Sunday Serial, 280 x 70, 23 Recharging Ricky 10 January 2019, by Gill James, old wine,

"So, wathca got for me today, then?"

Ricky clearly hadn't enjoyed his birthday party yesterday. Too many people probably and too much fuss. It wasn't Ricky's style. He looked exhausted. His 100 years were showing. He was slouched in his chair. His mouth was set in a firm line and his eyebrows threatened a frown. 

Neil showed him the book.

"Ah. Poems then. I enjoyed her novels."

"I think you'll enjoy these as well."

Ricky sighed. "Alright then."

Tom began reading." We came from the far side of the river / of starlight... thinking about compassion. / A firefly in a great dark garden. / An earthworm naked / on a concrete path." An undefined future is the focus of the third part of the poem, where the speaker reflects on the unfathomable: "I think of the journey / we will take together / in the oarless boat / across the shoreless river."

After twenty minutes Tom paused to look at Ricky. His cousin's eyes were closed. Tom shook his arm. "Eh, fella, are you asleep?"

Ricky shook his head. "No, no. It's easier to get the picture in your head if you close your eyes. Carry on. Carry on. Her poems are even better than her stories."

By the time they announced that lunch was ready Tom had read three quarters of the book.

"Can we finish it after lunch?" asked Ricky. His eyes were shining now. He pulled himself without any effort out of his chair. "And you'll join me?"    

"I should think so," said Tom. All those other appointments could wait. And he would make sure he came to read to Ricky at least twice a week.

About the author

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. 

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.   

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Saturday Sample: The Best of CafeLit 10, A Bolt from the Blue by Mark Winson, a cup of unstirred tea that only presents the sugar to the tongue with the last mouthful

 

It was a strange day. There was a grating silence hanging in the air. There were few birds singing, few conversations of passers-by that I could gate crash and less than the usual stampede of traffic rumbling down the high street. Most notable was the stillness that settled over the school playground, a clamour I ordinarily enjoyed; the chatter and giggling of children are to me, so representative of the continuation of life. The sunshine, the glorious sunshine that had dominated so much of that summer, was also absent, as if God had flicked a simple switch. My face felt abandoned, condemned to defending itself from the sharp wind that brought about the change in the weather. Perhaps there had been something more, on that noteworthy day,  that I should have been aware of.

Needs must, however. I had drained the house of milk, blitzed out the bread bin and was suffering an oral with-drawl after eating too many dry crackers. Dry, I say dry, but they had turned, were slightly damp, so I had to venture out. It would at least break the silence, not that my silence inconvenienced anyone, living alone on my meagre income was hardly going to open sunflowers. I had learned to cope however, made mistakes along the way, as we all do, but there was a subtle difference between wanting to and having to. The doctor had told me that!

So, I donned my overcoat. I feel the cold much more these days and wear it more than often. I’ve taken to sitting in it, to listen to The Archers, rather than putting the heating on. Then, I took up my not so macho shopping bag, which was the wife’s, bless her, and fully equipped I left. I tried to walk with a defiant step, something I’d learned that relieved my trepidation and hesitation. Shoppers with swinging bags and drag along children are normally the only waves that fail to part in front of me, but I was far more confused when there were none. An ever-doubting mind you see, a propensity for reflecting on the downside of my existence, and a tendency to ask myself taxing questions all the time. I did on that day. Was it that people were avoiding me? Maybe the case had I not washed for a week, but I’m always fastidious with my personal hygiene and always indulge in a drift of aftershave.

I did well to dodge the abrupt parking bollards and spewing litter bins, which were more than testing, but getting across the road was like negotiating my life away. Screaming cars, articulated lorries, silent but deadly push bikes are bad enough, but I also had to contend with the state of the road surface. What do they do all day long, in those bleeding council offices? Most likely they are engrossed in that Facebook thing, playing games and talking to fellow anoraks. They even twitter, according to my nephew, as if they’re all birding freaks or something. I ride over the ruts in smooth roads when out of town, but I’m at far more risk of falling down those cut into an urban street. It’s then I wobble like jelly, scrabbling to right myself just in time to avoid yet another skidding car with all the tread of a fried egg in a well-greased pan.

I walked past the arcade, listening to the pinging pinball machines and jingling of coins falling over the waterfalls, past the last remaining record shop, one that persists in playing music that you’re supposed to listen to in your garage! I stopped just outside Mothercare, somewhere I think all babies dislike judging by the bawling coming from inside and turned to stand at the curbs edge. Hesitating, assessing the odds in crossing the street, I suddenly felt a splash from God’s watering can. I cursed him under my breath. I have my doubts about religion and would like to know just how God can be held so reverently, what with all the bad in the world. There was twice the urgency if I wanted to stay dry. So, prompted by my chiding mind if nothing else, I quickly stepped out into the oceanic expanse of tarmac, leaving behind the security of its coastline, with no more focus than getting across the channel.

It was then that it happened. I’d been so preoccupied; I’d paid little heed to the rumbling overhead and failed to realise or recognise what was coming. I always listen to the news of a morning but have an unerring habit to switch the radio off before the weather report.

 You don’t hear lightening, you have little warning that it’s coming, only a heavenly notification that it’s been and gone as the furniture overhead is dragged across the sky. Then wallop! This bolt from what must have been a power-station in the clouds hit me, pummelling me into what became scorched tarmac! It rifled up through my body, from the ground beneath my feet until the hair on the back of my neck stood like that of a cat’s angry back. I felt myself go rigid, statuesque and hard; any chill of the day being blown away in a millisecond. There was a distinct smell of dry burning and a crackling closing over the vacuum left in the air as all the oxygen was consumed. Probably being the only reason why I hadn’t burst into flames. I could feel the blood in my veins beginning to boil, taste a hit of what seemed to be barbecue sauce, infused into my tongue. I yelled, believe me you would! I don’t think I swore, least not as this generation seem to, but something leapt from my screaming mouth all the same. Then all was dark, all was silent.

I don’t remember much more at that point, I had no inkling of how long I been away with the fairies, it was just, well, black. They say your life is supposed to flash before your eyes, not that it did in my case, but neither did it occur to me that I’d been deprived of a promised liaison with St Peter, and had never stood before the gold wrought iron of heaven’s gates. I could have lost days, I could have lost weeks, things might well have accelerated to the point of me missing several episodes of the “Archers”.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I opened my eyes. The shock was more than palpable, as stood in front of me was Jesus Christ, nestling on a fluffy white cloud formation, in a long blue robe that rolled comfortably over his relaxed arms, folded to allow his hands to come together in prayer. A legion of angels had glided over him, with the faces of innocent babies and the wings of mighty eagles outstretched illustriously. Dainty birds with gloriously coloured coats, either heaven bound or in ghostly flight, swooped and played across the orange of the sky as they were welcomed by him. His smile was gentle, a forgiving smile to those that needed forgiving, and that could well have included me.   

The vista in front of me was inspiring, inspiriting and yet in its own way, reassuring. It certainly wasn’t what I expected, believe you me. At first, I was shocked, so shocked in witnessing what I was seeing that I felt sure it had to be a miracle. Had God put aside my perfidiousness, my dishonesty, that time I pinched a new band saw from work, that time I jabbed Richard Smith in the eye, I could go on. If asked I would never have admitted that I was unworthy, but then he is supposed to forgive you, isn’t he?

“I don’t believe it,” I said, “after all these years, after all this time,” I said. “I’m so sorry!” Frankly, it was surprising that this last-ditch confession was accepted and that the trapdoor to oblivion remained shut.

I was just about to kneel in front of Jesus and ask him for further directions, when suddenly, a panicked voice broke the serenity of the moment.

“He’s awake Vicar! He’s alive Vicar! but I think he thinks he’s dead, that he’s gone to heaven, he’s in a daze. You have to do something!” I could hear this lady’s stampeding voice rattling round my head as I felt my stupor lighten and my feet finally touch down again. She sounded in some respects like the wife, always having her say, forcing her opinion, bless her, and then handing responsibility over to someone else. We survived as long as we did because I had the foresight to listen and then disregard much of what she said. 

“Oh my, oh my Lord, how did he survive a strike like that? Just look at the state of him!” said a man more from somewhere behind my head, whose hands were holding it steady. “It knocked the power out to the church and half of the town’s shops!” I was lying on my back you see, but then I’d hardly be standing upright if what he was saying was true. In actual fact, I was lying exactly where a compassionate band of church goers had laid me, after rescuing my burnt corpse from the middle of the charred road. How lucky that they were meeting on such a day, how lucky was I? They stood hopeful, crossing themselves over and over repeatedly, beseeching God not to take me before time, until eventually, thankfully, I opened my eyes and managed to focus. I felt at first, as if I was in a hospital bed, with seven shades of junior Doctors angling over me, putting forward observations and coming to a bizarre diagnosis.  

“We should never have brought him into the church, never have put him just here!” the Vicar said, chastising himself and looking up at the beautifully painted church ceiling. “He thinks he’s looking into heaven, thinks he’s meeting Jesus, you’re right, he thinks he must have passed away!” I don’t know whether it was the shock of the ceiling that I was looking at, or the crucifix hanging from the vicar’s neck!

It was then that I felt my mouth crack with an allowance for a broadening smile, or more likely a look of wonderment that had spread across my face, those looking down at me exhibiting much the same reaction. I was alive, I was more than alive, I was, well, repaired. I was no longer looking at Jesus and his cloud hopping minions, I’d focused on the vicar.

“No, you don’t understand,” I said. He wasn’t listening of course, not many people do when looking at someone of my age, they think that just because my bodies failing, my mind is too. His intentions were commendable all the same, Godly, saintly or whatever a man of the cloth strives to be.

“Lie still my son,” he said, “you’ve had a great shock!” Well, state the bleeding obvious he did, which didn’t help. “The ambulance is on its way, don’t worry!” I looked directly into his eyes, the miraculous fresco above me didn’t matter anymore. I took hold of his arm, quickly, before he began preparing himself to give me the last rights.

“A shock it is, Vicar,” I said, “but not the shock you thought I’d had. You see, before I tried to cross the road and before I felt the heat burning up through my body… truth is…” I remember rubbing my eyes with the back of my hands at this point, as tears began to spill into tributaries running over my cheekbones. I smiled again, ready to make my announcement to the whole world and in the sight of God. “Truth is… I was totally blind!”

About the author 

Frankly I don’t know how I came around to writing books. My teachers at school all said I could do better, although to be fair my English Teacher Mrs Bullock extracted every last drop of mental substance from me, and fired up what has turned out to be a creative bent. Or is it that I’m just a daydreamer? Only in 2016 did I finally, after much persuasion from family and friends, take up writing more seriously and publish my first book. Since then, my style and genre evolved, until comfortably, I can now describe it as quirky fiction.  My website: https://mpwinson.co.uk/

 

Read more 

Alternate Ending by Suzanne M Miller, a hot latte

 

‘She’s always keeping secrets,’  Maeve complains over lattes. ‘Not just the important things, but, well, everything!’

 

            ‘I admit I don’t get it, but I’m sure it’s just Lil’s way. She doesn’t mean any harm,’ I sympathize, though I actually find it rather contemptible.

 

            After two failed marriages each, Maeve and I are well suited to helping each other navigate the rocky path of modern dating. Between Lil, and the long parade of men I’ve cast aside, we’ve never lacked fodder for heartfelt girl-talk.

 

            ‘I do care for Lil, but I’m getting so tired of her distance. She won’t talk about the future. She still hasn’t even said she loves me!’ Maeve cries with a flash of anger I haven’t heard before.

 

            ‘How could she not?’ I wonder aloud, noticing her cheeks flush as she absently stirs her coffee.

 

            In the beginning it was easy being Maeve’s soft shoulder, but as each month passes the complaints are the same. I feel a growing despair myself, witnessing her deepening anguish.

 

            ‘It’s beyond frustrating,' Maeve laments. 'I find myself wondering why I even try.'

 

            'It’s a total mystery to me why she can’t commit!’ I finally blurt out. ‘Just look at you: you’re beautiful. You’re confident, smart, creative, passionate, and have the biggest heart I’ve ever seen. You’re a strong, spirited woman, and you absolutely radiate sex appeal.’

 

 

            We stop talking then and lock eyes. And my life is never the same.

About the author 

Suzanne Miller is a flash-fiction writer in the US. She aspires to move beyond her spare style to someday pen a full-length novel. Suzanne discovered that taking her Yale Law degree did nothing to enhance her love of language, in fact it probably derailed her progress by many years. 

 

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My Weekend at Grammy’s by Laura Sukonick, an old fashioned made with bourbon, no garnishes

“I’m here,” I called as I walked my 8 year old self through my grandparents’ never-locked backdoor. I waved goodbye to my parents as they backed their car out of the long driveway. With their only child officially under her grandmother’s care, their weekly date night with each other had begun at 4pm. So had my weekly date night; with my grandmother.


        “HERE I come,” was the instant response to my greeting from my grandmother’s disembodied voice.  My grandmother didn’t have the winey, nasal tone that sitcom viewers are used to hearing in their Jewish American moms. Instead, she sounded like a prepubescent Louis Armstrong who was immersed in a closing statement in court. Her voice was gruff, but still shrill, and never without total certainty. 

 

            She pre-punctuated her important sentences with a fast inhale. During this inhale she would open and close her bright pinked lips several times like she was revving up her jaw before speaking. After about five revs of the jaw she’d floor it into a story at 70 miles/ hour.

 

            “Where are you?” I called, Marco/Polo-ing my way around the perimeter of her first floor.

            “I’m on the tor-let,” she called back. She always added Rs to words that don’t have Rs. I made my way down the hall to the powder room that Grandmom was yelling at me from. Taped to the shut bathroom door was a sheet of yellow legal pad paper with “TOILET BROKEN!” scribbled in blue ink.

 

            “What’s wrong with your toilet?” I called to the other side of the door.
  “Nothing’s wrong with it.”
           

              “Then what’s with the sign?”
         

                “I put it there so no one uses it,” she responded with casual satisfaction as the toilet flushed.

 

            Ten seconds later the bathroom door flung open. Framed in the doorway was Grandmom in a loose floor-length skirt, still drying her hands with a towel. Upon seeing me she gasped with excitement and threw her head back so that her open mouth was facing the ceiling. With the drying towel still in her hand she propelled herself out of the bathroom doorway. Once in the hallway she began slapping her thighs in delight. (The left thigh she slapped with her palm facing upwards. The right thigh she slapped with the towel.) Next she proceeded to shout Yiddish terms of endearment, slapping her thighs all the while to keep time. Like a spiritual, Yiddish, drill sergeant. Instead of “MARCH MARCH. MARCH MARCH,” She was shouting “SHAY-NA. PUH-NUM.” 

 

            Finally, she embraced me in an aggressively tight hug.  Clinging to me, and the towel, she shifted her weight back and forth from her left foot to her right foot. With each sway she let out a guttural “OY!”  This greeting ritual, which she performed on a weekly basis, was her demonstration of love that is so intense that it’s literally uncontainable. 

 

            “NU?” Grandmom asked me as we headed upstairs. She then immediately translated that to, “What’s doing with you?” As always I was eager to answer. I knew from experience that she would wholeheartedly celebrate anything I was currently excited about. That day I was giving her a run for her money.

 

            For some reason that is beyond comprehension, the new cool trend at my suburban elementary school happened to be collecting magazine advertisements featuring Absolut Vodka bottles. The coolest kids even had them in plastic sleeves, which they kept organized in 3 ring binders. I loved the idea of having something to collect, organize and trade with the other kids. The absurdity of what that item was did not occur to me.

 

            When Grandmom caught wind that I’d become deeply invested in collecting trash advertising liquor, at the age of 8, she laughed, shook her head, and then jumped into action. Together we rummaged through the huge stacks of Times Magazines that my grandfather hoarded by the dozens on his unusable desk. We even emptied the trash cans just in case the AARP was advertising my unlikely new favorite product. By dinner time I had myself a collection of Vodka ads large enough to garner the admiration of the entire fourth grade. We were over the moon about it. 

 

            We celebrated over our usual weekend dinner together: buttered noodles and caffeine free diet coke, with baked apples for dessert.

 

            “The food is GROWing on your plate, not shrinking,” she expressed to me with concern. This meant I wasn’t eating quickly enough to assure her that I was satisfied with the food. (To be fair, no one ever did anything quickly enough for her- the woman took a vacation like she was getting it over with, and expected everybody to follow suit.)

 

            “You don’t like it,” she worried. “I’ll make something else.”
     

            “It’s good! I’m eating,” I reassured her honestly with my mouth full. I knew I could’ve told her if I didn’t want it. My reassurance did not appease her. 

            “Eating?! You took one bite and looked ill. Now you’re turning green on me, like the wicked witch in Oz.” Grandmom liked to insert a movie reference into her statement when she felt she was making a strong point: 

            “Don’t forget your coat,” she’d exasperatedly remind me each Sunday when Mom and Dad came to pick me up. “Because come tomorrow- it’ll be Gone With the Wind, in the dump!” Her repertoire was mostly Hollywood classics from the 1930s.

 

Before long the phone rang.

            “CHRIST ALMIGHTY,” my grandfather screamed from his horizontal EZ chair in the living room, making himself known for the first of two times that evening.  Grandpop always shouted curses when a noise was louder than he preferred it to be.

            “Lauralah is here so DO NOT YELL,” she screamed immediately back.
  “WHO?”
*ring* 

            “CHRIST!!”
            

             “LAURA.”
  

            “Laura ’s here?”


            “JESUS CHRIST!”

 

            “Let it go,” Grandmom instructed me as usual. (Meaning the phone, to voicemail.)  But when the person leaving the voicemail turned out to be her brother, he barely got one word out before she lunged for the phone.

 

            “What’s wrong, Norm?!” s he shouted into the receiver that was still traveling to her mouth. Nothing was wrong. He called every day. She consistently greeted him this way. 

            Norm was Grandmom’s best friend and older brother. He was her only sibling. He was older; she was tougher. They grew up looking out for each other while their family endured antisemitism and poverty. Until the day she died she talked to him like she might have to drop everything and physically defend him at any moment.

 

            The conversation then proceeded as it always did: “Did you eat, Norm?” “What’d you eat?” Pause. “Was it fresh?” Then the indiscriminate grumbling of uncle Norm became audible from the phone speaker, to which, every minute or so,  Grandmom would respond with another “Absolutely.” She  pronounced it like “aha-bsolutely.” This proceeded for about ten minutes until the inevitable,         “Okay Norm. Gay Gezunt, Norm. Call me if you need anything.” And then one more, “Gay Gezunt, Norm. Bye.”  

         After dinner and baked apples, I dressed myself in one of Grandmom’s old fur coats as Grandmom summoned my grandfather at my request.

 

            “HERBERT” she yelled to him from the hallway. “Herbert, Laura wants to sing for us in the living room. Come here.”

            “Again?!” (He had a point. This was a weekly occurrence.)
“Herbert,” she warned him coldly, “DO not start.”

 

            Dutifully my grandfather began the four minute process of getting himself out of his EZ chair. He narrated his annoyance about the ordeal as he moved. Once he arrived in the shag carpeted living room, he began the four minute process of noisily sitting himself down on the sofa.

            When I was satisfied that my two audience members were accounted for, I explained that I would first be singing Hey Big Spender. I had recently become aware of this sensual tune because my cousin had learned it in her dance class and then taught it to me. I began swaying my hips and singing terribly while draped in Grandmom’s enormous fox coat. As if on cue my grandfather immediately fell asleep.

 

             I finished my first song to a standing ovation from Grandmom.  I then announced, “Intermission.” This was so I could feel like a sophisticated cocktail waitress while I scooped a diet coke can out of the refrigerator for my grandmother, and handed it to her in exchange for her dollar. She loved the gimmick and tipped me for my trouble. 

 

            “Intermission is over,” I announced. At this point my grandfather had an announcement of his own. 

            “That’s all for me, Sweetheart,” he said in an exhale, already on the crawl back to his horizontal chair in the living room. He would remain there until the following morning.

 

            After the show Grandmom and I played pickup sticks and Rummy500 (the latter of which she had just taught me the week before). Then it was time to get ready for bed.

 

            Inside her shower I found the usual supplies: a bar of dove soap, a bottle of Pert Plus shampoo, and an absolutely massive unbranded jar, with a screw top lid, of the thickest, most effective hair conditioner I have ever used to this day. I have no idea what it was. 

 

            “Leave your bloomers off, hon,” Grandmom called to me as I was putting on my pajamas in the bathroom. “Bloomers” is what she called underwear.

            “I know, Grandmom.” 

             “You need to air out your knish overnight,” she espoused. “It’s healthy!”
           
        

              With that we turned on the Golden Girls and climbed in bed. After Golden Girls ended she went downstairs and reemerged with two unpeeled oranges in her hand.

 

            “Here Dolly.” 

           I took one of the oranges knowing exactly what to do. I slid it under my left armpit and then snuggled myself under the blankets.

            “Did you really used to do this with your grandmother?” I asked her.
      

             “Aha-bsolutely,” she confirmed, slipping her own orange under her own left armpit.

            “We’ll eat them in the morning and it’ll bring good luck. You’ll see.”

             Five minutes later she was snoring loudly. When I touched her arm gently her body instantly jerked upright while she shouted, 

            “I’M AWAKE WHAT’S WRONG?!”

            “Grandmom,” I whispered, unfazed. I was used to her waking up in an explosion.
        

            “Huh mummulah?”
      

             “Can you tell me a story?”
  

             “Okay honey.”
       

             “About Arlo the horse.”
      

             “Okay, let me think of something.”

            “Okay.”

             I waited. And waited. And then suddenly she was snoring again.

           I could smell the Tropicana orange in my armpit as the familiar clank of her rattling pipes began to fill the room. 

            “It’s ok,” I whispered between her snores. With my two small hands, I softly guided her head back down to the pillow before whispering, “You can tell me the story next week.”

 

About the author 

 

At 36 years old Laura lives with her husband, her two cats, and her existential dread. In her spare time she enjoys reflecting on the often ineffective ways that she’s tried to deal with the hassle of being herself. For the last decade she’s worked as a psychotherapist. 

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