. He was a bully in school and thought he was tough stuff. Too bad for him.

Lindsay was fighting in the first round of the first fight of her life. Without stopping she danced right up to him and belted him square in the forehead. Even though he was wearing a boxing helmet, his head snapped back and tears came into his eyes. He blinked them away but it didn’t help. She grinned to herself. Just like Uncle Sid taught me. Take ‘em by surprise.

In a matter of seconds, she hit him twice more, a left in the stomach and then a right cross to the jaw. For a skinny, wisp of a thing, Lindsey had muscle, and her punches were like being hit by cement blocks. They were also unexpected, and Frankie stood stunned before reeling into his corner.

The ref put her hand on Lindsey’s shoulder to stop her from stalking him, “Hold it a minute, sister.” Lindsey looked at her. Her name was Skeeter, a well-respected former boxer, retired now for nearly ten years. Skeeter winked. “Nice couple of shots there.” She raised Lindsey’s arm. “The winner! Technical knockout.” The crowd of about fifty or so cheered and applauded. Then Skeeter guided the young boxer to her corner and said to her uncle. “Well done, Sidney. You’ve got a good little fighter there. See you in the next round.”

Uncle Sid helped Lindsey out of her gloves and gave her a high-five. He grinned. “Excellent work. Next time remember to keep your right up a little more. But that first left jab to the forehead was awesome.”
            Lindsey spit her mouthguard into her hand and said, “Thanks, Uncle Sid.” Then she took a long drink from her water bottle. Her heart was pounding, adrenaline running through her like a freight train. Man, that was fun!

Uncle Sid wrapped a towel around her shoulders and prepared to lead her out of the ring. She glanced at Freddie’s corner, hoping he was okay. He was. He had his gloves off and gave her the thumbs-up sign. Good. She liked to box; she just didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not too bad at least.

She was fighting in the U12 class, twelve years old and under. It was a round-robin tournament, and she was the only girl fighting. She was sure all the guys thought she’d be a pushover. Ha! Too bad for them. Talk to Freddie. He still looked a little crossed-eyed.

            At five feet two inches, Lindsey was tall for her age. And skinny. “You’re like a broomstick,” her Aunt Claire had told her when she’d first come to live with them a year ago. “I’ve got to put some meat on those bones.”

            So began meals of pancakes and eggs in the morning, roasted chicken and mashed potatoes at noon, and roast beef and gravy and garden-fresh string beans at night. Or some variation thereof. Lindsey ate it all, happily, because she was always hungry. But she never gained an ounce.

            Uncle Sid smiled six months later when his wife complained about their niece’s lack of weight gain. “Don’t worry about it, Claire.” He turned to Lindsey. “Show her what you’ve got.” Lindsey proudly flexed her arm, showing off her newly developed muscle. “See,” he winked at his niece and gave Claire a one-armed hug. “It’s all muscle.”

            “Humph!” Then she grinned good-naturedly. “Well, I guess that’s okay, then.” She really did want her niece to succeed, because, after all, her life hadn’t been a bed of roses up until then.

            Claire’s mother, Brittany, was a sales rep for a medium-sized publishing house. She was a free-spirited woman who traveled the country meeting with clients and was only home maybe twenty percent of the time. She’d had Lindsey when she was thirty-five, telling her younger sister when she told her she was pregnant, “I think I’ll give it a try. You know this mother thing.”

            Claire was aghast. “Brit, you can’t approach being a mother like that.” She’d raised three sons and knew what it took. Plus, all the time she’d been raising the three boys she’d had a full-time job doing bookkeeping for Willard’s Construction, the company her husband, Lindsey’s Uncle Sid, worked for.

            “Sure, I can, little Sis,” Claire had said, uncorking a bottle of wine. “Watch me.” She’d poured two classes. “Here’s to us.”

Claire had dealt with the demon alcohol off and on for years until she’d quit on the day after her thirtieth birthday. That had been twenty years ago. She picked up the glass and poured it down the drain. “No thank you.”

They were in the kitchen on the twelfth floor of Brittany’s townhouse in downtown Minneapolis. Brit paid dearly for the million-dollar view of the Mississippi River and Saint Anthony Falls and the Stone Arch Bridge. Which was a shame, Claire thought, because her sister was hardly ever there. To say she had a wandering spirit was putting it mildly, just like a shoestring relative of theirs, Axel Clappert, who, rumor had it, had headed west to California during the 1849 gold rush, never to be heard from again.

Claire poured a glass of water. “I wish you’d reconsider.”

Brittany guzzled her White Zinfandel and poured another. “I already have, Sis. The light is green for go.”

Claire had had all she could take. “Well, fine. It’s not you that I’m concerned about,” she said, walking to the door. “It’s your unborn child.”

Brittany laughed. “My child?” She drank from her glass and walked toward her sister, swaying slightly. “You mean my daughter, don’t you?”

Claire’s eyes went wide. “Daughter?”

“Yeah, sis. I’ve been checked. It’s a she. I’m calling her Lindsey.”

In spite of her anger toward her oldest sister’s irresponsible behavior, Claire had to smile. After raising her three boys, it’d be nice to have a daughter in the family.

It was good she felt that way, because she became a surrogate mother right off the bat, driving downtown nearly every day from her and Sid’s home in Orchard Lake, twenty miles west of Minneapolis.

Pretty soon, it was clear that Brittany was more than willing to turn over bringing up Lindsay to Claire. Sleepovers at her aunt and uncle’s became long weekends which became a week, then two. Then a month. Then an entire summer.

Finally, Sid said to Claire, “Why don’t we just have her live with us full-time? She could go to school out here. She’s already got a bunch of friends.” He smiled at his wife and gave her a hug. “She could be the daughter you never had.”

Claire laughed and kissed him on the cheek. “She already is.”

Sid grinned. “My point.”

At first reluctant, Brittany finally relented. “Go ahead,” she finally said after relentless pressuring by Claire. It was the summer Lindsay was just starting fourth grade. “It’s for the best.”

Years later, Claire would always remember how happy both sisters seemed. For entirely different reasons. Brittany wasn’t cut out to be a mother. Claire was. And she loved her niece. Even to the point of indulging her desire to become a boxer.

“I just don’t get it,” Claire told her when she’d first broached the subject. “Why boxing?”

“Why not?” Lindsey pointed at her uncle who had just come home from work. “Uncle Sid did.” Which was true. Sid had boxed right up through high school and into college when he’d hung up the gloves for good, saying to everyone he was sick of getting beaten to a pulp. Plus, he was starting to get headaches and boxing wasn’t helping them any. Plus, he’d met Claire.

“I don’t mind you boxing,” she’d told him. “I just mind seeing you get your ass kicked.”

She had a point. Truth be told, Sid had more enthusiasm for the sport than skill. But at least he was smart, smart enough to listen to Claire anyway. He quit soon after.

But he still liked the idea of fighting, especially the one-on-one aspect of it. He watched fights on YoTube and when Lindsey joined him in watching he didn’t think anything of it. Claire didn’t mind. Too, much. Except for occasionally shaking her head and muttering, “I don’t see the point.”

But there was something in Lindsey that attracted her to the idea of proving herself in the ring. She watched a lot of women boxers and had Uncle Sid teach her the rudiments. So, when her high school announced over the summer that it was going to field a boxing team, Lindsey begged and pleaded to be allowed to join. Uncle Sid was overjoyed, Claire less so. But she reluctantly went along saying, “As long as she doesn’t get hurt.” She poked a finger in Sid’s chest. “Train her well.” To Lindsey she said, “I only want you to have fun. When it’s not fun anymore, tell me, and that’ll be that.”

“Okay,” Aunt Claire, Lindsey had said. She was thrilled.

Over summer she’d trained with Sid and by the time fall came around, it was apparent she was a natural. She was fast on her feet and skillful with her punches. She caught the eye of her coach, Soren Blackstone, a history teacher and former boxer himself. He took her aside that first month and said, “There’s a tournament in Minneapolis in November. Talk to your folks. I think you should be in it.”

She’d talked to Sid and Claire and uncle and they’d agreed to let her box. She was ecstatic.

And she’d won her first round.

The second round was against a kid named Bucky. He was tall and thin like she was. He was also as skillful as Lindsey and hit her hard four times to every one of hers. Fortunately for Lindsey, one of her punches bloodied Bucky’s nose and the fight was stopped. They bumped gloves when it was over. “Sorry about that,” Lindsey said, pointing to the towel Bucky was holding up to his nose. It was turning red.

In spite of the blood, Bucky grinned. “That’s okay. It was fun.”

Lindsey went back to her corner and drank from her water bottle thinking that Bucky seemed like a good guy.

Sid gave her a high five. “Way to go Tiger. You’re in the finals.”

 The next day, Lindsey found Alex Young. He was a short, muscular kid who hit Lindsey without mercy. She took every hit and gave him more back, punching with four or five left and right jabs to every full-blown swing. She also kept moving. In fact, she wore him out. By the end of the third and final round, after boxing for nearly six minutes, Alex was exhausted. Lindsey could see it in his eyes. He even had trouble holding his arms up. Finally, the moment she’d been waiting for happened. He dropped his guard. Lindsey hit him with a hard one-two punch to the head that sent him stumbling backward. He fell into the ropes and pitched forward, falling to the mat, too tired to get to his feet. She’d won.

Lindsey was awarded a gold medal on blue ribbon for first place.

That night at home she sat down with Sid and Claire. They were celebrating with pizza and ice cream. When she was finished, she said,

“You guys, I’ve been thinking.”

“About what?” Claire asked.

“About the next tournament?” Sid asked grinning. “You’re quite the fighter, you know.”

Lindsey smiled. “I know. I love boxing.”

Claire could tell something was up. She reached over and rubbed her niece’s shoulder. “What up, honey?”

“Well, I have to say that I like boxing. I just don’t like hurting those guys.”

“It’s part of the sport, though,” Sid said.

“I know. It just doesn’t seem right.”

Claire looked at Sid. “We promised to let her decide.”

“I know.” Sid looked at Lindsey and smiled. “Do whatever you want, sweetheart. Your aunt and I will support you.”

Lindsey smiled, relieved. “Good. Here’s what I’d.” And she told them and when she was done, her aunt and uncle couldn’t have been happier.

Lindsey continued to box. She also became an assistant coach and helped Soren Blackburn train hundreds of boxers. She went to college and got a degree in physical education and teaches at Orchard Lake High School.

And she has a gold medal she keeps hanging on the wall in her bedroom to remind her of that one tournament. The tournament when she not only won but met her future boyfriend and then husband and father to her two girls, both pretty good boxers themselves. 

about the author

Jim lives in a small town in Minnesota. He loves to write! His stories and poems have appeared in over 500 online and print publications. To learn more and to see all of his work, check out his blog at: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

Saturday sample:Face to Face with the Fuhrer bY Gill james, coffee,

She looked at the young man curled up in the doorway. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, at least. She would try her best not to wake him. She must get inside though. This meeting was really important.

It was getting worse. It showed up more at this time of day anyway. They got lost in the crowds as the day wore on. Somebody should do something.

This one looked about the same age as she was then. Goodness, something like this  - or worse – could have so easily happened to her. 

It wasn’t as bad, now, as it had been then. Not yet. It was similar enough though.  It was as if it was all starting over again. Nobody had really believed it back then either.

Could she do this? Well, she’d have to try. Gingerly she stepped over him. This sort of thing wasn’t so easy any more. She cursed. Why did people have to get old?

He stirred slightly. The smell was awful. Then, to add to the bad body odour, he farted. It was a bad one and suggested an upset stomach.

No wonder with the sort of food he probably has to eat.

She fumbled in her handbag and found her purse. She slipped out a large note, looked over her shoulder to see that no one was watching and posted it into his begging tin.

Don’t you dare spend it on drugs or alcohol, young man.

She knew she shouldn’t do it, really. There were systems in place to deal with these people but they just weren’t working fast enough. She’d always preferred a more direct method. Wait for the authorities and you’d wait forever. Sometimes you need to stop them anyway. The authorities aren’t always right.

She pushed open the door. In seconds the world of the young man was left behind. Now she was in the plush foyer of the five star hotel where she was to meet the reporter. She recognised the soft notes of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons – wasn’t that Spring playing? Nice.

She sat down on one of the overstuffed armchairs. Goodness, the carpet was so thick here and the parquet area round the reception desk so polished.

She watched some of the guests going up to the reception desk.  All furs and smart shoes. Not her scene really. She smiled to herself. Actually, though, no less than she deserved after all of that.

A waiter, all in black and white, made his way over to her. “May I help you madam?”

“Can you bring me a pot of black coffee, please?”

“Certainly, madam.”

She was getting into her stride now. Yes, she would be able to tackle that reporter, she was sure.

The coffee arrived. She took a sip. It was very good.  This was the life most certainly. Now then, what should she tell the reporter when he arrived?        

Find your copy here 

About the author.  

Gill James writes novels for and short fiction for children, adults and young adults. Face to Face with the Führer is the fourth novel in her Schellberg cycle of novels that are set mainly in Nazi Germany. She has also written a science fiction series for young adults as well as occasional short stories and flash fiction series.  

She is published by Chapeltown Books, Tabby Cat Press, The Red Telephone and Butterfly. She is a part-time Lecturer in Creative Writing and she formerly worked as a senior lecturer. She has published several academic papers.  

Hers stories published on Litro, CafeLit, Alfie Dog, Ether Books and in several anthologies.

She offers workshops on creative writing, book-building, creative writing in other languages and the Holocaust and life in Nazi Germany.

Reviews by Gill can be found in Armadillo Magazine, IBBY, Troubador and on her own web site. 

Member of the Society of Authors, the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators and the National Society of Writers in Education, Gill has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing, thesis title: Peace Child, Towards a Global Definition of the Young Adult Novel.

She edits for Bridge House Publishing, CaféLit, Chapeltown Books and The Red Telephone.               

Before becoming a writer and an academic she taught modern languages for 23 years in various schools and has continued to make school visits as a writer of fiction for children and young adults.