Just a Doll

I told her to paint her face.  Put on mascara, eye liner, and red lipstick.  Powder your nose.  And wear sexy undies.  I want to tape this, I said.  I built Doc another martini, and we sat in my tiny apartment parlor waiting.  Eventually she came out.  She tottered on her heels.  "I'm just a doll," she said.  "I'm just a doll."  I told her to shut up.  I had had enough of her act.  She had been a pain all evening.  We had gone out to dinner at a nice restaurant.  She had picked at her food.  We stopped at the Waikiki afterward and had a couple of fish-bowl size drinks.  Rum and God knows what else.  When we left, Doc and I were in high spirits.  She didn't say two words all the way home.

When we got back to my apartment, I took her into the bedroom, and we had a little talk.  "Be nice," I said.  Then she started up again, and I got mad.  I barked at her.  She looked at me with big eyes.

Afterward she was in a better mood.  She sat in Doc's lap and played with his tie.  Her brown eyes danced.  Doc sat there with a grin on his face.  I rewound the tape and hit the play button.  I told the girl she ought to get an Academy Award.


Jack Swenson
swenjack@comcast.net

When Stars Fall

I ran because I didn’t know what else to do. 

I ran because I could hear them yelling in the living room, shouting about this, that or the other, screaming about such and such, fighting over nothing in particular. I ran because it hurt when they fought, because the knot in my stomach twisted tighter and tighter with each hateful word, because Mother and Father didn't really care if I ran, so I was going to run.

I ran out the back door and into the night, where the warm breeze fluttered through my hair, where the tall grass swished through my bare feet, where the words of my mother --"Look, John, now you've gone and made him do it again..."-- faded away and I was left alone with my thoughts. Past the picket fence, down the long dirt driveway and up the hill with the willow at the top I ran. The willow whispered to me as I desperately climbed its branches, whispered how it understood and that no matter what happened, it would never, ever yell at me or hurt me. Never.

 

I climb to the top and the stars shimmer to greet me. The stars are brighter out in the country, where I live, where my parents fight. Mother used to tell me they were the tears that Jesus shed when He knew how much we were going to abuse His Creation. How much we were going to sin. And every time you see a shooting star, He's crying again.

 

I'm too old for most stories, but I will never be too old for that one. Because every time I see a shooting star, I think of a time when they fought, and how much it hurts, and I wonder how many tears He's going to have to shed before Mom and Dad don't fight anymore.

I shiver, but not because of the cold. It's such a wonderful night, and not to be wasted at the house. The breeze and the willow sing me a song, but I can't hear the words. The melody drifts around me, it wraps me in its arms, it speaks of peace and love and truth and joy...I listen until my eyes close and my arm droops lazily over an outcropping limb.

"Gabriel! Gabriel!"

I open my eyes and look down to see my father standing at the bottom. His face is warm and his eyes are kind, and I can see that the fighting is over for tonight. I climb down and let him hug me and tell me how everything is fine now and that they won't fight ever again, but I know that they're going to do the same thing in a week or so.

I smile and say "Yes, Dad" and let him lead me home. On our way down the hill, I look up at the sky and see a star shimmer across the horizon. My dad points to it.

"Look, Gabriel, a shooting star!"

I look up, and then down as a tear of my own drops to the ground and is soaked up by the understanding earth.

And no matter how many light years apart we are, I know He understands.

Lost In Translation

We set out for a nighttime stroll along the lake. The breeze, uncharacteristically warm for November, ruffles through the trees. "I wish we could go out on a boat tonight", I say, glancing at the empty boat docks. "I wish someone would buy us a drink", she says, glancing at all the couples walking past. 

Strolling past the massive ship housing the yacht club, we reach the bench at the edge of the dock. Looking out across the lake, with the city behind us, we talk about everything and nothing. What we want from life, what we will someday name our kids, who we will marry, where we will live.

Hours later, a cooler breeze wraps itself around the dock. Shivering, we call it a night and start the walk back towards the city.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the stillness. "Girls, hey girls!". A man looks down at us from the deck of the yacht club. "Girls, why don't you come on up for a drink?". Not the types to turn down adventure (or a free drink), we look at each other, shrug, and head towards the ship entrance.

We manoeuvre our way up to the deck, feeling like we are in a more modern and smaller budgeted re-make of the titanic, complete with a grand entrance hall and winding staircases. We are met by the gentleman (Harry) and quickly realize that he is most definitely old enough to be our grandfather. We politely decline his repeated offer for free drinks but accept his invitation to tour the boat. 

Harry asks us where we are originally from and is overly delighted when the answer is Russia. With a wistful look in his eyes and speech not slightly slurred by alcohol, he says "I met a Russian girl, Ludmila, on the internet once". Ten minutes later, we are acquainted with all the dramatic details of the online union and its sad conclusion (Ludmila is now dating a German man). Fifteen minutes after that, when he has asked us the same questions three times and begins to ramble about Ludmila again, we decide that alcohol is the only thing that will get us through another five minutes and take Harry up on his offer to buy us a drink.

An hour and two Stellas later, we walk off the ship. "Well, at least we went on a ship", I say. We walk in silence for a minute, then she says "Perhaps I should have clarified. I would like a young, handsome man to buy us a drink".

Universe, take note.

 By Anahit Gomtsian

Watching the play from backstage

The ability to read minds is nowhere near as cool as it sounds.

Growing up I was an intelligent kid but as surly as all get up. I had my reasons. Imagine living every day of your life with a mild headache. Sounds do-able I know, but I'm talking ceaseless day and night fuzzy pain for 13 relentless years.

I was 13 years old when I first realised that I was the only one who was hearing the hum of other people's thoughts. 13 years to figure out what that hum was and that it was unusual.

Everything changed there and then. It was as if I'd been listening to white noise for all of my life, like there was a radio on in the background somewhere, and then suddenly a 'transmission' came through.

I don't know whether I accidently 'tuned in' or whether it was due to the strength of the thoughts, but one particularly nasty playground fight later and the floodgates were open.

Now every conversation is like a movie whose plot has been ruined for me. It's like I'm watching a film that I've never seen before but nonetheless I am, for some reason, watching it with director's commentary turned on - getting all the background trivia at the expense of the content.

Sorry about all the movie analogies but I really don't tend to do much else with my spare time than go to the cinema. Peace and quiet for me is watching a generic action movie - high octane, low plot density. Something to make everyone around me shift their minds into neutral.

I'm not really able to talk to many people about what I can do because it tends to make them start thinking about what they are thinking about, which can be absolutely deafening, not to mention tedious. Plus, people who know generally don't like to hang around me too much. Can't really blame them.

The few people who know and stick around nonetheless sometimes ask why I don't become a detective or something, and use my powers for the greater good. I figure, why should I?

Do you have any idea how depressing it is listening to the thoughts of so-called normal people? I really don't want to spend my life in the company of criminals, psychos and the all the poor bastards who spend their working life staring into that particular abyss.

So instead I teach little kids. Their minds may be loud and annoying and juvenile but the beauty of these guys is how closely what they say resembles what they think.

Because that's the thing I can't stand. Imagine if you immediately knew without a doubt every time someone lied to you. Do you even realise how often people lie? 'It's so nice to see you', 'Sorry mate, no change today', 'There's absolutely nothing to worry about', 'I love you'. Day after day after day.

What I wouldn't give for a little blissful ignorance.

By Mark Clarke

(Read all Mark's stories at ClarkeMyWords.blogspot.com.)

Sober

It was a paper box that could have held a new router or portable clock radio. There was a wall of these boxes all the same size as if one size fits all: a sumo wrestler or ballerina. On the cover of his box was an envelope addressed to the Memorial Company (Levitt-Weinstein) and the Certificate of Cremation for Tamma, done up like a prize. Inside the envelope another card Permit No. 422 signed by the Crematory.

He didn’t want to open the box and didn’t want to deal with the contents until he had thought it through but then it was Tamma and he could imagine her saying: “what the hell is your problem…do this now I’m not staying on the floor in your shitty filthy car. Put me in the ocean.”

So he thought about where. Was there a board walk so the ashes wouldn’t blow back on the beach? Did it matter? Were there rules about this stuff? Should he wait until it was dark? Say a special prayer.

He ended up on the beach in Delray by a restaurant called Luna Rosa because she loved to go there and they had spent most of their Florida time in Delray. It was raining now and so he just grabbed the box and dashed to the water and sat down on the sand and opened the box. He pulled out the clear heavy plastic bag and dropped it in the sand between his legs.

The stuff inside (Tamma stuff) looked just like the sand but not as fine. It didn’t look like ashes.

And then there was this plastic brad holding the bag together that clearly required a tool to safely remove. He could imagine a frustrated mourner just heaving the bag directly in the water or tearing the bag and having the ashes blow everywhere. So he worked the tab up the bag using his fingers like a needle nose pliers and somehow got it off.

He put his hand in the bag and let the ashes fall through his fingers. Inside the bag was a metal coin stamped ABCO Crematory 30336. With the bag open he walked into the ocean up to about his waste. He forgot his wallet was still in his jeans. He let the ashes fall into kind of a milky cover like creamer in your coffee.

He was alone with her.

She was not drunk.

No rabbi, no body in a box, no family.

Only one mourner.

By

Richard Schwachter

Separation

The bright yellow candle flame flickered in its place, casting feeble rays if warmth upon the dirty walls of the underground cave, luminating the musty dust particles in the air… My heart palpitated in anxiety as seconds passed with mounting fear. Tom had never been this long out before.

Three years. Three long bitter years had I not stepped out of this cavern once, fearing that if I were to be seen by the dreaded Kempeitais, never will I ever have the chance to live the day, to feel the warmth of the bright sunlight wash over my face again.

War had turned our once beautiful and peaceful homeland into a battlefield, strewn with debris and corpses. The fighting had torn families apart and mine was of no exception. A happy family of four that had lived quietly in a small hut in Jurong was now forced to abandoned their home and hide for survival. My son, a brave fourteen-year-old child, was sacrificed in his bid to save the rest of the family. When the Japanese police had tried to capture us, he caused a diversion to go after him instead, a memory that always manages to bring heart-wrenching tears to my eyes.

Fidgeting nervously in my seat, my mind was forced to race through all the possible theories that could have held up my husband, each more dreadful and daunting than the last. He had tried to sneak out and gather food before, but never taking as long as this before.

“Mummy… where is daddy? I wonder what took him so long…” enquired my fifteen-year-old daughter, Sarah. Her face was a picture of worry against the dimly lit walls. I paused in my thoughts and told myself to relax. It seemed crucial to not stir up the fear that was slowly crawling into our hearts.

Just then, as if in response, a loud crunching sound was heard. Tom appeared in the doorway, clutching his ribs in apparent pain. Such a powerful wave of relief had swept though me that, for a moment, I felt light-headed. Without further ado, Sarah and I rushed forward to his aid.

My eyes widened and my jaw dropped at a better look at Tom. The warm glow that had flared inside me at the relief of his return was extinguished as something icy flooded the pit of my stomach. Tom was puckered up in pain and his face was drained of all colour. There was a gaping puncture wound at his sides and blood was trickling down fast, leaving a trail of bloody footprints and a dark pool where he rested. A little cry of horror slipped through Sarah before she could stop herself at the sight of her father. Tom collapsed into my arms. Warm blood seeped into my clothing.

“Honey… I’m so glad I could make it back… to see you again. The Japanese soldiers are fighting a losing battle. The war is won… we don’t have to … hide anymore… I’m sorry… I don’t think I have … much time… left…” Tom murmured. Streams of tears started to pour from my eyes. I had imagined this scenario, yet I was not prepared for the molten wave of dread and panic that seemed to burst through my stomach at the sound of the growing weak rasp of his voice.

With the last ounce of strength he possessed, Tom whispered into my ears “Live… well… ”

A feeling of emptiness gripped my heart as his hand slipped from my embrace...
Eyes blurred with tears, I understood perfectly. It was time to let go.

By Kathy Kitty

New story: "The Lake" - just in time for Halloween...

It's getting closer and there's nothing he can do about it. He can hear it out there in the dark, snuffling and shuffling ever closer. He looks down at the wadded cloth that he has pressed to his side, now completely crimson-soaked. Thinking about it makes it somehow worse and his head starts to swim.

'No time for that now' he growls quietly and pulls himself to his feet with considerable effort. He wonders for a moment why he's even bothering to run, what he could possibly have left to live for after tonight. Worry about it later, he thinks with bleak pragmatism, survive now.

From across the lake lights shine and shimmer their way across the breeze-rippled water - dazzling outstretched fingers of civilisation. His nerves fire protests through his body as he lurches forward as stealthily as he can. Stumbling almost immediately, he feels something rip beneath the wadded cloth and an unwelcome sticky warmth spreads quickly across his finger tips.

A sharp gurgling sniff sounds out nearby followed by a silence that roars in the man's ears. For a moment there is no sound. Anywhere. He holds his breath wishing he could hear that rattling wheeze, place its position. Far off a child's cry skips weakly across the tranquil lake and fades away.

He stumbles on with a queasy lethargy imposing itself more and more upon his panicked state of mind. He's haemorrhaged beyond the point of caring and crashes toward the water's edge with a clumsy primal need, stumbling his snapping way through the noisy undergrowth. He ignores the low growl of the predator padding softly after.

Splashing into the shallows of the lake he stares with unfocussed eyes at the yellow warmth of the lake houses - so frustratingly close. He falls to his knees and lets his head loll back until the clear night starlight fills his tear-choked eyes. There's a delicate splish behind him announcing the predator's arrival.

His head rolls forward in despairing resignation until he sees salvation. A row boat is drifting in the lake not ten metres away. He has no time to think it through, no inclination even. He sees a chance to survive and without further thought leaps to his feet, fighting through the water to reach the boat.

The predator, reacts to this sudden movement with practiced and ruthless efficiency. Simply instinct.

A sudden, snarling flurry of splashing activity is heard and a man starts upright in his row boat.

'What was that?' he asks.

'What was what? Oh it could have been anything, Alan.' his companion replies shortly buttoning her blouse, 'Come on, let's get back, it's getting cold out.'

'Ok,' Alan replies and sets his oars before stopping a moment. A short way away he sees a figure dragging something from the lake back into the darkness of the midnight forest.

'Now Alan,' snaps the woman, trembling.

Alan shakes the sight from his thoughts and turns his head toward the warm yellow lights of home.

By Mark Clarke

Request for autumn/winter 2008 short story submissions

Shortfolio is currently looking for more 500-word short stories, following some amazing submissions over the summer.

So if you've got a short story hidden on your hard drive or floating around in the dark recesses of your mind, now's the time to send something in. Just email it to shortfolio@googlemail.com.

Happy writing...

A Close Encounter

The Sidhar sat preening his elaborate moustache, staring out of the window in deep contemplation; his stature and girth took up most of the compartment. Perhaps he’s fifty five, I mused, though as strong as a bullock. He was a Sikh - a green turban and an officer’s insignia - probably of Pathan descent, those that vanquished the British and later repelled the Russians.

Suddenly he turned, ‘what country sir?’
'Ar British, good. I’m an officer in the Indian army. How do you like our India?’ He hardly gave you the chance to utter more than a few syllables before he started up again. Just then V, my travel partner, returned; quite a tall girl. His eyes shot out as he scanned her lithe torso, then addressing me, ‘she’s your wife?’
‘Yes,’ I acquiesced, unconvincingly; we kept up this charade in India.

Touching his moustache his eyes tracked V’s respiratory movements; V put on her dark glasses. His wife and teenage daughter entered the compartment, attired in colorful saris and dupatas. They began to fluster over their luggage. The officer lurched forward, dominating the frame, speaking confidentially, ‘we must look after the ladies, no pranks sir. I am just along the way with my fellows. If you’d care for a tot of whiskey …’

‘It’s only eleven,’ I managed to put in. With that he stood, stony faced, as if I’d insulted his honor. I noticed his short sword, a relic of Sikh gallantry.

Lord, he thinks he’s back in the Raj, I thought.

It was an Ac compartment, 3 tiers. We relaxed, lunch was served and we ordered an extra 300grammes of curd. V placed the curd on the upper bunk. We ate, and V went to wash up. The ladies reclined on their adjacent bunks, mother pulled her dupata over her head, for modesty’s sake, and they both snoozed.

I thought I’d take a nap myself. What combination of cognitive thought processes led me to commit such an act, I have as yet failed to deduce, though in future I will endeavor to be more considerate whilst in possession of viscous liquids on Indian railways. Placing one hand on the rail, I made an athletic leap onto the upper bunk.

The plastic bag of curd went, ‘bang!’ The curd shot up the wall, and spewed whey through the air like shrapnel. Quickly I took off my T shirt and mopped the bunk and wall. I then turned and looked below – horror of horrors – beloved daughter and mother, splattered with specks of curd. The Indian mutiny - Pathan tribes men charging into battle - stark images dashed before my eyes.

V returned, and we went into muffled peels of childlike laughter. Thankfully, the 2 ladies lay sound asleep; one strand of the girl’s fringe coated thick with curd. V saved the day, tentatively cleaning the ladies up as they moaned, and so enabling my head to remain intact.

By Steve Jones

90 degrees north

My love affairs were starting to get out of hand. My love affairs, and my drinking. There was nothing for it but to run away to the North Pole.

Johansen and I surveyed the endless icy wastes. That was our job now. All the same, we often found ourselves overwhelmed with emotion. We would sit on our snowmobiles and weep at the immense, impossible snowy beauty of it all.

“Have some coffee”, Johansen said, handing me the flask, “it has brandy in it. Like always.”

He had left behind a wife and a six-month-old baby girl to come here, to the end of the world. The money was good and they were planning, eventually, to buy a house back in Sweden.

Dr Kristina Gjenistad stalked the corridors of Ice Station B. In her native Norway she was an Olympic cross country skier, a swimmer, a runner of marathons and ultra-marathons. Ice-bound now for six months of the year, her smooth, muscular thighs still strained to escape the limitations of her tight regulation uniform and carry her, stotting like a gazelle, off across the sea-ice.

I was a little bit obsessed with Dr Kristina Gjenistad. I wanted to make love to her on an ice floe while the aurora borealis crackled and whooped over our heads. I invented excuses to go to the clinic to see her.

“My hand’s a bit sore today”, I’d say, or “I’ve hurt my ankle”, or “do you need any more medical supplies?”

Unfortunately she’d seen my kind coming a mile off all her life and would have nothing whatsoever to do with me. She recommended aspirin, hot baths, and keeping off the affected limb. I argued that these things were of little use in cases of unrequited love, but she remained unimpressed.

Polar bears were reported. We posted a twenty-four hour armed guard. First thing every morning it was my job to go out and clear the rime that had gathered on the anemometers.

Through the dark months of February and March we played cards and drank and outside the wind screamed by at one hundred and fifty miles an hour in the interminable polar night. The temptation, sometimes, to just step outside and surrender oneself to the elements was acknowledged. We watched each other for the telltale signs and waited for the spring.

There were talks on scientific subjects, animal husbandry, literature. We discussed “The Arctic as Metaphor”. The Scandinavians used their block vote and the motion was defeated.

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to be doing here anymore,” said Johansen, as we watched the watery sun come up for the first time in three months. I took that as my cue to leave.

When I got back to England I wrote a book about my adventures and became moderately rich and famous. Your applause makes me feel better about myself, for a while.

It’s said the Inuit have no word for “memory”, but I saw nothing much to convince me either way.

By Owen Booth

Read Owen's other Shortfolio story - And then...

The Watch

“A gift fro.”
“A gif.”
“A gift from heaven. Quit doing that!” Malcolm’s eyes were wide as he reached for the zipper on his back. “Crafted by God.”

Dangling the watch like a cat with a rat, Jack responded, “Heaven? So you’re talking about a cloud city, and a magic man who makes clocks? Probably a prototype developed by the CIA.”

“Yea,” I scoffed, “a billion-dollar prototype that happens to be at the bottom of the Atlantic. Hooray for homeland security! Your tax money at work.”

“Shut, the fuck, up!” he yelled back at me, muffled by his scuba mask, “maybe this is how the government is able to fool millions.”

Malcolm looked at me, rolling his eyes. “O jeez, here we go again.”

“The real question,” I asked, “is, why do we have this?”

“Luck.”
“Fate.”

Pausing for a second, the three of us started shouting.

“Maybe stop them from boarding the planes!”
“Invest in Apple!”
“Tell Dad we loved him.”

I laughed out loud, but began thinking. The things you could accomplish, the power, the possibilities…all running through my head as I looked at this little golden circle. Watching Jack and Malcolm I knew what was also flowing through their heads.

“Damnit” I whispered

Clenched in a fist, I hurled the abomination back to the ocean.

We heard a plop, the boat turned, and we went home.

By John Accarino

And then...

…it was actually the Germans who came up with the idea of dropping an elephant out of a Hercules transport plane at three thousand feet – well, the Germans or the Swiss: at the time both offices tried to take the credit, and the ensuing fallout over exactly which set of maverick geniuses were responsible for dreaming up the premise for the ultimate viral video caused bad blood and snide remarks during international conference calls between Basle, Berlin, Lausanne and Frankfurt for months. Executives who’d previously been best friends fell out, golf games and skiing weekends were called off, wives were forced to snub each other at Europe’s best spa resorts and hair salons. Middle managers found themselves picking sides and developing secret handshakes and code words and initiation ceremonies, sharing stories about savage briefcase fights in underground car parks, the deliberate keying of Porsches, the incredible day that two vice-presidents went so far as to arrange a duel over the matter, the centuries-old rivalry and suspicion between their two countries demanding that only the spilling of blood would be sufficient to repair the damage done to honour, order and the proper way of conducting business by this… this slander! These lies! Apparently they got so far as to meet one frosty morning in a field just outside Zurich, seconded by junior executives and with a company doctor on hand, their weapons of choice something sleek and aspirational by Heckler and Koch (the only solution for today’s business leader in a tight spot), the whole thing ready to be relayed via webcam direct to the company intranet and from there onwards to the offices in Japan, Argentina, Italy, Belgium, Finland, the UK and, of course, Switzerland and Germany, capturing Klaus (or Hans, or Uwe) back-to-back with Uwe (or Hans, or Klaus) in matching DKNY two button suits lit just right by the watery sunrise, both of them fortified by a shot of really quite impressive brandy, corporate pride and the best sex they’d had with their wives in years, fingers on triggers, nine in the clip and feeling more alive than they could ever remember feeling in their careers…

In the event it was only the last minute arrival from head office of a black company helicopter carrying two heads of HR, some huge bonuses and a written declaration of truce – the clatter of its rotors scattering a flock of surprised birds into the dawn sky – that prevented things from getting really out of hand. And of course six months later they were at it again, only this time each country was insisting that the whole elephant debacle had in fact been nothing whatsoever to do with them, and had been entirely the fevered brainchild of those crazed madmen, those slightly-less ruthlessly efficient savages from the other side of the Rhine. Because by then absolutely nobody wanted to take responsibility for what had turned out to be one of the most shameful – and frankly ridiculous – episodes in the company’s short history…

By Owen Booth

A Friendly Rendezvous

This post is a follow up by Mark Clarke to the popular Friendly Drinks story that he wrote for Shortfolio back in January this year...

Ok, so what now? The train is quite literally leaving the station. And so am I.

I've been thinking about this meeting for, like, the last five days now. I've been trying to decide what I want to say to him for five fucking days now and here I am, closing on these turnstiles, still as clueless as I was when...oh shit...where did I put that ticket?

Right, this is going to take a more thorough search than first thought so let's move out of this queue. Don't you sigh at me, you dick. How much of a hurry can you possibly be in that this six second delay to your day has put you out? Especially since you cruised up the escalators, you fat prick.

God I hate digging through this thing. How much of the crap in this handbag do I ever even use? Better safe than sorry I suppose. Oh, there it is. Right where I've never once put it before. That makes sense. I didn't even know it had that pocket.

Ok, take a breath, calm yourself, regain your composure. You're back on street level now and the pub's just round here - but I'll just take a seat here for a second. There's no rush. He's probably not even there yet and this is definitely not a scenario I want to approach without sufficient nicotine in my system.

Light, draw deep, exhale slowly...it's not helping even a little bit. How did I get myself into this situation? How do I always seem to get myself into this situation? I like him - that's not even the issue, of course I like him - but...but there's always that 'but'.

If only we could just go back, go back to when we just liked each other. Before...

'You got a light, sweetheart?'

'Uh, yeah, sure.'

This is as good a time as any to head on. I get my lighter back and head round the corner. There it is. Just head right in there now, suck it up.

It's not too busy, shouldn't be too hard to...there he is. And he's spotted me. No way out now. Do I want a way out? His eyes are wide and he actually gulped as he stood up to greet me. Good grief, who gulps nowadays outside of cartoons? God, he really can be adorable every now and then. I kiss him and step back, his voice cracks slightly;

'Hi' he warbles.

Ok, deep breath. Here goes.




By Mark Clarke

PS – I Love You…

‘There had been something about the bone structure,’ Rodgers mused, still immersed in a dream, ‘and the form of the eye wasn’t quite right.’

Light had already filled the room, as Rodgers woke. His eyes flickered rapidly, scanning the white ceiling. ‘Oh, the bill,’ he thought.

The foreign teachers’ Bangkok soiree had been destined to be - how had old Richards put it? - ‘a raucous evening!’ Richards, South African born, 60 odd but as straight as a rod, stern with a large lantern jaw, professor of Entomology, now teaching English to South East Asian kids. He’d arrived in Bangkok looking for the good life, and subsequently got ensnared and thoroughly fleeced by a young lady from the North East.

They’d started out at 6pm near the Phra Athit pier, quaffed an iced beer and nibbled a pungent salad. Rodgers talked about Muslim India and Moghuli cuisine, and Richards dwelt on bread. Thus they went in search of Muslim roti and settled for an aromatic Indian curry, thick nan bread and a carafe of dubious rouge.

‘That rancid gut rot, without doubt our undoing.’ Rodgers postulated, unable to move from the bed. It had been Rodgers intention to help Richards – a respite from the wife – not to get him into more trouble. Whilst pondering this a message came up on his phone:

Money, cards – all gone – R.

Rodgers put his hand over his eyes, ‘Oh my God – doubly fleeced.’

He recollected: after the wine they’d been to… ah yes, that antiquated karaoke joint – PS - I Love You – with the Elvis album covers on the wall and the half-dead clientele; just the place for Richards. Certainly, at the last sighting, he’d appeared to be occupied and thoroughly enjoying himself. The hostesses in ultra short miniskirts, were in no way antiquated; he’d left Richards in the grasp of one.

It all came back now, he’d left Richards and gone to the bathroom, thinking, ‘the bone structures all wrong.’ On leaving he’d tried to warn Richards, ‘it’s not a girl,’ but he’d been drowned out by an old Thai crooner wailing mournfully - ‘Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone’. And Richards had responded, ‘Don’t worry about the bill,’ and pushed him out of the door.

Rodgers had dozed in the taxi, but still felt obliged to sit for a nightcap before settling in. Then – at the corner bar near his new apartment – he ran into the gym instructors’ monthly binge, he offered to pay the bill, which was readily accepted. The bill was still waiting to be settled; Rodgers didn’t have enough to clear it the previous evening.

The phone rang – Richards – Rodgers switched it off, and turned over muttering, ‘Oh God, hope Monday never comes.’

By Steve Jones

Sylvie (And The Night I Met Your Mother)

Not surprised I feel a bit nervous.

Already I've made a mistake. Spent too long deciding whether to start with items of topical interest or dive straight into the introduction? I eventually decided to dive in with introduction just as the tram leaves the stop I should have got off at. So I`m late, but I`m here.

The agency said she'd meet me at the hotel and if she got there first she would be at the bar and would save me a place. Do a walk past… yes there she is, sitting there with her handbag saving the seat next to her. The only lady… a gloriously lovely single, single lady at a bar stuffed with men who should already be home for tea.

I walk towards her past tables and cubicles with anonymous men and a few anonymous ladies, some in couples but odd ones by themselves pretending to read or playing with their phones.

I`m here, be confident. Say who you are and things will develop… relax.

She sees me move towards the vacant space. Lovely lady moves her handbag and smiles.

“Hello, I’m Heinrich.”

“Hello.” So confident… but with a nice touch of hesitation.

“Hello, I`m Heinrich”…relax.

“I am so pleased to meet you. I am an administrator on the railways and until recently I looked after Mother but now I live by myself”.

She smiles. I hurry on.

“I'm not just an ordinary administrator. I administer all the trains in the south west sector. In good time I have expectations of being the administrator for at least two sectors, a job that would bring a car and a very good pension.”

OK…. a little rushed, but I was nervous. She looks at me… perfect blue (or possibly grey) eyes…I'm in love.

“Perhaps you could reciprocate (relax!) by telling me a little about yourself?”

“Your tables ready” says a man in a suit with a menu in his hand.

“Don't interrupt” was what I am about to say but the words catch in my throat and never make it.

“Thanks Marcel. I'll come through straight away…say hello to Heinrich. He works on the railways.” With that she picks up her drink and is off.

I look around. No one seems to notice me as every part of my being sweats, my skin glows and my chin drops to my chest. No one, that is, apart from the anonymous woman who'd been playing with her phone. She waves. I stand. My legs move. I walk towards her table.

She comes to meet me and holds out her hand. “My name is Sylvie. Are you Heinrich? There were no places at the bar, so I sat here but I have kept you a seat.”

I try to regroup. A hand touches my sleeve. Lovely lady tugs authoritatively. “They've put another seat at my table. I just love railways. Come and tell me exactly what you do.”

Sylvie stares…“Sorry my name's Albrecht,” I whisper.

By James Kruschev

A Little Walk

I check my bag and make sure I have the slip, even though I know it’s in there. I slam my way out of the house and turn left. I walk down our road. It smells of cat shit. There is a man with two kids walking in front of me. The two kids are skipping and they nearly get me in the eye with their ropes. I know it shouldn't make me angry but it did - just a little bit.

At the end of our road there is a pub called the Kings Arms. I have been in there a few times. I have drank cider with blackcurrant. It’s quite good in there; they sell cheese rolls and pork scratchings. Outside the pub there is an old man, the old man wears a sky blue baseball cap - probably from Marks and Spencer’s c1976. He is also wearing brown trousers that are rolled up to his knees. His legs are so thin I think that they might snap. I can't stop looking at his legs they are so skinny.

I do stop looking at the old man with the sky blue baseball cap and painful legs as there is a flyer on the pavement. Its neon pink so that’s probably why I am attracted to it. I bend down to have a read. Its advertising salsa classes and I wonder what me and the old man would look like dancing salsa together?

At the end of the road there are traffic lights with a Budgens on the right and another pub called Finnegan’s Wake on the left. I have been into Finnegan’s Wake before. I once went on a date with an Australian boy called Sam. We sat by the toilets so that wasn't very good. He was quite dull actually so it didn't go so well. Although we did kiss outside afterwards, well I guess it would have been rude not to.

So at the lights I cross straight over and I am now on a green. I stop at a bench and check my bag for the slip - its still there. I see my cigarettes and think I may as well sit and have one of those. I am watching the cars and hearing some birds. I am thinking about what it would be like to be one of those birds.

I finish the cigarette - which incidentally I didn't enjoy that much because I have a sore throat.
I go down the small road with speed bumps on. Last time I came down here I tripped over one of the bumps and fell on my knees. It was pretty embarrassing I can tell you - but - the good thing was no one saw me. I get to the blue door with a little window on and push. Inside I hand my slip though the glass window. The man takes it from me and gets my parcel. I take the parcel and say thank-you.

By Amy Hughes

Timmy the Inquisitive Gopher

There once was a young gopher named Timmy who lived in a state of constant astonishment at the world around him. His bright, eager eyes saw nothing but beauty everywhere he looked. He had an insatiable thirst for knowledge and loved nothing more than to go for long walks with his mother and discovering more and more about the forest.

One day, because Timmy had been very good and had kept his room nice and tidy, Timmy’s mother agreed to take him on a walk. Timmy was overjoyed and practically dragged his mother away as they set off from their den.

As they walked, the young gopher chattered at his mother with a seemingly endless stream of questions about the oaks and the dandelions, the butterflies and the reeds. He eventually broke away from his mother who, weary of being tugged this way and that by her excitable little boy, let him go with a quiet warning to stay where she could see him.

And so they walked deeper and deeper into the forest, Timmy scampering gleefully back and forth around the comfortable amble of his mother. He would run to the limits of his restriction but was always very careful to keep his mother in sight.

Spotting a ladybird, Timmy dashed forward but stopped suddenly as a sound caught his attention. He could hear a distant sweeping hiss unlike anything that he had ever heard before. As he stood listening his mother had caught up to him.

‘Now Tim-Tim,’ she said, ‘we should be heading back. Your father will be getting worried.’

Timmy protested and insisted that he needed to discover the source of this mesmerising sound before they could go home. His mother relented and so on they walked.

The sound grew louder and louder until, at last, Timmy saw a bright break in the trees and could restrain himself no longer. He bounded forward, oblivious to the calls of his mother as she waddled after him as quickly as she could. As Timmy broke through the tree-line he found himself standing on dirt that was soft and yellow and like nothing he had ever seen before. In front lay a great blue band of water that Timmy guessed had to be at least three, maybe four times as big as the river near their den.

He ran forward and found at his feet vast swathes of slimy green, ribbon-like leaves, which he simply had to play with. His mother finally caught up and, remaining near the tree-line, shouted for her son to come home now, dinner would be ready.

‘Just a few more minutes mummy’ Timmy pleaded as he threw the wet green leaves up into the air.

‘No Timmy,’ his mother insisted, ‘We can explore the seaside another time.’

But Timmy was having too much fun to hear his mother as he grabbed handfuls of the soggy weeds and draped then around himself gleefully.

And then a whale landed on him.

By Mark Clarke

My First Springtime Jogging Adventure

I have dug through the heap of shoes in the bottom of the closet, tossing aside a pile of winter boots, moving aside the summer sandals that have been pulled down recently to join the jumble . . . all the while assuring myself that I will organize the closet today, knowing full well that I have said this to myself every morning since we moved in two years ago. I have at last found two jogging shoes that match, still sporting a bit of the dried dirt leftover from their last use months ago. I reach in the drawer and wrestle into my jogging bra and pull on a favorite t-shirt that fit so well last spring. It seems to bunch peculiarly around what used to be a somewhat slender waist, refusing to go down any further unless I resort to some of the techniques reminiscent of those learnt in my sausage-making class – with what appears to be a similar looking result. Oh well . . . out the door . . . When I look down I notice the farmer’s tan that resulted from my brief affair with bicycling. My daughter, a bit aghast at this, reminded me that they did sell spray-on tan products . . . not believing that I would willingly go around in such a state. As I run down the street I wonder how many mornings I may have to do this to make some difference. I place a hand upon my stomach as I run and I am immediately aware of how the poet may have been inspired to write that one’s stomach might “shake like a bowl full of jelly”.

Rather than to be emotional about all of this, I choose to be scientific. . .
The human species prefer the shelter of their hovels during the dark, cold winter months. Retreating at the first signs of cold and darkness to the protection and comforts offered within, cable television, microwave popcorn and Blue Bell ice-cream. Here they feast upon the store of food they have gathered, having anticipated these bleak, dark months. They will only venture out and leave the safety of their shelter to feed when tempted by foods that don’t store well, like Starbuck’s caramel macchiato with whipped crème and caramel or Shipley’s crème filled donuts. During these hibernating months, the humans may find that they have to venture out to replace their secondary skins. Humans are the only species that seem to have lost their fur somewhere, and have resorted to manufacturing the required protective layer in the form of clothing. The female may utilize various forms of this in helping her to attract a mate.

Upon the arrival of spring, the humans emerge to frolic in the sunshine and to mate (depending on if they have a headache). Which brings me back to my original point . . . . I need to go buy a new t-shirt.

By Cindy McMorran

The Room

I woke in the corner of a room. The room was empty and there were no windows or doors. I had no idea where I was, what time it was, or what day it was. I shouted out "Hello, can anyone here me?" But there was just silence. I sat down in the corner where I was previously. I was thinking about what I did last night, but it was hard to remember. I paced back and forth, it felt like hours had past and nothing had changed at all in this room, until I heard a thumping noise against the wall. Thump, thump, thump - over and over again. I ran over to the wall were the noise was coming from. I started to shout "Hey, let me out of here." The second I started to do that the noise stopped. I keep banging and shouting on the wall hoping maybe whoever it was would help me but it was no use.

It seemed like a whole day had past and there had been no change. I was going mad; I started to slam myself against the wall hoping I would go right through it. With all my force and weight, it didn't even seem like I dented the wall at all. All of a sudden the room started to shake. I was getting thrown all over the place and could hardly keep my balance. I fell to the floor and was rolling around. I tried to get back up, but the room was shaking so much that I lost my balance and slammed my head against the wall and it knocked me out cold.

I woke up again, in what seemed to be the same place as the first time. There was nothing I could do, I was losing my mind and I couldn't go on. I had my back up against the wall, and it started to move forward slowly. I jumped up and looked and saw that all the walls were moving in. I started to panic and knew I only had a few minutes left. I looked above - high up there was no ceiling. I knew that was my chance but I had to act fast. When the walls were close enough I put one of my hands on one side and the other on the other side, and climbed up to the ceiling as fast as I could. The space was getting smaller but I had to make it. The ceiling was reachable, and I grabbed on to it and pulled myself up just before the walls completely closed in. I was relived to be out of there but it didn't seem to matter. I was in a bigger room, but this time there was a window down on the far end. I walked over to the window and looked through it. At first I couldn't believe my eyes: I saw a computer with words on it that were written like a story. That's when it hit me, I was not a person - I was a thought.

by Josh Campbell

Sympathy for the Devil

Every day I sit here and I watch him.

The same time everyday, he goes to the same bench, in the same park and he just sits. Lord knows what he does with the rest of his day, that ain’t my business. Hell, I suppose this here ain’t neither, but damned if I ain’t been watching his sorry ass for so long now. It’s got so as the day just wouldn’t seem right without him.

I ain’t never said nothing to him. I don’t know if he even realises that I’m here. Maybe I’m afraid of him but that ain’t the reason. It just wouldn’t seem right to, I guess.

So he sits there, hunched forward, all intense like. Nobody ever talks to him. People give him a wide berth as they walk by. Most don’t even seem to know why or realise that they’re doing it.

He says nothing, in any case. Does nothing. Yet always there’s this feeling from him, a sense, like as if fire and fury were rolling off of him like I ain’t never felt before.

I remember one time I caught his eye as he was getting up to leave. He barely noticed me looking, didn’t seem to give two hoots anyhow. But when I saw those eyes of his, it damn near chilled me right to the bone. Nary a frown to darken that face of his and still I ain’t never seen rage shine so clear.

But the crazy thing of it was that I felt sorry for the guy, you know? It was like I could see, clear as the morning sun, that he had lost something. Something that he had loved so much, so fully, so completely, that when it was gone he was left with nothing. Nothing but emptiness and anger and hopelessness – knowing that, because of his all-encompassing devotion, he could never again be whole.

And so he comes and he sits and he stares out ahead of him, dead-eyed, sombre and intent.

Who knows what he does with the rest of his time? Hell, who knows what he does when he sits on that bench? What he’s thinking about and such.

I’d like to think that maybe, if I’m right about any of this (after all, I am just another guy on a bench here), I like to think that maybe he tries to remember the good times. Tries to put the loss out of mind for a heartbeat.

I’d like to think that, but hell, if I am right about any of this then I honestly don’t believe that the poor son-of-a-bitch ever could.

And so every day I sit here and I watch him. Because, after all, what else have I got?

By Mark Clarke