A Look at the Earlier Days by Imran Zarif, chocolate coffee

Some places become particularly important in life because of the time spent there with special people. Arman’s old home, where he had once talked, laughed, and shared moments with his loved ones, was now just a silent witness. Those close to him had departed, leaving only echoes of their voices. As he stood beside the sofa covered in dust, looking at the old walls, chairs, doors, and fans, he realized that these were just materials before, but now, they felt like pills of nostalgia. It was as if he was having a conversation with the souls who had once lived with him.

He turned toward the corner of the room, and in his mind’s eye, he saw the faces of his loved ones smiling at him. Their expressions carried the warmth of old days, the silent longing of memories that could never be relived. Different happenings surfaced in his mind, but when he tried to remember the exact days they had occurred, he found it impossible. Time had stolen the small details, and now, no matter how hard he tried, he could not recapture the same feelings of those moments.

Arman tried to figure out the trivial details that made those moments special. The wrinkles on the faces of his elders, the warmth of their hugs, their voices—everything had faded, leaving behind blurry images in his memory. He longed to touch them, to hug them as he once did. But now, they were no longer as familiar as they had been. Time had created a distance that could not be crossed. Those people had moved on—some were busy making memories in other stories, while others had gone forever, their absence permanent.

He sighed, his heart heavy yet full. He had learned a lesson: to pay attention, respect, and love those around him before they, too, became distant memories.

Arman stood at the entrance of his childhood home, now worn with time. The walls, once filled with laughter, whispered tales of the past. Everything happens on time, he thought. With time, we evolve, we part our ways, and we grow in different directions. Just as a seed becomes a plant, then a tree, and in the same tree, different branches grow in different directions. The memories he had with people were part of his life, and they had made his journey brighter in their own way. The promises, the shared moments, all reminded him of how much had changed and how much had been lost. Yet, he reminded himself that these memories were not a burden but a strength.

The future awaited, offering him the opportunity to brighten someone else's journey, just as others had brightened his. He knew he would play the same role in others' lives as others had played in his. The future was waiting with the promise to transform the new house into an old one with love, respect, care, and a vast network of memories.

As Arman walked through the rooms, he closed the doors gently behind him, not just in farewell but in the hope of making new memories with the people still in his life. He reminded himself to respect and love those around him, to pay attention to the minute details that made them unique so that he would never feel the same for them. Someday, when he would look back at these memories, he knew he would have a clear picture with all the details he wanted.

About the Author:

Imran Zarif is a Pakistani writer passionate about English literature. He writes short stories, essays, poems, and non-fiction, exploring themes of society, gender roles, traditions, and blindly followed rituals. His work delves into human experiences, decision-making, and cultural norms, offering thought-provoking narratives that challenge conventions and inspire reflection.

D-I-V-O-R-C-E by Anne Marie Lyall, Sparkling Babycham

Lara grabbed the hairbrush and whacked the transistor radio in fury as the week’s number one blasted out. Fighting the urge to flip the bird, she placed a hand on each side of the box and leaned in.

‘Stand by my bloody man?’ she yelled over the music. ‘Tammy. Honey.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Seriously?’ With a flick of her wrist, the music died.

The clock chimed ten. Good enough, she thought, pouring herself another drink. Knocking it back she resumed surveillance. Twenty minutes later a red van drew up. The postman jumped out. Clutching a heavy looking pouch over his shoulder he disappeared into the building.
Grabbing for her platforms she knocked over her glass of Babycham. The sparkling liquid pooled onto the carpet. Lara frowned. The mess didn’t bother her; the pink shag pile looked none the worse for it. It was the waste of good fizz that rankled. She shrugged it off as she remembered there was more cooling in the fridge.

Lara’s feet slapped on the concrete as she made her way down. By the time she reached the communal mailbox area she was breathless.

Hand shaking, she turned the key. The door swung open. Lara stared in disbelief. It was empty. There was no letter. No Decree Absolute. Not even the usual marketing bumph. Slamming the door hard she pressed her forehead against the cold metal cursing her naivety: the solicitor had sworn it would be with her today.

‘Looking for something?’ a familiar voice asked.

Lara swung round to find her estranged husband standing in the doorway wafting a large brown envelope in the air. Her sharp eyes took in the good suit - his best - and smartly trimmed beard. Jon looked good and he knew it. That had always been the problem. Old hurts and anger soared to the surface.

‘What are you doing here?’ she fumed. ‘Have you forgotten what today is?’

He smirked. Maintaining eye contact, Jon shoved the envelope between his knees and dug inside his breast pocket. With a flourish of his hand, he presented a red velvet ring box.

Lara’s jaw dropped. They stared at one another and, for a moment, she imagined their future was before them, and not behind them.

A car horn ripped through the silence. Jon shoved the box back into his pocket.

‘Sorry,’ he said, not looking the least contrite. ‘I came by to catch the postman. My Decree Absolute didn't arrive today, and I figured yours might have. I need this,’ he said, waving the envelope. ‘I’m getting married this afternoon.’

Lara’s face twisted in confusion. Uncertain, Jon backed away, hastily shoving the envelope behind his back.

‘No hard feelings, eh?’ he called as he bolted for the waiting cab.

Lara watched until the car disappeared out of sight. That’s it, she thought. It’s over. She grinned. She was free. There was no looking back now. Her spirit soared.

Taking the stairs, she laughed as she found herself humming Tammy’s other big hit: ‘D-I-V-O-R-C-E’ under her breath.

About the Author

Anne Marie is from Scotland. She can almost see Loch Lomond on a clear day. Anne Marie is published in the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize anthology, 101 words and long listed in the Mslexia Flash Fiction Competition. She was a reader for the Edinburgh Flash Fiction Award 2025.

Links

https://www.amazon.co.uk/But-words-can-never-hurt-ebook/

https://101words.org/the-night-visitor/

Ma Clar the village Santiwah by Otancia S Noel, Herbal Brew

                                             

‘…But yuh cyar ketch me,’ the Mighty Sparrow warns his would-be wife Melda in the eponymous calypso, ‘with necromancy. / All you do cyar get thru.’

Doctor Bird’s self-assurance derives from the fact that ‘Papa Neza is my grandfather.’ But had Melda had the good fortune, like me, to be the granddaughter of Ma Clar, Sparrow’s smugness might well have proven to be misplaced. “Ma Clar revered as the village healer, visiting the sick and binding the dead, giving healing baths to the suffering, making soothing balms for those in pain and delivering babies where they were wanted and dispatching them where, they were not. In simple terms, she ran a 24-hour unofficial clinic.

The granddaughter of ex-slaves with Yoruba roots, Clarissa “Ma Clar” Wells, née David, grew up on a cocoa estate in Grenada. At eighteen, she arrived in Trinidad, barefooted, unschooled, armed with an extensive knowledge of herbs and spices and their salutary and culinary properties. This art of traditional healing, referred to as ‘bush medicine’ passed down from her Yoruba ancestors.

She married Conrad ‘Papio’ Wells, son of a white plantation owner and a cocoa payol or mulatto mother Ma Clar worked as a maid, pharmacy help and baby-sitter for a few years in South where the couple had settled. They acquired parcels of estate land in Chaguanas and South: including a 20-acre estate. Ma Clar and her husband raised eight children while running the estate where they grew cocoa, coffee, and citrus and reared livestock. They ran a meat shop, and sent most of their children abroad for formal education without which Ma Clar had been able to ‘make something of mehself.’

 Ma Clar worked in the fields from 4am, by mid-afternoon she moved on to her secondary occupation, bush doctor and rubbing woman, sometimes unkindly called ‘obeah woman.’

            As I walk through the estate grounds with her, there is, it seems, not a single bush whose name she does not know, providing comprehensive and precise explanations of its uses. Exotic names like zebapique and kuzay maho, roll easily off her tongue

‘What is a bush bath?’

‘A bath where herbs and oils are used to combat ailments, in nowadays terms hydrotherapy.’ Also used in cases of spiritual interference, ‘as we say obeah, bad eye or evil eye, envy, bad luck, sickness; mal ju is a term meaning all of these things.’

 The bush bath is also used in cases of skin ailments such as eczema, what we call ‘bobo’ and allergies, known as bad skin or mad blood.

 Some of the items used in these baths are: baking soda, potassium permanganate or conduce crystals, lime, lemon, rosemary, black sage leaves, eucalyptus oil, red lavender oil, manuka, kuzay maho, purple heart, senna leaves, carilye vine, shining bush, blue soap, blue ,sweet broom bush, and Epsom salts.

The bath is usually prepared in an old cast iron tub outside, a pail, a bucket, a half barrel, bathtub or any container; some practitioners have a special container for baths. The bath is warm or cold depending on the situation. The ingredients are left to soak or ‘cusumay’ in the water to extract the beneficial properties. The person baths with some of the water and is then immersed in the remaining water, giving them a good soak in the mixture.

            A bath used for bad eyes, bad luck or to remove bad spirits may consist of sweet broom leaves, red lavender oil, blue soap, blue, lime, Epsom salts and rosemary; sometimes blessed with a prayer or two. Sometimes a sea dip afterwards and or a coceya broom lash; a broom made from the stripped dry leaves of the coconut palm tree. A bath for the deceased consisted of downs leaves, red lavender, eucalyptus oil and coconut oil.

             These days, on weekends, I pick senna leaves and pound them with my mortar and pestle, put these in the half barrel with water outside, along with baking soda, lime, rosemary, black sage leaves, and red lavender. I let it cusumay a few hours in the hot sun; I dunk my squealing granddaughter into the barrel, following up her bath with a good rubdown of oils.

My son laughs and buss a steupps, his lips curling into an o, ‘Mom you and this old bush thing.’

I smile, ‘My grandmother lives on in me.’

About the Author:

Otancia Noel, mother of five, teacher, MFA in Creative Writing Prose Fiction graduate from University of West Indies Trinidad and Tobago. loves reading, writing, researching, cooking, gardening and family time.

 

A Trial Inhumation by Kate Twitchin, a large brandy

By Kate Twitchin 

 a large brandy

 

“It is you, isn’t it?”

“Damn, I thought these dark glasses and this hideous hat were a good disguise.”

“I’d know you anywhere, Angela…”

“Keep your voice down.”

“I don’t understand. I saw him bury you.”

“The most terrifying three hours of my life, I can tell you. Edgar Allen Poe didn’t know the half of it.”

“Three hours?”

“I told him two hours, max. Typical of him to lose track of time.”

“You’re saying he buried you alive?”

“Obviously.”

“But…”

“Wait a sec, how come you saw him bury me?”

“What?”

“It was dark, it was a secret, and it was a good way off the forest track.”

“Why?”

“We could hardly do it in my back garden with nosy old Mrs. Perkins next door.”

“I mean, why did he bury you alive?”

“Sales, darling, sales. I thought if I mysteriously disappeared for a bit…”

“Christ! Couldn’t you have checked into a spa Hotel in Harrogate under an assumed name?”

“That was my first idea, of course, but then I thought, I can kill two birds with one stone here.”

“Two birds?”

“Research, darling, research. For my next novel. I’m going down the Romantic Gothic Horror route.”

“You let him bury you alive for research?”

“I know, genius isn’t it?”

“Completely mental is what it is.”

“Hang on. You didn’t answer my question. How come you saw him bury me?”

“Let’s just say, you’re not the only one doing research.”

“What? He’s got some explaining to do. Have you got your car?”

“Tesco’s car park.”

“OK. Meet me at mine."

With that, Angela Goodbody put her head down and scuttled off in the direction of the Long Stay Car Park.

 

As I made my way through the crowds of Saturday shoppers, I pulled out my phone and called Toby.

“Sarah?”

“I just saw our mutual friend. Alive.”

“What?”

“She told me everything.”

“Everything?”

“You buried her alive, for Christ’s sake.”

“Don’t talk rubbish. She’s dead. You were there. You saw me bury her.”

“Not quite. I was keeping lookout by the car, remember?”

“But you saw me dig the grave, saw the coffin I made out of…”

“Lengths of timber left over from my decking, yes, yes, I saw all that but I didn’t see you physically bury her. All I saw was you disappearing into the woods, dragging her corpse wrapped in an old carpet.”

“Dead body, old carpet, what’s the difference? You saw what you wanted to see.”

“You were supposed to kill her, Toby. Toby?” He’d rung off, the pillock.

 

He hadn’t murdered her. I knew I should be relieved but right then I was confused, angry, and fearful. Mostly fearful, for my debut novel. Everything about that night: the owls screeching and foxes barking as blue-black clouds scudded across the moon; the smell of leaf mould underfoot and the distant, muffled sound of Toby’s shovel as he filled in the grave. It was all there, in my opening chapter.

The police procedural bits were coming along nicely too, thanks to the invaluable experience of being questioned by a very hostile police officer in a grim interview room. Being caught up in a media frenzy was an eye-opener as well. When did I last see my client, one-time popular novelist Angela Goodbody? Is she dead or alive? In light of her recent flops, can suicide be ruled out? Relentless speculation, but it was worth it. As her agent of two decades, I was enjoying seeing sales of her tedious books soar and my percentage of the cash rolling in, minus what I’d agreed to pay Toby. But what about my book? I needed the constant dread of being found out, the stress of all the lies, being the prime suspect of foul play, to make my novel real. How many crime writers truly know how it feels to have killed someone…or at least aided and abetted in a real murder?

 

As I pulled up outside Angela’s cottage, it was Toby who yanked open the front door.

“Get in, quick!”

“Bloody hell, Toby, what’s going on?”

“I can explain.”

“She’s still alive, damn it.”

“You didn’t seriously think I was going to kill her, did you?”

“It’s what we agreed, for my book.”

“You’re nuts,” he was saying as, behind him, the door to Angela's study opened and there she was, smiling, and very full of life.

“Talking of nutters,” Toby muttered.

“Sarah, lovely to see you again. Sorry I had to dash off but if you could recognise me then so might others. I want to stay disappeared for a bit longer, I mean, have you seen what it’s done for my sales?”

“Enough to buy a bigger hat?”

“Going shopping was a bit reckless but I was going stir-crazy.”

“Angela, I…”

“How’s your book coming along?”

“You know about that?”

“Toby just told me. I’m dying to read it, no pun intended. Anyway, now you’re here, pop your literary agent’s hat on and have a read of my prologue.”

She led me to her desk where a document was open on the computer screen.

 

Working title: A Trial Inhumation.

I began to read…

 

My head is throbbing; my whole body aches and I’m very, very cold, and thirsty, so thirsty. I’ve never known such utter darkness and the only sound is my blood pounding in my ears. I try to sit up but my forehead whacks against something hard. I start to bend my knees but they hit the same hard surface. Where am I? Have I been asleep, or unconscious? I feel panic rising as I search for clues. My breath is ragged, my heart racing, as I explore the space around me. There are only a couple of inches between me and the walls of my…my…coffin. I’m in a coffin. I’m in a coffin. I can’t breathe. I’m in a coffin. I’m in a coffin. I’m screaming, yelling, hammering on the sides...

 

About the Author

Retired Administrator Kate is enjoying sitting around and making things up. She’s had poems and a short story published by The People’s Friend; Flash Fiction in Secret Attic, Early Works Press and Briefly Write; and short stories published by Writers’ Forum, WriteTime and Scribble, and shortlisted in various competitions.

 

What if? By David J Traer, ginger beer

As I passed the dilapidated front door of number 62 Alexander Avenue, a voice called down to me. I looked up through the gloom. The misty shape of a head appeared to be suspended from a window above me.

         It was a Friday, in the cold white twilight of January the third, my father’s birthday; he was working away again, mum wasn’t happy.

        The year escapes me. I’d hazard a guess at 1951. I was ten, maybe eleven: primary school age.  I was on my way home from a friend’s house. Number sixty-two was, like the other properties in the centre of that blitz-scarred, Victorian terrace, neglected and derelict. A far cry from what I see today: much shorter terraces of modern maisonettes, high and low-rise blocks of flats, promised homes for East Londoners after years of war, rationing and, despite a booming job market, homelessness. But as Dad said: ‘You mark my words, now that Churchill is back, all will soon be well again.’

           For obvious reasons the house numbers have changed but I think I’m in the right part of the street. Back then, there were warning notices on every door, every lamp-post, every tree. Not before time, the whole area was due for demolition.

          “Are you talking to me?” I responded.

          “Can you please help me?” The man’s voice was croaky, old.

          I recalled my mother’s words, ‘Charlie, don’t you ever talk to strangers.’ A warning that threw me into a dilemma with another of her mantras, ‘Never be too shy to help those in need.’ With that contradiction in mind, I considered the stranger’s request. I could, of course, have just continued on my way. There was no way he could have seen me, there were no consequences to worry about; but doing nothing, would have bothered me. What If something was seriously wrong? If something bad had happened and I could have helped, I’d never have been able to forgive myself.

            “What’s the matter?” I called back.

            “Can you come up here. Just push the door, it’s open.”

             That I didn’t expect. I imagined that he wanted me to run to the shops for something; expecting me to blindly go into that house was a whole different ball game.

             “Why?” I shouted back.

             “Just push the door, come up the stairs and along the landing,” his voice had grown a little weaker. “I’m in the second room on the left. Hurry.”

             “I’ll see if I can find someone to come in with me.”

             “No need, you can do this by yourself.”

             “Do what?”

            My mind was racing, the sensible thing to do was knock next door. There was no way, I should be entering that house alone, but the whole street had been vacated. The road itself was littered with rubbish, bricks and broken glass. What the hell was he doing in that house, anyway? No one should have been living there? He was probably a tramp. Homeless, skint, injured, maybe even dangerous.

            “Help me…. Please, help me….”

            “Are you hurt; do you want me to call for an ambulance?”

              When he didn’t reply, I started to panic. I was totally alone, no passers-by, no cars, only me, what could I do?  I ran up and down the street, frantically shouting at broken windows.

              I returned to the house and carefully considered my options. If I pushed the door open, just a little, I might have been able to see if it was safe enough to enter. During October and November, most empty houses, these included, would have been ransacked for furniture, floorboards, rafters, anything to help fuel the Guy Fawkes bonfires. Regardless of how dangerous that bloke might have been, the house itself could have been a serious health risk, but I couldn’t leave without at least taking a look.

            I picked up a broken brick from the pavement, moved closer to the door and listened. All was silent. I stepped back, and lifted my eyes towards the fast-disappearing floating head.

            “Should I call for an ambulance?” I repeated.

            “No, I just need you to come up here. Hurry.” His voice, barely audible.

            He sounded like I was beginning to feel, desperate, but his voice definitely came from upstairs. So, he wasn’t behind the door, waiting to jump me. But he might not be alone in there. There might be two or even more of them.

            That last thought spooked me.

            I stepped into the road and reconsidered.  It was growing darker; the main road was around three hundred yards to my left, to my right were more streets like that one. It was a shortcut all the kids used, but only when it was light, only when there was less fear of tripping. There was only one option.

             “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I shouted. “I’m going for help.”

              Not waiting for a reply. I dropped the brick and legged it towards the high street.

              That was over thirty years ago. This is the first time I’ve been back here since that scary encounter.

              I did call for help, the man in the newsagent phoned for the emergency services.  Then, he told me to get myself home and not to worry. That was like telling a kid not to worry about his lost dog.

              On the following day, I returned to the newsagent. He told me that, despite ambulance and fire crews spending over an hour searching, not only number 62, but also the houses on either side and across the street from it, no one was found.  

            I had considered going back to that house to look for myself in daylight. However, the whole area was shut off that morning, demolition works had begun. The sound of cascading brickwork put paid to any of my superhero plans.

            I look up at the double-glazed window frames and wonder, ‘What if?’

‘What if I could have helped? ‘What if he died in there?’  ‘What if I’d been braver?’

             Shaking my head, I select first gear.  The radio is playing the Beatles: ‘Help’. My whole body is shaking.

             I quickly silence John Lennon’s words, depress the accelerator and speed off, vowing never to return; and hoping that one day, I’ll be able to forget.

About the Author

Dave has spent many years writing short stories. He had decided that 2025 would be the year to dip his toe in the water and start to put some out there. This is the first time that he has submitted one to CafeLit.        

Sunday Serial: 280 x 70, 51. Ego Trip, House of Commons still water,

 Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 240 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day. 

 

This photo was going to look good.  Really super. Big Ben was in the background. A gentle breeze ruffled her shoulder-length hair a little. It made her look younger. The pearls, though, confirmed her sophistication.  That green was her best colour and the smart but simple navy jacket would make people take her seriously.  She gazed towards the camera.

Gosh, she'd been at this a long time, hadn't she? Back in her uni days she was the one challenge the outside speakers and arranging the protest marches. What was the matter with young people today? They didn't get involved, did they?

Oh that night when she won her first seat.

"Very well, done ma'am," said the rotund chairman of the local group.  What was his name? She'd forgotten. "You are so young. I'm sure you'll do a grand job."

Well she had, hadn't she? And now here she was, still in place. Despite all of the turmoil. She'd retained her place. And now she was looking forward to more debates in the House. They may not stop for a summer recess this year, what with all the problems. Bring it on!

It was a real mess, wasn't it? One buffoon in charge and incompetent anti-Semitic trying to take his place with a third flexing her muscles and elbowing her way in. Oh what a lark.

She would show them. She would throw her clever phrases around. She would challenge the egocentric Eton Mess throwing male chauvinists and the wimpish simpering apologies for women. It was a matter in the end for who would have the last word, wasn't it? She would show them.

"Smile for the camera," said the photographer.      

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 teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.    

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter 

 

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