Tantric Twister

Tantric Twister

Tracy Fells

Gin and Tonic (with ice and a slice)

The midsummer sun penetrates the conservatory, amber shafts of light slipping between the polished slats of the wooden blinds. Judy backs up to Peter so he can unhook her bra. The white straps fall easily from her chestnut shoulders. Her tossed-aside blouse hides the bashful eyes of cuddly toys, corralled and tidied onto the bamboo sofa.

               As Judy wriggles off denim slacks, followed by simple cotton panties, Peter’s concentration skips to a lone yellow Lego brick on the plastic sheet. He must remember to put it away. The imprint of Lego in soft flesh was a typical hazard on Thursday evenings.

               She tugs the navy polo shirt over his head and unbuckles his belt. Her bifocals dangle, bouncing off creamy breasts. For most of the afternoon the baby had fixated on the glinting links of the chain, plump pink fingers grasping, only succumbing to sleep for the last hour of the weekly visit. While Peter became Black Pete, Pirate Captain of the vegetable patch, to tempt the twins outdoors for fresh air and vitamin D. Giving Judy time to bond with their new granddaughter.

               Silly old goat.

               Her words still smarted. ‘Why do you love me?’ Peter had growled, fumbling socks over saggy feet. And she’d called him a silly old goat.

               Judy’s hip bumps his naked buttocks as she bends to the floor. Her back is smooth, dotted by a familiar map of honey freckles.

               But Judy wouldn’t have said goat. What had she called him? Silly old …

               Silly old fox.

               Silver fox was her pet name. When Peter’s raven hair retired, he grew accustomed to (and secretly admired) his distinguished slate-grey look.

               Peter entwines one leg around her lower calf to anchor himself before stretching fingers towards the needle on the mat. Judy’s skin smells warm, he thinks of baked apple spiked with cinnamon. The terror of losing words engulfs him like seawater; an ice-cold wave strips away the façade of youth, exposing the crumpled reality of age beneath.

               Judy’s nipples precociously protrude, demanding his attention. Peter thinks of strawberry sauce dripping over dollops of cream. What had she promised to make him? The gooseberries were almost ripe.

               Gooseberry fool.

               Silly old fool.

               That’s what she’d called him, her eyes sparkling, engorged with love.

               He is an old fool. Not to remember why she loves him. She loves him for all the myriad of reasons that he loves her. And he loves her because she still wants to play Twister on Thursdays once their daughter has collected the grandchildren.

               Peter’s thigh trembles and he topples backwards to thump onto the sticky plastic sheet. Judy lands on top. They lie together, wrapped in giggles. She traces her finger along a line of grey hairs, moving down his body. Even the stabbing press of the Lego brick cannot block his growing desire.

               ‘Gin and tonic?’ Judy murmurs.

               ‘Shall we take them upstairs?’ says Peter.

               His wife, of forty-eight years, smiles like a coquette. ‘Well, it is Thursday.’

About the Author

Tracy writes both short and long fiction for adults and children. In 2012 she was shortlisted for the Fish International Flash Fiction Prize and won both the Steyning Festival Short Story Prize and the Choc-Lit Short Story Competition. Her fiction has been published in Take-a-Break Fiction Feast, People’s Friend, Writing Magazine, The Yellow Room and The New Writer.

Tracy shares a writing blog with The Literary Pig at http://tracyfells.blogspot.com

A.P

A.P

Roger Noons

San Miguel, preferably draught

Alan’s hair was still as it had been when he was thirteen years old, unruly and poorly cut. His bristle moustache, toothbrush-like, had been the height of fashion thirty years previously. His head, with its round face and rosy cheeks, sat upon an oval body which drew attention to itself by his waddling gait; the result of an accident on his fiftieth birthday, when he fell from a ladder.

    His redeeming features were his smile and his personality. Had the Queen entered his presence, his greeting would have been the same as with anyone else.

    ‘How er yer doin?’

    Unless you were extremely rude or had no English, you could not ignore him. His infectious laugh and immediate welcome and friendliness enveloped you, and forced you to stay, just as if he had wrapped his strong arms around your torso.

    Initially, people underestimated Alan, but it did not take long for newcomers to appreciate that beneath the bonhomie and all-encompassing attitude, there was an alert and highly intelligent mind. Although he rarely mentioned it, Alan Pelling had been an employee of the British Government. The principal reason he remained silent was that much of what he might have been expected to discuss, was still covered by the Official Secrets Act, for AP had been a spy, code name Adonis. His moniker was the result of his immediate boss, a Cambridge Don, being a Greek scholar with a unique sense of humour.

    I got to know something of his history by accident. My wife and I had met him and his partner Avril, whilst on a SAGA holiday in Menorca. We found ourselves at the same table one evening after dinner, and as you do, over coffee and brandy, we engaged in conversation. The following day we sat in adjacent seats on the coach to Ciudedela, and after that we palled up. Jill got on well with Avril and I enjoyed AP’s company. Our humour had emanated from adjoining Christmas Crackers. At the end of the holiday, they asked us to stay in touch, and we did. Hence the following year we went on holiday to Mallorca together. 

***

We had flown from different airports, but met up within three hours at the Hotel Marina in Puerto de Soller, in the north west of the Island. It was the following morning when the girls had caught an early tram, so that they could assail the shoe shops in Soller town, that Alan and I strolled down to the marina to reintroduce ourselves to San Miguel.    

    Still licking the froth from our upper lips, we heard a shout. Alan ignored it, but I looked around. I did not however recognize the portly, bald headed man in old fashioned khaki shorts who was making a beeline for us.

   He halted alongside our table and stared first at me, then at my companion.

    ‘Well I’ll be damned, if it isn’t Andy Preston. How are you, you old sod?’

    Alan glanced briefly at our visitor and said quietly, I’m afraid you’re mistaken old chap, my name’s not … what did you say, Preston?’

     ‘Come on you old bastard, I’d know you anywhere, recognize you no matter how many years had passed … Joe, Joe Mortimer, you must remember me, we got through some fire water together back in, where was it …  Poland, that’s it, Bialystok, near the border. We got those three lads out from ….Baranavichy in Russia; well I don’t know what country it’s in now.’

    He stared at Alan, imploring him to confirm his statement, but Alan just shook his head.

    ‘Christ man, we spent three days together, crawling through the woods at night, holed up like hibernating badgers during daylight.’ Anger and impatience were beginning to creep into his speech.

    ‘Badgers do not hibernate,’ Alan said, softly.

    ‘What?’

    The stranger’s exclamation drew the attention of both waiters and patrons at adjacent tables, so I stood up. I smiled.

    ‘It seems like you have made a mistake, my friend, so why don’t you continue your journey to wherever it is that you are going.’

    As I slowly stressed each word, I increased my grip on his elbow and when my sentence concluded, I could see the signs of pain in his eyes.

    ‘But I …’ he was more subdued.

    ‘Have a nice day,’ I concluded, pushing him forward.

    Shaking his head, he walked away, pausing after about ten metres to turn and study AP for a final time.

    After I had resumed my seat Alan said a quiet thank you.

    ‘Ready for another?’ I responded, picking up my glass and draining the contents.

***

Neither of us mentioned the episode, although I did describe it to Jill as we were changing for dinner. She frowned.

    ‘It’s easy to make a mistake, particularly after many years, we never remember people as they actually were.’

    ‘Mmm, but I don’t think the chap had made a mistake.’

***

It was two days later, that Alan brought up the incident. We were sitting outside at Can Prunera, the Museum of Modern Art, waiting for the girls, who were poring over a display of early twentieth century handbags.

    ‘That chap, the other day …’

    ‘Yes?’

    ‘What he said was all true.’

    ‘OK, thank you for telling me.’

    He stared.

    ‘You don’t want to know more?’

    ‘It’s none of my business.’

    He shook his head.

    ‘You really are an amazing person, anyone else I have ever met would be clamouring for me to tell them my life story.’

    I shrugged.

    He obviously chose to ignore me.

     ‘I worked for the British Government; a Department that was not in the telephone book. We …’

    I raised my hand.

    He paused, frowned.

    ‘Please do not say any more.’

    ‘But …

    ‘Alan, I know, you were an Agent … so was I. What more is there to say?’

    ‘Well you could tell me who you worked for,’ he challenged, as he gripped my wrist.'

Author Bio

Having spent the best part of thirty five years writing reports on such subjects as ‘Provision of Caravan Sites for Travellers’ and ’Aspects of Pest Control in the Urban Environment’, Roger Noons began even more creative writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts and having become addicted, began to pen short stories and poems. He occasionally produces memoirs and other non-fiction. He has begun to perform his poems, and has just published ’An A to Z by RLN’, an anthology of 26 short stories. He intends by the end of the year to have followed that up with a novella.

He is a member of two Writers Groups and tries his hardest to write something every day. As well as CafeLit, he has had credits in West Midlands newspapers, The Daily Telegraph, Paragraph Planet, Raw Edge and a number of Anthologies.

Roger is a regular contributor to the CafeLit site and a couple of his stories have been selected for the Best of CafeLit 2012.

Astral

Astral

Ginny Ratcliffe

Absinthe

The first moments of dawn brought with it a breeze strong enough to shunt a passing seagull off course, its outstretched wings blending in with the final few moments of a pinkish moon. The bird made towards land, its reflection gliding across the sea, rippling, following.

***

The screeching of brake pads pressing against hot rubber filled the morning air as a Ford Escort M1, that had seen better days, came to an abrupt halt at the edge of a cliff.

               Renee wasn't sure what to do now she'd come this far. She was still getting her mind round why she was here in the first place. The sun was threatening to rise and she rolled the window down to take in the sea air. She spent a few moments, breathing in, out, and mentally engineering a ploy to destroy the solar system, if only it meant she could just rest her eyes. Just a bit of peace, a minute for her mind to... be. A little stolen time.

               Instead, she reached for the glove compartment and pulled out her sunglasses, hooking them on her t-shirt. Life was all about making do, right? Plus, she figured, you can't go wrong in Ray-bans. And if you did, well; at least you'd be a suave looking mistake.

               She paused for a moment, tracing her finger down the pile of tapes that were stacked by the gear stick. Her memory threw weak grappling hooks to thoughts of better days. She contemplated the weirdness … no, the strength of the mind, of how one song can transport you back in time.

She shut her eyes and felt green grass around her toes. Her bitten nail came to a halt on a particular cassette, her eyelids rose, and she remembered.

Back in the day it was all fields and making out, summer fayres and alcohol – decks, sex and electro. She missed the high pitched twangs of the top E, skittering around her ears like electric mosquito's in the breeze. She longed for the hot, wet summer days climbing over rocks in streams, sleeping under trees and walking home barefoot covered in pollen, the soles of her feet black with dirt and bruises. She still had the odd scar, and looked upon them as old friends. Scattered remnants of better days, a bloody map of teenage adventures, silvery lines of a life long since lost, but not forgotten.

Renee removed the keys from their leather and steel encasing, turned up the radio, and exited the car. The sun was casting long shadows across bits of battered tarmac, catching itself in nooks and pebbles, leaving parts of itself behind on its long stretch to the bottom of the cliff.

               As the door swung shut, she glanced at her other self in the wing mirror. Ivory skin, freckles dotting around her face and straying over the lines of her lip, long auburn ringlets wrapped around each other in some eternal tangle that she'd never quite been able to tame. Turquoise eyes peered out of their reflective prison, golden flecks tinting them green in one continuous circular wave, like spilled champagne on the surf.

               She dragged her trainers on the walk to the boot, scuffing lines into the dirt, contemplating, as she lifted the door.

Removing the sunglasses from her t-shirt, she brushed away an auburn ringlet and placed them over the docile green eyes of the limp, crumpled body in front of her. A pale, almost opaque arm lay over its chest. Renee's eyebrows faltered as she leaned over and gazed upon a girl she once knew, so well. A tear escaped her eye and trailed down her cheek, landing on the girls face, from one freckled maze to another. The reflection in the Ray-Bans was of someone she didn't particular know any more. She bent down and pulled the laces from her boots, held them up to trail in the breeze, then swung her leg backwards, forwards, and kicked off her shoes, straight over the edge of the cliff.

               The sun was almost fully risen as Renee walked around to the front of the car, sat inside, turned up the radio and released the handbrake.

***

The seagull lifted his head out of the foaming water, a small black fish in his mouth as a great metal lump came plummeting towards the rocks. Pushing his feet off the wet sand, he flew to a higher distance and in the process, dropped his dinner. The fish fell through the air and straight into the birds watery reflection, causing the wings to part in obscure circular ripples.

               Footprint marks trailed up the beach, followed by various metallic nuts and bolts, and the gull watched as a bare, bloody foot disappeared behind a rock; then turned back to his now peaceful reflection.

Author Bio

Ginny Ratcliffe is a 21-year-old Creative Writing student from Yorkshire, i.e. that place that looks a bit like The Shire but with less hobbits. She can often be found in dark corners and/or record shops questioning reality, or attempting to show her friends how she can psychically guess the contents of a Kinder Egg without even opening it.

She enjoys writing prose and screen plays, and has a slightly unhealthy obsession with Hacker the Dog off CBBC. Her favourite authors are the whimsical masterminds Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.

Dance Nocturnale

Dance Nocturnale

Roger Noons

a glass of Asti Spumante,a little fizz, but not too much alcohol

Something awakened me; compulsion drew me from the bed towards the window. Despite shivers passing through my torso and along my legs, I felt no cold; in fact my face was burning. My eyes scanned the moonlit lawn beyond the parterres, zig zagging in order to leave no space unchecked. In the far corner to my right, beneath the berry-laden holly, there was a badger; snuffling and foraging, its body rolling with the effort. I was mesmerized.

    My reverie was disturbed by a sound from within the house. The closing of a door I surmised, until I recalled that there was only me present. I concentrated; closed my eyes, unmoving. For at least five minutes there was silence; not a creak, no hum, nor a drip. A pleasing smell of lavender reached my nostrils.

    Convinced that I had imagined it, I returned my gaze to the garden. The mammal had moved to the opposite edge of my view. As I watched, it reared up on hind legs and I stared, open-mouthed as, after stretching, the shape peeled off a hairy garment and tossed it onto the grass. The exposed figure, which could have been male or female, was slight in build and naked, the glowing skin, hairless.

    Still with its back to me, the person began to dance. At first, slow, careful steps, but as I watched in my trance-like state, the tempo increased, the movement quickened and it became a frenzied programme, a blur of bright colours subdued by the available light. More figures appeared; the dance becoming an expertly choreographed chorus, and I began to hear the accompanying music. Involuntarily, my foot moved to the beat. Tap, tap, tap … my hand joined in; fingernails against glass.

    My brain crescendoed with the movement until there was a flash. My vista filled with silver light and when I reopened my eyes, all was still, the brightness muted, no sign of any living creature, and no indication of sound. Slowly, shaking my head, I returned to the bed and sitting on the side, with my back to the window, thought about what I had seen. I picked up the letter and began to read.

Cher Patrice,

 I have decided that I no longer wish to continue dancing; the control and discipline demands greater effort than I am prepared to give. Therefore after the current tour is …

     I swung my legs onto the bed, screwed up the letter and flung it across the room. I lay back and closed my eyes, a smile creasing my face.

Author Bio

Having spent the best part of thirty five years writing reports on such subjects as ‘Provision of Caravan Sites for Travellers’ and ’Aspects of Pest Control in the Urban Environment’, Roger Noons began even more creative writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts and having become addicted, began to pen short stories and poems. He occasionally produces memoirs and other non-fiction. He has begun to perform his poems, and has just published ’An A to Z by RLN’, an anthology of 26 short stories. He intends by the end of the year to have followed that up with a novella.

He is a member of two Writers Groups and tries his hardest to write something every day. As well as CafeLit, he has had credits in West Midlands newspapers, The Daily Telegraph, Paragraph Planet, Raw Edge and a number of Anthologies.

Roger is a regular contributor to the CafeLit site and a couple of his stories have been selected for the Best of CafeLit 2012.