Silence Pooling like Dust by Steve Gerson, Sun Tea.

Silence Pooling like Dust

The land, devoid of soul, hard as caliche, surrounded her farmhouse in silence.  Inside, silence pooled in the corners like dust and cobwebbed the windows.  Outside, no tractors chugged.  No horses whinnied in the paddock.  No children played among the hay bales. 

The front yard For Sale sign hung askew on three rusted nails, the other nail having worn out and left.   Even the letters were hard to read, the paint having been scoured by time flying like sand in a windstorm. 

There were no takers for the land, so it sat there, sullen.

She now lived in Cottonwood Falls, ten miles from the farm, halfway between Kansas City and Wichita, in a care facility.  Joe, her husband, had died six years ago, buried under the land’s demands.  Her sons, neither of them wanting the land’s debt nor their dad’s fate, moved away, one to Dallas, one to Denver. 

She was alone in the company of silence.

“How you doin’?” a caregiver asked one morning. 

Never one to complain, having learned that lesson from the land, which didn’t ask if you were too cold or too hot, she said, “Doin’ fine, doin’ fine.”

“Can I get you anything?”

What could she say to that?  She’d like her sons back.  She’d like her husband back.  She’d like the land back, where freedom was right outside the front door.  When the land was green and her sons were growing into men, she’d watch the sun rise from the kitchen window.  Breakfast aromas wafted like dreams.  She’d hear her husband whistling George Strait’s “Heartland”:  “the way a good man works until the daylight’s gone.”  She and he milked the cows, fixed the fences, baled the hay, and owned something—their time together building their life.  Then, the land seemed to be their ally.

But bodies fail like wood rots.  Spring breezes become winter’s hail.  The land sometimes turns like a sudden black-cloud storm churning.  And sound disappears when the door slams shut.

So she thought, “What do I want?”

“Can you get me some noise, please?  I’ve got too much silence living in my head.”

Abou th author. 

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows

 

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Going Viral by Diane Neilson, Hot lemon and honey

Going Viral

 

I awake with the dawn and lie, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the morning: the slight rustle of the curtain responding to a breeze passing through the open window; the morning birdsong encouraging me to start my day; the distant lowing of cows in the fields. I am reluctant to move this morning though. I sense my neighbour leave for work, her key turning in the lock; hear children leaving to catch the school bus, their chatter eager and bright; and downstairs, my cat is demanding my attention. Still, I do not move. I need to figure out this feeling. Everything is as it should be – as it always is – yet something isn’t right.

 

You are late to the party my dear. I have been here for days: plotting and scheming, laying down my pathways, slowly disabling your defences. Shall I give you a clue? I hate to see you lying there trying to fathom the change – so subtle are my preparations.

 

Reluctantly I rise, perform my morning ablutions and dress. There is an otherworldliness to my mind this morning, like I am drifting from task to task without really being present. I unload the dishwasher, feed the cat, sweep the floor - and then, I feel it: a feeling so slight that it is almost not there, a scratch in my throat.

 

Aha! There we are. Now we are on the same page. You humans do lack intuition, even about your own state of being. In case you were wondering, several days ago I drifted past your body’s pitiful defences and began my sabotage. I hijacked your throat and nasal cells causing them to release two inflammatory proteins: prostaglandins resulting in the tickle that you have just noticed, and bradykinin which has excited your sensory nerves, mimicking the feeling of raw, scratchy pain – that’s right mimicking, it’s all an illusion. What’s more, they work in a continuous feedback loop - the ultimate tag team! 

You know, you could take some aspirin; it will stop the tickly soreness but I’m afraid my mission is well on course now. The path forward is inevitable.

 

Luckily, it’s a no-work day, so I decide to take it easy and fight this thing off. I spray my throat with antiseptic, take some painkillers and make myself the first of many hot honey and lemon drinks. I spend the morning pottering in the garden; it’s a lovely early autumn day and I enjoy cutting some fresh herbs, hanging them to dry in the greenhouse, and replacing the fading blooms in the hanging baskets with winter pansies and trailing ivy. After lunch I settle down with my favourite book – one I have read many times – and enjoy immersing myself in a completely different world. Hours pass, yet I am not hungry. I decide to have an early night, pleased that I seem to have shaken whatever was starting this morning.

 

Hilarious! You really think you can just ‘shake me off’? This is not a democracy; it is a cruel dictatorship. Signal release of the cytokines - tomorrow is another day on the battlefield.

 

I can’t move. I actually can’t move. I feel as though my muscles have been turned to stone and my joints have been frozen. It takes me several minutes just to get myself into a sitting position and minutes more to get to the bathroom. I wouldn’t have bothered had it not been a necessity, and my teeth remain unclean, even though I know I would feel better if I brushed them. So much for ‘beating the bug’! Why are my eyes burning?

I manage to get downstairs and make myself a full flask of hot honey and lemon, carrying it back upstairs with a box of paracetamol. Grateful to be back in the darkness of my bedroom, I dose myself up and return to the grateful release of sleep.

A couple of hours later I awake and feel much better; still achy but better. I get up and feed the cat; heat up a tin of chicken soup – good for colds, yes? – and flick on the TV, closing my eyes to the cheesy soundtrack of Homes under the Hammer. An hour later I awake with a banging headache, not helped by the fact that my tickly throat has progressed into a tickly cough, which beats on my skull like hammers to a church bell.

I retreat. Back to sleep. There are currently two protagonists in my life; the villain virus and sleep, which has now become my hero.

 

Great, you have succumbed to classic progression. Good to see that I have not lost my touch. Those cytokines are magical little messengers and are worth exploring further. They have sent signals to every muscle in your body, all of which are now fully inflamed and breaking down, in order to join the battle to fight off my army – quite annoying really. You see, these cytokines detected my presence way before you did, and although they themselves cannot cross the blood-brain barrier directly, they can send signals to the blood vessels in your brain, so that essential proteins are released. They also ensure that you behave in a way that gives you the best chance of recovery, which suits me fine.

Clever hey! You lose your appetite – less energy needed for digestion; you feel tired and slow down – less energy spent on movement; you cough and sneeze more – unpleasant I know, but the virus is expelled. Less energy spent on these things means more energy for your immune system. How can you not know this about your own body? At least you seem to have listened and responded appropriately.

As for those aching muscles, they are being systematically dismantled at a microscopic level, your amino acids are being harvested to feed your immune response, no wonder they feel sore. Don’t worry though, as soon as the enemy is dispelled, normal practice will resume.

In short, cytokines are orchestrating this battle. They are entirely responsible for the misery you are experiencing. Their effectiveness will ultimately determine your response to me – and that is not a foregone conclusion. Where this goes from now, is ultimately down to you. I await your response.

 

3am. How can I possibly need the loo? I have only drunk half a flask of liquid in the past six hours. Walking to the bathroom is agony; the soles of my feet hurt for Christ’s sake!

5am. Ditto. This virus is literally taking the piss!

7am. Yep, again! I must be dehydrating fast.

I get up. There is no point trying to sleep any more. My head is still pounding and my nasal cavities have completely blocked up – I can’t even breathe without hurting. I head downstairs and rummage through the medicine box, finding a dusty old nasal spray underneath some ancient bandages. I use it eagerly, desperately, without even checking the use-by date, and bask in the instant, magical relief it brings. Of course, I fumble and drop it on the floor, stooping to retrieve it which in turn intensifies the pounding in my head. I swallow a couple of Paracetamol and a couple of Ibuprofen in quick succession, past caring about side effects.

 

DECONGESTANTS are DANGEROUS!!!!!!!

Right. Listen. Don’t use it again. I know that you think that I am the enemy and am trying to kill you but that is not true. I am simply trying to replicate. Unfortunately, I can’t simply hook up and have a nice cuddle like you humans can, so I have to do it my way. An unfortunate side effect, from your point of view, is that you have to feel miserable for a few days; but isn’t that a small price to pay for the survival of my species?

Let me tell you a couple of impressive facts about me – it may make you respect me a bit more. I make you sneeze at 200mph so that tens of thousands of droplets are dispersed to maximise infection rates whilst the contents of your runny nose are inevitably transferred to fingers, door handles, and keyboards, all waiting to be picked up by the next person who touches their eyes or nose. Once I’ve landed, I use your own cell's machinery to build millions of copies of myself within hours, and I don’t let you know I’m there until its too late for you to do anything about it.

But…and this is important… I don’t want to kill you; to kill you would be to kill myself. I really need you to be well enough to get out and about; you are my transport system and I need you to distribute me to new hosts. Which brings us nicely back to the decongestant.

I’m going to make this really simple. You are suffering from Vascular Engorgement – otherwise known as a blocked nose. The reason that this virus is limited to your nose and throat is because I have a good plan, limiting my focus to your upper respiratory system; you get infected, suffer a bit, get better, I’m gone.

If you start meddling with the process, things could get a whole lot worse. With your nose unblocked, the virus can work its way down into the tissues of your lower respiratory tract, or even further, infecting your trachea, bronchi, and lungs and causing dangerous swelling. Not what either of us want.

 In effect, those proteins that we talked about earlier will start to attack your own body’s tissue deeper down. This means that the leaking gets worse. In the nose, leaky blood vessels cause a stuffy nose. In the lungs, leaky blood vessels mean that fluid floods directly into the air sacs, and I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that that would be bad news. It could be game over both of us. Remember Covid?

BIN the DECONGESTENT. Just deal with the cold for a few more days.

 

I wake mid-morning after fourteen hours sleep. My nose is still stuffy but a small channel has opened in my left nostril allowing me to breathe. My head is still aching but my limbs have been released from their cement casing and I can flex my ankles without wanting to cry.

I spend the day emptying my nose into a full box of tissues, one by one, and sneezing prolifically. It’s exhausting but liberating; I feel as though I am actually expelling this virus from my body, which can only be good. I am starving! I work my way through lunch, snacks, dinner, more snacks and four hourly paracetamol, all washed down with gallons of hot honey and lemon. My head still hurts. At 10pm, after doing less than 500 steps all day, I am exhausted and return to my sick bed, now renamed my recovery bed.

 

This is good! Very good! There has been a shift in your immune system from underdog to champion fighter. This is good news for both of us, you are on the mend and you have sneezed out all my babies – thank you. I can die happy.

Before I go though, I will just tell you about the clean-up operation – obviously your body will have to sort out the mess I’ve left behind. That dry tickly cough that started a few days ago was just nervous system irritation – I know, annoying. Over the next week or so, as excess mucus drips down the back of your throat, you will probably develop a real cough. Again, this is annoying but will help to get rid of any infection that got past first base and into your lower respiratory system. Your nose will also stop dripping; the clear mucus being replaced by thick, yellow, or green mucus – looks disgusting but it’s full of disease-fighting white blood cells which are, unfortunately, green. After this you will just continue to get better and forget that I ever existed – until next time of course. You have been a great host, so you never know – I may recommend you.

 

It is a week since I started my gradual recovery, a week of snot – how much mucus can one body produce? And this annoying hacking cough feels like it will be with me for a while yet. At least the headache has gone and I am not permanently bunged up. And my muscles are back to normal.

I actually feel quite proud that I shifted it so easily; it must have been all of the hot honey and lemon drinks and paracetamol – oh, and that old decongestant; thank goodness that was in the medicine box or I might not have survived the blocked nose.

At least I have boosted my immune system. I shouldn’t have another cold for ages.

 

Idiot!

Do you humans know nothing?

Obviously if the same type of virus came by it could be dealt with, but there are thousands if not millions of different viruses and being immune to one does not make you immune to the others. 

And, as if to prove a point, here I am, another unique virus sat right on the handle of your coffee cup. See you in a few days – look out for that tell-tale tickle.

 About the author 

 

Diane is a new writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She lives in the UK and likes experiments with a range of genres including poetry and short stories. She has released five books, and has had several short stories published by Cafelit. 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.

Saturday Sample: The Bsilwade Chronicles by Dawn knox,cola,

 

A Question of Timing

It was all about timing, Derek decided.

Although arguably, it could be said to be all about time. And that was a commodity that Derek had very little of.

That wasn’t quite true, of course, he had as much time as the next man but there was only a certain amount of it that he was willing to sacrifice in order to find a wife.

So, when he’d seen the advert for speed dating, he’d been rather excited although he’d been less enthusiastic when he realised it didn’t refer to dates that were concluded so rapidly he had time to catch the last bus home. It was disappointing to learn exactly what speed dating was but hardly surprising really. After all, how many women would settle for a packet of chips, a quick cuddle and if she was lucky, a kiss?

He knew exactly how many women wouldn’t settle for that.

From experience.

He’d always offered to pay their bus fare home. But some women were so unreasonable. Fancy expecting him to go with them! It just wasn’t logical for him to take a woman out, escort her back to her house and then find his way home. It got to be quite pricey too. And don’t get him started on the length of time the whole thing would take.

He turned the page of the newspaper and was about to forget the advert when he had second thoughts. What did he have to lose? After all, if it got too late, he could simply walk out and go home. All before the last bus.   

 

Derek arrived in the church hall half an hour early, as suggested by the information leaflet he’d received after registering. He ran his finger round the inside of his shirt collar. It was too tight, but by the time he’d realised it earlier this evening, there’d been no time to do anything about it. The top button was undone and his tie pushed up as high as his Adam’s Apple would allow. It would have to do.

He looked at his check list. Item one: Mingle and talk to people. Well, that was easier said than done. Women were either chatting in groups or not making eye contact with him.

Item two: Smile.

He smiled. After several minutes, women who’d failed to meet his gaze, now stepped sideways away from him.

Probably gone to the Ladies, he thought, probably nerves. It might be an idea to visit the Gents himself.

When he emerged, one of the women who’d previously avoided eye contact, now couldn’t take her eyes off him. He smiled at her. She was obviously checking him out although when her glance flicked up to his smiling face, her expression froze and immediately she looked down. She swallowed; her eyes closing and bulging open with the effort, then walked towards him.

You’ve still got it, Derek, old chap! He thought. She sidled up and as she leaned confidentially towards him, he noticed she was jabbing the air with her forefinger, pointing at his trouser zip.

“Wardrobe malfunction in the privates,” she whispered from behind her other hand, and glided away.

“Derek Carruthers,” he said holding out his hand, “and you are?”

“Lydia Allen.” Her eyes flicked down to check his flies.

He sat down quickly and under the table, he probed the zip to ensure it was still firmly in place.

“I hope you don’t mind me… You know… pointing out…” she stabbed the air with her finger which was aimed through the table at where she thought his crotch might be.

He squirmed

“Yes, oh yes, thank you. It could have been embarrassing.”

Silence.

Item three: Ask each partner about themselves.

“So, Lydia, tell me about yourself.”

“Well, there’s not much to tell really…”

“Okay, well I’ll tell you about me then.”

There was a lot to tell and it was important to get things in chronological order.

Lydia checked her watch, “One minute to go,” she said.

“Goodness, nine minutes went fast! And I’d only got up to when I won the interdepartmental darts tournament in 1998. Oh well.”

“Don’t forget your match card and pencil,” she said pushing them towards Derek, “Ten seconds, nine seconds…”

“Well, thank you very much,” said Derek holding out his hand, “and better luck with the next man.” He placed a cross next to her name and moved to the adjacent table.

 

“Derek Carruthers,” he said holding out his hand, “and you are?”

“Susie Patterson, pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise. Well, I hope you’re a bit more interesting than the last lady. She didn’t have much to say for herself. Dull as ditch water.”

“Really? Normally you can’t shut her up.”

“You know her?”

“Lydia’s my sister.”

 

“Derek Carruthers,” he said holding out his hand, “and you are?”

“Maisie Ferguson, it’s nice to meet you, Derek.”

“You too, Maisie. You’re not related to… her? Are you?” he asked nodding at Susie.

“No, who’s she?”

“Never mind. Well, tell me about yourself.”

“Um, where to start?”

“Let me guess what you do for a living.”

“O…okay.”

“Now, let me see. I bet you have a food-related job. Cook or something like that.”

“No. I work in a dry-cleaners. What made you think I worked with food?”

She looked alarmed, “Do I smell of food? Is that it?”

“No, not at all. I can smell something like tuna but I don’t think it’s you.”

“So?”

“Well, you never see a skinny cook, do you?”

“I see.” Her shoulders sagged.

“Out of interest, what’s your opinion on just having a bag of chips for dinner?”

“I tend to keep away from chips,” she said, “they’re very fatty.”

“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet!”

“Well yes, as a matter of fact…”

“Oh, you don’t need to diet.”

“I don’t?” She smiled.

“Oh no. I always think once you’ve reached a critical weight, there’s no point dieting. You might as well just give up and enjoy it. Once you’re obese, it’s too hard to lose those inches, isn’t it? Mind you,” he said confidentially, “deciding when you’ve reached that weight is the crucial thing. I’d say I’ve got about another stone to go…” he grabbed the flab round his waist with both hands and jiggled it, “… and then I might as well give up being careful with what I eat. It’ll all be downhill from there but who cares eh? It’s compensation for getting old, isn’t it? I mean why make your life miserable in your autumn years? Scoff what you like and hang the fat, I say.”

“Derek Carruthers,” he said holding out his hand, “and you are?”

“Dottie Regan. Hi, how are you?”

“Well…”

“You don’t sound very sure, Derek.”

“Well, it’s just that all the women I’ve met so far seem very prickly. I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t just give up. I haven’t ticked anyone on my match card yet and I’m nearly at the last table. I’m beginning to get desperate.”

“I see, well perhaps your expectations are too high. What exactly are you looking for in a lady friend?”

“Hmm, well I suppose someone who’s not the size of a Zeppelin like number five, and preferably a woman without a moustache like number seven. I don’t think it was totally inappropriate to enquire whether she was one of those transgender people. I mean I’m liberal and I really wouldn’t mind, but it’s important to know which bits of equipment she or he comes with. Don’t you think? It didn’t seem too much to ask. Number eight said I looked like a stalker and asked me to stop smiling at her. I ask you! That’s item two on the list! It says smile. So, I keep smiling…”

“Perhaps vary it a little,” said Dot, surveying him with her head on one side, “Such a fixed smile is actually rather creepy, if you want my opinion. Move your mouth about a bit.”

“Like this?”

“Hmm, perhaps not quite so mobile. Think more Cary Grant… and less guppy.”

Derek placed a large cross next to Dot’s name and stood up.

“Derek Carruthers,” he said holding out his hand, “and you are?”

“Mary Wilson.” She checked her watch and stood up, “Nice to meet you, Derek Carruthers, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to go. Sorry.”

“That’s fine,” he said, “I wasn’t going to tick you anyway. I’m not partial to ginger-haired women.”

“You’re not my type either. What a waste of time, eh? I didn’t find anyone,” said Mary.

“I’m not surprised.”

“What d’you mean you’re not surprised?”

Derek looked her up and down, “Well, you’re not exactly ̶ “

“Sorry, must dash,” she said putting her coat on, “I’d love to stay and chat but if I don’t hurry, I’ll miss the bus.”

“Wait for me,” said Derek, I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

Find your copy here  

About the author

 

 Dawn’s first success was with a short horror story published in a charity anthology entitled Shrouded by Darkness in 2006. Several years later, she had a Young Adult book (Daf-fodil and the Thin Place) and a single author anthology of speculative fiction stories (Extraordinary), published as well as several historical romances, set mainly during and between the two world wars. She has written two plays about the First World War, one of which commemorated the beginning of the war and was first performed in England in 2014 and then in France and Germany. The other play commemorated the end of the war and was performed in England in 2018 and in Germany 2019. Using her World War One research, she has also writ-ten a book entitled The Great War – One Hundred Stories of One Hundred Words Honouring Those Who Lived and Died One Hundred Years Ago. - 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.

Flat Tire Hissing by Steve Gerson,Whiskey Sour

Flat Tire Hissing

Every time he left home for work, driving his beat-up Toyota, 239,016 odometer miles, exhaust belching like Lucifer in Dante’s 8th circle of Hell, the corroded bumper barely hanging on with frayed duct tape, he felt like he was entering a black hole of no return.  His soul was sucked out and turned to ashes like a cigarette butt picked up off the street and smoked to a burnt nub.  

His windshield was cracked. It looked like the varicose veins of a diabetic. It looked like a labyrinth of roads designed by a dipsomaniac engineer. It looked like an alluvial stream scarred by sea churn detritus. It looked like his psyche.  

His tires were bald, the treads worn out, worn down, weary.  The car's finish was as splotched as
over ripe fruit, rotten to inedible, ready for a dumpster.  

And here he was, driving to a job he despised working alongside people who despised him.  

"Have a great day," his mom said, as he slammed her front door, he an unwanted tenant in her home since his ex-wife had thrown him out like broken eggshells.  

"Black hole, here I come," he moaned quietly to himself, his voice a flat tire hissing.

About the author

 

 Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows 

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.