Blood Brother by Sarah DAS GUPTA,strong coffee with cream

 

The ugly red scar stretched from just below his left eye to the corner of his lips. It divided his face in half. Archie had to admit that it was almost a passport, a symbol of identity. There were certainly two sides to Archie Edgar Duncan, but you shouldn’t stop there. He sat in his dressing gown in front of a large Victorian mirror and an assortment of makeup. Bottles, tubes, powder compacts, brushes, eye liners, patches and potions lay tumbled together. But a quick look at the skilful hands, the delicate movements, the handling of the apparently haphazard pile of equipment before him on the dressing table, would have convinced even the most sceptical observers that they were in the presence of an artist.

  In minutes the face that looked back at him from the mirror was that of a stranger. A man in his forties, his dark hair combed forward into a fringe, his complexion sallow, his beard elegantly trimmed, stared approvingly with dark brown eyes at his creator. Thin lips twisted into a cynical smile.

  Opening a large wardrobe, he surveyed shirts, jackets, suits, trousers, all arranged neatly, with a label attached to each hanger. He chose a rather baggy suit with large brown checks on a mustard-coloured background. Expertly Archie fixed a natty, yellow bow tie and folded a silk handkerchief into his top pocket.

‘All ready, Vinny? Make sure you’re paying attention this morning, wooden head.’

A dummy lying flat and limp across the back of a chair did not move. Yet a high-pitched boy’s voice answered, ‘I always say what you say.’

Archie packed the doll and a few props into a large, black bag from which a muffled voice protested, ‘Damn it! Can’t see a fucking thing.’

After he had locked the door, Archie walked towards Piccadilly tube station.

                                                     °             °            °

 

The Grand was a theatre which had seen better days, the end of the old Music Halls, then the heyday of Repertory companies. Now it was popular gigs, local opera societies, school choirs and the traditional Christmas Pantomime.  In fact, it was the Christmas show which kept the theatre going. As Archie walked past the front of the Grand, he saw the brightly coloured posters already advertising that year’s panto - ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’. A huge, green, cardboard beanstalk hung suspended from the roof with the cutout figure of Jack halfway up and the hideous Giant waiting at the top!

  Archie had played at the Grand in past Christmas shows. He made his way to the familiar stage door. Inside was chaos. Queues of nervous, excited kids, with even more anxious mothers, were waiting to be auditioned. Dancers in rehearsal costume, flitted across the stage. Backstage staff carried boxes of ‘gold’ goblets, chests of cardboard treasure, wigs, false beards and mysterious bottles of bright green, magical potions to storage rooms behind the back curtain.

  Archie barely noticed the uproar. Hanging on tightly to Vinny, still incarcerated in the dark bag, Archie made his way to the small studio where auditions for the main roles were usually held.

  The passageway was empty though he could still hear the shouts and excited chatter of the children. He had hardly knocked on the studio door before a woman’s voice invited him, somewhat brusquely, to ‘Come in.’

  Immediately facing him sat Clarissa Page, busily re-arranging her papers and jotting down notes in a small red diary. Archie recognised her at once, dyed blonde hair, expensively styled, blood red nails, doll-like makeup, designer suit. You haven’t changed much. Perhaps deeper shadows under your eyes and that doll look needs updating. Archie ran an expert eye over the unsuspecting Clarissa.

‘Good morning, Mr Duncan.’ She quickly glanced down a list of names. ‘This is Ferdie Grant. Mr Grant will be directing the show this year.’

  For the first time Archie noticed a thin, scruffy young man with a shock of red hair which constantly fell across his face and which he constantly pushed back. He nodded vaguely in Archie’s direction.

‘Obviously, we are looking for a giant which the audience love to hate. You look to be over six foot already and Wardrobe can add a few centimetres. I’m going to be honest with you Mr Duncan. One or two people have let us down this year. At the moment we are really relying on you. I’ve looked at your CV and I know you are very experienced in these roles. The perfect Panto Villain we might say.’ Clarissa allowed herself the suggestion of a smile.

‘Thanks for the compliments, Mrs Page. I hope I can live up to your expectations. Would you like to see a short extract from the panto? I think I can remember the lines; I’ve performed the role several times.’

   Clarissa glanced at Ferdie who shook his mop of hair unenthusiastically. So far, he’d said nothing. It was obvious who controlled the purse strings

Archie opened the black bag. Vinny emerged dishevelled, muttering, ‘How much an hour do you get for this?’

Archie’s expression changed dramatically as he rested the dummy on his knee.

‘That fool of a boy is climbing up my beanstalk. Who do you think am I?’ Archie demanded

 with chilling menace and cold contempt.

Clarissa and Ferdie stared in disbelief at this stranger across the table.

‘You’re the giant,’ Clarissa spoke with just the hint of a catch in her voice.

‘I smell blood. I grind up bones to make my bread.’ At this point Archie had stood up and lurched nearer to the startled Clarissa. He brought his fist down on the table with a tremendous bang.

‘Oh, you’ll have all the children terrified, Mr Duncan,’ her attempted laugh sounding more

like a strangled cry.

‘Steady on mate. We don’t want kids pissing themselves.’ Ferdie’s hair looked even wilder.

Archie sat down again. The giant had vanished as quickly as he had appeared. He bundled

Vinny back in the bag and looked questioningly at Clarissa.

‘Well, I think you’ve convinced us, Mr Duncan. Rehearsals begin next Tuesday at nine o’clock

prompt. The contract will be in the post.’

Archie gathered proceedings were over for the morning. Clarissa held out her hand.

As he shook it, he felt a sudden fury, like a surge of heat about to burst into flames.

‘Haven’t we met somewhere before Mr Duncan. Somehow you seem familiar.’

‘No, madam. I’ve never had the pleasure.’

 

                                                     °                    °                  °

 

It was the Christmas Eve performance. There was a full house of excited children and ratherless excited parents.

‘At least it keeps them entertained for the evening or they’d be driving us mad,’ Michael Russell called over his shoulder as he bought a second round of ice cream for his three kids plus the two from next door.

‘Oh, come on Mike you know you’ll enjoy it. I haven’t seen ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ for donkey’s years. It must have been when…’ his wife’s voice was lost in the excitement of finding their seats.

  Backstage in his dressing room, Archie looked long and hard into his mirror. It was not the star dressing room by any stretch of the imagination. The mirror was streaked with water marks and an old neon light hung at an angle from a rusty chain. He stared at the face being born in front of him. In a matter of minutes, Archie had aged twenty years. His hair was almost white, just streaked with flecks of dark grey. The scar stood out, the damaged skin pink and puckered, liked a raw ham chop, laid on a dirty white table cloth. The eyes which stared back, empty and unfocused, had a greenish tinge, fading into watery, bloodshot rims. This was a face for Halloween, not Christmas Eve. The perfect pantomime villain, the words echoed and re-echoed in the dark corners of the shabby room. As Archie began pulling on the giant’s huge red smock and boat-like boots, he heard a knock on his door as the call boy announced ‘Five minutes before curtain up Mr Duncan. Remember, Mrs Page will be here for the first half, Sir.’

  Archie stood in the wings, watching the knock-about comedy of the opening scene. Jack’s mother, the traditional pantomime dame, a middle-aged man padded out in drag, Jack, the principal ‘boy’, a tall, leggy blonde whose dark roots needed a re-touch, Archie noted. He could see the children in the audience, open-eyed, leaning forward, their faces reflected in rainbow colours as the stage lights changed. The next scene would be the Giant’s first entrance. Vinny lay lifeless across Archie’s arm waiting to be given a voice. The Giant’s first entrance always received a noisy, belligerent re-action from the audience.

  The mask was grotesque, the sneer on the lips menacing, the eyes glaring at the volatile crowd.

‘You don’t scare us ’  ‘We know you’re killed in the end!’  ‘There’s no real giants!’. In all the excitement nobody noticed the giant’s eyes were particularly green and bloodshot that night. Archie threw everything into the role. He stood at the front, almost reaching into the staring faces in the front stalls. His ‘I smell blood’ was so convincing that it was met with a stunned silence, even in the cheap seats in the Upper Circle. As Jack appeared at the top of the beanstalk, Archie’s hands closed so tightly round the neck of the principal ‘boy’ that the actress whispered hoarsely, ‘What the hell, Archie? I can’t fucking breathe!’

  His exit at the end of the scene was greeted with an explosion of boos and applause.

                                                          °           °              °

The front curtain came down. In the audience the scramble for interval drinks and ice cream began. Backstage Archie was busy distributing sweets to the kids in the panto who crowded round staring at his mask.

‘Generous today, aren’t we? Won the lottery? The right numbers come up?’ asked the

principal ‘boy’, still resentfully rubbing her neck.

  Archie smiled as he walked casually back towards his dressing room. Once inside, he quickly took off his costume and threw the mask aside as he pulled on a pair of fine kid gloves. Vinny hung over the back of a chair, his face squashed into a grubby velvet cushion. A grey- haired stranger, with an ugly pink scar and bloodshot green eyes locked the door, before walking up the passage. He passed two backstage hands carrying a huge cardboard cooking pot. In a deep voice with a suggestion of a Scottish accent, the elderly man asked,

‘Can you direct me to Mrs Page’s office, please,’

‘Ok mate, walk to the end of this passage, turn right and you can’t miss it. ‘er name’s on the

door‘.

Archie watched them disappear with the cooking pot brushing the low ceiling. 

                                       

                                              °                  °                   °

He was soon standing in front of the door, a door he was actually very familiar with. He knocked firmly but politely.

‘Come in.’ Clarissa’s voice sounded sightly impatient.

Archie closed the door quietly, before turning to face her. She was rather more dressed up than on the audition morning. The blonde hair had been touched up. The makeup more carefully applied. A red Valentino dress, perfectly fitted, flattered her aging figure. She glanced up quickly from a pile of pay sheets, the top one held between newly painted, scarlet nails. Then a moment later, as if she had suddenly remembered some long- forgotten face, Clarissa stared into the bloodshot eyes. ‘I know you.’ She paused a moment.’ It was Bournemouth Repertory Theatre. Let me think, it must have been over thirty years ago. Yes, it was ‘Hamlet’ and I was co-producer.’

‘Perhaps you also remember a rather pretty young girl played Ophelia?’ Archie had abandoned his assumed Scottish accent. For once in his life, he was not acting.

Under the makeup, a look of panic flashed across Clarissa’s elegant features.

‘Yes, I remember, Maisie Douglas, stage name of course, pretty face but you need more than

that in the theatre.’

‘Especially if the leading man fancies you!’

  Clarissa began to stand up. As she pushed her chair back, Archie grabbed her wrist, pulling her back into her seat. Leaning across the table, he clamped his other hand over her mouth. ‘It’s even more difficult if the producer fancies the leading man too!’ A pale, child-like face is looking helplessly at Archie. A tear runs down one cheek.

  ‘It was a long while ago.  You can’t turn back the years. Now if there’s anything I can help you with, a small apartment, a modest annuity, anything that you. . .’ Her voice faded away while Archie stood over her. The blood red nails flashed as she reached for the phone on the desk. Archie was quicker! A leather clad hand seized the cordless phone, hurling into a shadowy corner. With the other hand he pulled Clarissa’s handbag across the desk, dumping it on the floor beside him. Casually, he took a small kitchen knife from his pocket, laying it in front of him. The blade shimmered wickedly in the harsh neon light.

‘It’s a long way up this passage and the theatre’s very noisy. Kids, Christmas Eve and a long interval, you know what it’s like.

‘Did you know Maisie Douglas back then?’

  Archie finds himself in a shabby kitchen opposite a white faced seven- year- old girl. His hand clutches hers across the bare table. Screams echo from behind a closed door. The two children sit silent, waiting. Finally, the door is flung open. A heavily built man, his face flushed, drags a half-dressed woman into the room. He throws her like a rag doll against the table.  As the little girl screams, Archie runs at his father, butting him hard in the stomach. Alook of astonishment on the brutal face is quickly replaced by one of fury. Taking a kitchen knife from the sink, he slashes the boy across the face. Blood drips over the table onto the filthy floor.

‘Yes, I knew Maisie back then.’

‘What happened to her, after. . .   Clarissa’s voice hesitated, then dried up.’

‘Let me jog your memory, after you sacked her when the production moved to London’s West End? That’s what you wanted to say, wasn’t it Mrs Page?

Clarissa nodded dumbly, staring at the pay slips, as if for inspiration.

  The tide is coming in fast. Archie stares at a girl’s body laid out on the sand. She looks peacefully asleep, just waiting for the tide to turn. If only she’d talked to him. There would have been other chances. As he looks out to sea, two gulls fly low over the waves. He watches them perch on a sheer cliff side.

About the author 

Sarah Das Gupta is an ex- teacher, who worked in UK, India, Africa. Her work has been published in over 25 different countries in anthollogie and magazines. She is a nominee for the Pushcart, Best of the Net and a Dwarf Star. 

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

To Build A Fire,, byim Bates, Hot Black Coffee

 

The wind howled down the canyon. Above the granite walls, the leaden sky leaked snowflakes that swirled around the two figures huddled on their knees against the cold. They needed to get a fire going. Fast. Before it was too late.

            "Jerry, how are those matches holding up?" Steve asked. He had his gloves off and was blowing on his frozen hands. His fingers were turning white, and he was losing all feeling in them. "Can you get that kindling lit?"

            "Shit, no," Jerry swore, his frosted breath immediately turning to ice, adding to the cake building up on his beard and moustache. "I've got three left, and I can't feel my fingers to hold them. Can't feel a damn thing." He blew on his fingers to emphasize his point.

            Those were not the words Steve wanted to hear. It was twenty degrees below zero. If they didn't get a fire going in the next few minutes, hypothermia would set in, and they'd begin the slow, agonizing process of freezing to death. He blinked to keep his watering eyes from freezing shut. It didn't help, and he rubbed at them to clear his vision.

            Next to the two men, the rushing water of the Yellow Knife River cascaded over ice-covered boulders on its way to Lake Superior ten miles to the east. Steve and Jerry had been on a winter hiking trip along the trail that ran high above the river when the ledge of snow they were on collapsed, and they tumbled thirty feet down the steep slope into the frigid water below. In just seconds, their heavy winter clothing, Jerry's dark blue thermal pants and parka, and Steve's tan Carhartt overalls and insulated jacket were soaked through to their skin. The wet clothing and the numbing cold was a dangerous combination.

            They had scrambled out and found a level spot in the snow and took stock of their predicament. Their day packs were lost, and Steve had sprained his wrist. Jerry had wrapped it as well as he could with a wet scarf, but it didn't help much. One consolation was that the cold helped numb the pain, but that was all. Steve could feel his beard icing up and, with his face getting numb, it was getting hard to speak. He wasn't much help. It was up to Jerry to build the fire.

            They'd built a small teepee of twigs and pine needles but a combination of wet stick matches and a wind swirling down the narrow canyon walls made getting the match lit next to impossible. With two matches to go, their prospects were grim.

            Steve shuffled on his knees closer to Jerry, their heavy clothes forming a barrier from the wind. Then, in a gesture of profound intimacy, he motioned to his friend, "Here, give me your hands."

            When Jerry balked, Steve said, "Don't give me that macho BS." He motioned again and said, softly, "Here, let me help." Steve took his friend's bare hands in his and, ignoring the pain in his wrist, drew them to his lips and blew on them, warming them with his breath.

            The warm air melted the ice on Jerry's hands, and it dripped onto the snow, freezing immediately. Blood flowed into his fingers, bringing them back to life. In a minute, he could wiggle them. "Hey, man, that feels good. They're better." He flexed his hand. "I can feel my fingers, now."

            Steve blew on last long breath, and then Jerry quickly moved his hands away, took the second match, and struck it against the side of the matchbox. Nothing happened. It was too wet. On the second try, it broke apart and fell to the snow, useless.

            The two men looked at each other. "Here," Steve said. "Give me your hands again."

            Steve again cupped his friends' fingers and blew on them, willing warmth into them. Their faces were windblown and red. Their teeth were chattering and their eyes watering so much they kept freezing shut. Their beards were filled with chunks of ice. And they only had one match left.

            The sun was setting behind the pine trees lining the rim of the canyon. With the lack of sunlight, the cold was settling in deep and hard.

            Steve blew on Jerry's fingers one last time. "Ready?"

            "Yeah." Jerry took the last match, resolve set in his eyes. He looked at Steve. "Let's do this."

            "Go for it, man."

            Jerry struck the match. Both men watched, their lives hanging in the balance, as the flame flickered...then faded... then caught.

            In spite of ice-covered beards and frozen faces, they looked at each other and grinned. Then, they quickly set about building a roaring fire. 

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. 

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

The Emerald Green Soldier by Dipti Ranganathan, Coffee: Berry-Chocolate-Ethiopian Roast

The Emerald Green Soldier by Dipti Ranganathan The Ford Bronco rattled to a stop with a dying gasp, as Ryan tumbled out and thumped on the discolored hood. He could have sworn his grandpa glared at him from a faded splotch near the windshield. He wiped his hand over the mirage and then on his jeans, leaving a dust stain that he rubbed and rubbed, a mere memory. His grandpa was a tough cookie. Don’t be soft like your dad, his grandpa had told him as he walked Ryan to school every day. Ryan’s resulting gym obsession hardened him on the outside but did nothing for his insides. Ryan stepped through the alley, a slushy drizzle dampening his unruly hair. He held his breath as he passed the dumpsters. A cane greeted him near the back door, an emerald-green soldier standing guard over a frozen yellow puddle. ‘Dammit, Mr. Kumar,’ he said as he grabbed the cane and stepped into Café Cinema, closing the steel door behind him. Ryan kept a lookout for Mr. Kumar, glancing out the window and down the street now and again. All he saw was another old man, the one with a ratty black trench coat hanging over a black hoodie and holey black sneakers. At night, he disappeared into the darkness. Mr. Kumar once told Ryan the slumped man’s name was Pete. Mr. Kumar had bothered to ask. In a month or so, when the temps drop below freezing, the city would scoop Pete up and transport him somewhere. And any day, the universe will scoop Mr. Kumar up and transport him somewhere. Mr. Kumar arrived late that afternoon, nodding to Pete before opening the door. A gust shoved him into the café, his head thrust out like a turtle, his lips tight as he caught himself on the trash can. He stepped up to the counter, his bushy, graying eyebrows pointing in all directions, his mouth pulled down by a lifetime of gravity. Ryan poured coffee into a mug adorned with Audrey Hepburn’s face and handed him a glazed donut. Mr. Kumar opened his wallet and frowned. ‘Everything okay?’ Ryan asked. Mr. Kumar stared out the window at the man with the cup between his feet. ‘My cash is gone.’ ‘Did you give it all to the man outside?’ Mr. Kumar smirked. A new gap in his mouth became painfully visible. ‘Yes, maybe I did.’ ‘It’s okay,’ Ryan said. ‘Coffee and a donut are on the house.’ He handed Mr. Kumar the cane. ‘I found this in the alley. Do you remember going there?’ Mr. Kumar shook his head, rearranging his thoughts. Mr. Kumar was an odd duck, but in all the years Ryan had known him, he had always maintained a level of propriety. Bow tie, creased slacks, a tweed sports coat. The many stains were hardly noticeable. If he had peed outside, it would have been a first. Mr. Kumar extended a bony finger toward a glazed donut at the edge of the tray, surrounded by splotches of dried icing and sprinkles. He took his cane and autopiloted to the table with the best view of the street, where foot traffic moved like performance art. As the old man stared out the window, Ryan set his order on the table. ‘Hang on to that cane, Mr. Kumar.’ Mr. Kumar nodded as he swayed to ‘As Time Goes By’ playing overhead. Without warning, his voice rose in song. A few people turned to stare. Most ignored him. Another strange man in the city. Mr. Kumar abruptly stopped singing, his attention diverted by a Chihuahua on the street, shivering under a brown sweater embroidered with orange and yellow leaves around the collar. The little dog ran up to the window, tail pumping, begging for an encore, before knocking over Pete’s cup. A slew of coins rolled onto the street, and dollar bills flew in the wind. Pete shook his head, rescuing a few coins and plopping them into the cup. ‘Oh!’ Mr. Kumar said, rushing outside (as much as an old man could rush). He made a valiant effort to pick up the coins, but his body would not cooperate. He looked around for the bills, but they were long gone, windy city and all. Mr. Kumar said a few words to the man, patted his pockets, and shook his head. He sat back at the café table and rubbed his hands, wrapping them around his warm mug. Ryan poured coffee into his Jack Skeleton mug. He leaned against the counter, savoring the berry-chocolate Ethiopian roast. The café sighed with relief as shadows crept across the floor. Mr. Kumar returned to the counter for a coffee refill. His cane and mug remained at the table, a placeholder. Ryan had warned him of rampant sleight-of-hand theft. Mr. Kumar laughed, clearly forgetting all the stolen items. His tote bag (filled with a comb, a small notebook, a pen, and reading glasses), his wallet (stuffed with a credit card, ID, and pictures of his departed wife), and a small bag of groceries (he could not remember what it contained). His canes? Those were accidentally left here and there. ‘Another donut?’ Ryan asked. ‘Do you have those fried potato snacks? The cylindrical ones.’ ‘Tater tots?’ Ryan suppressed a smile. ‘Yes!’ Mr. Kumar said, smacking his lips. ‘With ketchup!’ ‘I’m sorry, we don’t,’ Ryan said. ‘You should add them to your menu. You’d make a fortune.’ The old man shuffled back to his table with his coffee, like a disappointed toddler. Ryan asked the barista to watch the place and dashed off to Good Stuff Wieners down the block, deftly avoiding the slumped man. Pete. He bought two orders of tater tots with miniature plastic cups of ketchup and, back at the café, arranged the ‘cylindrical potato snacks’ on a plate. He set it in front of Mr. Kumar. The old man raised both hands and cheered. He told Ryan the story of his first meal in America. Mr. Kumar had mistaken a pancake for a dosa, a savory Indian crepe. ‘Can you imagine my shock when my host poured maple syrup all over it?’ Mr. Kumar asked, his voice soft with memory. ‘Like ketchup on a donut,’ Ryan said, the same thing he said every time he heard the story. They laughed and sat with the image for a moment, dunking tots into ketchup, relishing the sacred potato-tomato union. As closing time approached, Ryan turned to his end-of-day routine, refilling napkin bins and sugar packets. He went into the back to grab the mop, and by the time he returned, Mr. Kumar had gone, leaving a gently used donut with one missing bite. Ryan glanced out the window and saw Mr. Kumar hobbling down the hazard-laden street, wobbling this way and that, completely cane-less, heading toward a giant pothole. Ryan stood at the window, transfixed, as if watching a horror movie, aware of the danger ahead yet unable to do anything about it. He was witness to Mr. Kumar’s stumble as his arms flailed and his tote bag whacked him in the face on his way down. By the time Ryan reached him, Mr. Kumar was curled up like a beetle on a pile of dung. ‘A little help, please?’ Mr. Kumar asked Ryan’s shadow before looking up, his legs buckling as he tried to stand. Ryan pulled the old man’s hand, forgetting his own strength. ‘Aah!’ Mr. Kumar’s voice echoed off the buildings as a few bystanders gathered. Ryan panicked and pulled harder. ‘Aaahhh!’ Mr. Kumar moaned louder, clutching his foot as Ryan let go. Contradictory advice swirled around Ryan. ‘Don’t move him!’ ‘Call an ambulance!’ ‘He’s having a heart attack. Get him some aspirin!’ ‘Dad?’ The crowd parted for a woman who ran through and knelt beside Mr. Kumar. Mr. Kumar sat upright and fell silent. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’ the woman asked. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I was coming to meet you.’ ‘You didn’t sound fine a minute ago. Where’s your cane?’ ‘I don’t need it.’ His daughter pursed her lips and supported him on one side, while Ryan supported him on the other. ‘Hmmm,’ the old man said, wiggling his ‘injured’ foot. He grinned at Ryan, then at his daughter. ‘All good!’ he announced. ‘See? You worry too much. I’m just fine.’ ‘We’ve talked about this. You agreed,’ she said. ‘Agreed to what?’ She looked around, catching Ryan’s eye. ‘Never mind. We’ll talk about it when we get back to your apartment.’ ‘See you tomorrow, Mr. Kumar,’ Ryan called out, a bit too forcefully, as the two made their way down the block. Without turning around or breaking his stride, Mr. Kumar gave Ryan a royal wave. The daughter was about to scoop him up and transport him somewhere. Ryan knew the moves. He had tried his grandpa, and it had not gone well. An hour later, Ryan locked Café Cinema’s front door and slammed the back door shut. He held his breath as he heaved a black garbage bag into the dumpster. The streetlight flickered on, highlighting the cane, the emerald-green soldier standing guard over a fresh yellow puddle. At the end of the alley, Pete turned the corner and disappeared into the night. Ryan let out a heavy sigh, grabbed the cane, stepped back into Café Cinema, and placed it next to the counter, with a note: Property of Mr. Kumar 

About the authtor

 

 

 

ipti Ranganathan is a first-generation Indian American, currently residing in Chicago. Her stories are rooted in experiences of assimilation and identity. She was a finalist for the Glimmer Train Short Story Award for New Writers and has a forthcoming story with the Old Lady Comedy Magazine. https://www.diptiranganathan.com/ 

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

mory of Aunty Kiss, by Sarah Swatridge, Tetley’s Tea

 

In Memory of Aunty Kiss by Sarah Swatridge

Tetley’s Tea

‘Smile,’ said Jenny’s mother, Gladys. ‘Aunty Kiss wouldn’t want you to be sad.’

            ‘It’s been a difficult week, admitted Jenny. ‘Losing Aunty Kiss was bad enough, although she didn’t suffer. Then I went for an interview and didn’t get the job.’

            ‘Are you very disappointed?’ asked Gladys as she poured them some Tetley tea. With Aunty Kiss it had to be Tetley’s tea.

            ‘It seemed a friendly place to work but I really wanted to be on the reception desk instead of in the accounts office. I told the woman I’m better with people than with paperwork.’

            ‘At least you were honest. It just wasn’t meant to be.’

            Jenny shook her head. She gazed into her cup of Tetley’s. ‘And the third thing, because bad things always seem to come in threes, was that Kenneth’s teacher called me in to speak to her.’ She let out a weary sigh. ‘He’s playing up at school. She’s concerned that his reading and writing aren’t as good as they ought to be.’

            ‘And what do you think?’ Gladys asked Kenneth as he came into the kitchen. ‘What are you good at in school?’

            His eyes lit up. ‘I always win the running races. No one can beat me. I’m not the oldest but I am the fastest.’

            Grandma Gladys smiled but Kenneth suddenly looked serious. ‘I do try with my reading but it’s hard.’ Changing the subject, his grandmother turned to Jenny and said,

            ‘I’ve been sorting out Aunty Kiss’s things. Was there anything in particular you wanted to remember her by?’

            While Jenny was thinking, Kenneth asked, ‘Did she kiss everyone?’

            ‘No, but she always signed her Christmas cards with nothing but a kiss.’

            ‘What I’d really treasure are The Herbert Stories. I could read them to Ken.’

            ‘The Herbert Stories? I’m not sure what you mean.’

            ‘It was a lovely old picture book. A large book, beautifully bound, and there were colourful pictures of Herbert doing his wonderful deeds. I remember her reading it to me whenever I stayed with her.’ Her mother looked puzzled.

            ‘Kiss didn’t have many books. I can’t think what you mean. You’d better come and help me sort through her things.’

            Sorting out Aunty Kiss’s house brought back many happy memories. Even the smell made Jenny smile.

            ‘That’s better,’ said her mum. ‘I don’t like to see you so down.’

            They flicked through scrapbooks, and reminisced over holiday souvenirs.

            Kenneth called to them to look out of the bedroom window. He’d been playing in the garden and had collected sticks. He’d made the word OXO out of sticks.

            ‘OXO?’ asked Gladys.

            ‘No,’ said Kenneth, ‘It’s my new signature. The circle’s a hug, then a kiss and another hug. One for each of you.’

            Gran smiled and Jenny felt a lump in her throat. She caught her mum’s eye. ‘I know he’s not a bad lad; I just want him to do well at school.’

            ‘I’m sure he’ll do just fine.’

            Jenny was no longer listening. In a corner she’d found the large beautifully illustrated book she had enjoyed so much when she was young. It was the only story Aunty Kiss had ever read to her but now she couldn’t recall whether it was because she’d always asked for the same one, or because it was the only book Kiss had owned.

            Carefully she flicked through the pages. She’d always loved Herbert. He was so strong. He’d fought lions, nine-headed monsters and man-eating birds. No matter what challenge was set, he always went for it and came up trumps. Jenny wiped away her tears.

            ‘Have you found it?’ asked her mum. Jenny nodded.

            ‘It wasn’t Herbert, but Hercules,’ she said aloud. In her heart she knew Aunty Kiss had always called him Herbert. And, the more she thought about it, her aunt hadn’t ‘read’ the words, but retold the story, because it was slightly different every time. Not that it mattered.

             ‘Mum?’ she asked as an idea occurred to her, ‘did Aunty Kiss have problems reading and writing?’ It had been an innocent question but she saw the shadow cross her mum’s face.

            ‘It wasn’t her strong point. But she was a marvellous cook, never needed a recipe. She taught me all she knew. She was a kind soul, too. Nothing was ever too much trouble.’

            Jenny found she was smiling again. She felt a bit lighter now. ‘Oh well, you can’t be good at everything, and we all have something we can excel at.’ Jenny hugged The Herbert Stories and thought, with excitement, about the challenges that lay ahead.

 

In Memory of Aunty Kiss was originally published in WI Home & Country in December 2005.

About the author

 Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She now has a collection of twenty uplifting short stories called Feel-Good Stories along with her large print novels available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter. 

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

A Small Courtesy by Héctor Hernández, Dark Roast Coffee

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Sixty-eight-year-old Gilbert Ostermann craned his neck over the steering wheel of his pickup truck, looking for street signs. His face was nearly pressed against the windshield as he crept along this unfamiliar part of the city with its confusing layout of narrow streets. ‘Where the hell is Avenue Tibbitts?’ he grumbled.

He had received a call from the cremation coordinator to come over and pick up his wife’s ashes, but somewhere along the way, he had taken a wrong turn and gotten lost. Gilbert didn’t see why he couldn’t have picked up the ashes from the funeral home where the service had been held. The woman had said something about chain-of-custody paperwork or some other such nonsense.

He rounded the corner of the next block but immediately stopped short. The shoulder belt snapped him hard in the chest. ‘Jesus!’ He had nearly collided with a small, sporty looking car driving on the wrong side of the road. The car had crossed over into Gilbert’s lane to make its way around a semi-trailer that was blocking the left side of the street. Workers were busy unloading large boxes.

Gilbert swore under his breath. ‘God damned moron.’ He supposed he could back up, but he was in no mood to be generous. He flicked his rough, sun-weathered hand with irritation, signaling for the other driver to back up. Nothing happened. ‘Asshole,’ Gilbert muttered.

He flashed his high beams. Still nothing. Gilbert gave the driver a fearsome glare. What the driver’s reaction was, Gilbert didn’t know. The car’s entire windshield was tinted. Gilbert saw only a black void.

‘Not just an asshole,’ he growled ‘but a stubborn one to boot.’ He stabbed at his horn—two quick bursts. Still no reaction, but he did get the attention of the men unloading the boxes. They stopped to stare at Gilbert. He returned their stare with a fierce scowl. The men quickly went back to work.

Frustrated, Gilbert bore down on his horn. One, long, annoying blast.

The car’s front door swung open.