Stories 1 – 10 – JJ Grafton

Cindy has a Tiring Day

999 words
Cindy pulls back the curtains at the kitchen window, shivering at the snow-covered garden. When the first snowflakes had fallen on Christmas Eve, she and Pete had been delighted. They’d walked round the country lanes on Christmas morning in a winter wonderland all of their own, their nearest neighbours being more than three miles away. But it all turned sour when they got home and realised that Cindy had set the oven too high and the turkey was cremated.
Sighing, Cindy mixes herself a gin and it for her Boxing Day breakfast and wanders through to the living room where Pete sits on the sofa, gazing at the blank television screen. She plonks herself down in an armchair and says in an aggrieved voice, “Waiting for me to turn it on, are you?”
Pete says nothing. Not surprising, really, as he’s quite dead and has been since about four o’clock yesterday when the turkey, thrown by Cindy, had collided with his head. The turkey was innocent of murder although it had sent Pete’s head crashing against the wall, which did kill him.
Cindy downs the G and T, heaves herself to her feet and grunts, “I suppose I’ve got to sort you out. Typical of you, leaving me to do the donkey work.”
Pulling on a pair of wellies and wrapping herself in a puffy coat on top of her pyjamas, Cindy plods outside into the garden and examines it. She settles on a bare-branched cherry tree as a suitable place, especially as it’s near the house and Pete isn’t a small man. Fetching a spade from the garden shed, she scrapes the snow away from the ground beneath the tree, rests one foot on the spade and makes a futile attempt to push it into the frozen ground.
“No worries,” she mutters to herself, retreating to the kitchen where she boils a kettle of hot water, returning to pour it over the ground beneath the cherry tree. The water pools on top of the rock hard soil and she goes back to the kitchen to repeat the process only to find that the first lot of water has frozen to a sheet of ice.
Abandoning the spade, Cindy makes her way back into the living room. “Looks like we’re going out for a drive,” she tells Pete, who doesn’t argue.
Pausing only to have another G and T, Cindy opens the door in the kitchen that leads to the garage, fires up their Shogun and drives it round to the front door. Back in the living room, she grasps Pete under his arms and drags him off the sofa. He drops to the ground like the dead weight he is, his knees at perfect right angles. Cindy outweighs Pete by at least two stone and, taking short breaks to rest, she manoeuvres him through the short hallway and out of the door, dropping his body by the passenger door of the car.
She leans on the Shogun, her heart going like the clappers, and takes deep, steadying breaths. “Stay here,” she gasps, “I’ll be back. I just need to eat something.”
Two sausage rolls, a handful of chocolate liquors and another G and T later, Cindy resumes her task. An hour ticks away as she tries to heave Pete into the car, sweating heavily even though it’s snowing again. After she breaks Pete’s knees to make them more flexible, she wrestles him into the front seat. Closing the door to keep him upright, she goes round to the driver’s side, enters the car and rests her head on the steering wheel.
“You’ll be the death of me,” she wheezes to an uncaring Pete. “How long have I been telling you to lose some weight?”
The chance of meeting anyone on the deserted country roads is minimal but Cindy sticks a paper hat on her husband’s head to make him look like a hungover partygoer. Backing out of their driveway on the crunchy snow, she tuns right and heads towards the nearby country park.
“Isn’t this nice?” she asks, cracking the window open a fraction.. “Listen. You can hear a bird singing. I bet it’s a robin.”
Pete makes no comment and she tuts. “Well, you’re not much company, are you?”
The country park is deserted as Cindy turns into the open gates and drives slowly for half a mile until she reaches a small lake. “Oh, no,” she groans, as she catches sight of a few mallards and greylag geese slipping and sliding on the icy surface. “It’s frozen.” And then she brightens. “Maybe I can make a hole like the Eskimos do when they’re fishing and slide you in. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Without waiting for an answer, Cindy clambers out of the vehicle, takes a few cautious steps on to the ice and stamps her foot. The ice remains stubbornly solid, even when she loses her footing and sprawls full length. Crawling back to the grassy bank, she struggles to her feet and glares at Pete. “This is all your fault!” she hisses. Fending off the ducks and geese, who seem to think she’s come to feed them, she climbs into the Shogun and sits for a moment, drumming her fingers on the steering wheels.
“Can’t bury you, can’t drown you,” she mumbles under her breath. “Oh, sod it. I’ve had enough of this. Let’s just go home, eh?”
She sits upright, starts the engine and drives off in a flurry of snow, sending the ducks and geese squawking and flapping for cover.
An hour later, Cindy sits in front of the television, a large G and T at her side. Pete rests on the sofa, still wearing his paper hat, ignoring the whiskey she poured for him.
“What shall we watch?” she asks him. “I fancy a film, what about It’s a Wonderful Life?”
She takes Pete’s silence for assent and presses the button, sighing contentedly.
It’s going to be a lovely, quiet evening.

Mr. Joseph’s Tea Party

1018 words
The Meadowcroft Library has always been there.
It was once the heart of a small village and is now merely one more building in a city street that grew up around it. Most of the surrounding shops are either shuttered, victims of the economic downturn, or plastered with gaudy signs offering Buy One Get One Free or Sale – Everything Must Go’.
The Library has no such offers. It merely opens its doors every morning at nine o’clock and closes them again at five o’clock.
Once inside, visitors will find that most of the books are well thumbed and showing signs of age. With one exception. The shelves of children’s books have always got an enticing selection of the newest books for its young readers. In addition, Miss Crump, the assistant librarian and a spinster of a certain age, is always willing to ‘keep an eye’ on small charges while their mothers pop to the shops or run an errand.
The library is owned by Mr. Joseph, a tall, stooping man with snow white hair swept back from his forehead and a neat goatee beard. He appears occasionally, always smiling and making time to speak to each customer individually, enquiring after their family – he always remembers everyone’s name – and smiling benevolently at the excited children, even those of a noisy or fractious nature. In spite of his white hair, no one knows how old Mr. Joseph is. Like the library, he’s always been there.
Every thirteen months, a discreet notice appears, tacked to the library door. It announces a Grand Children’s Tea Party where there will be Refreshments and also Prizes to be Won. Attendance is always good, as harassed mothers take full advantage of the opportunity to offload their children for a couple of hours.
This year, the event falls in winter and there are not as many children as usual – Miss Crump will not tolerate colds and sniffles to enter the library, although Mr. Joseph is looking decidedly under the weather – but there are still twenty or so excited girls and boys crowded round the long table laden with sandwiches, cakes and fizzy drinks. After they have all eaten and played a game of musical chairs, Miss Crump judges them tired enough to take part in The Quiz. She lays out pencils and sheets of questions on the now-cleared table. The questions are of the What did Cinderella leave behind at the ball? variety, although one year, when Miss Crump was feeling not very sociable, she’d slipped in Name the seven dwarfs. This had resulted in many tears and led to one of the very few arguments there had ever been between Miss Crump and Mr. Joseph.
After much sticking out of tongues and peeking at each other’s papers, the children are finished. Miss Crump tots up the scores. Herbie Jones has come first, followed by Susie Denton and then Kevin Brown. Mr. Joseph’s hand trembles noticeably as he takes the papers and there are beads of sweat on his forehead, but he brushes aside Miss Crump’s whispered concerns. She points out the three children – skinny as a rail Herbie, frail Susie and plump Kevin.
Mr. Joseph smiles a thin-lipped smile and announces that the winner is Kevin. Miss Crump thinks how kind it is of him to give the prize to Kevin, who never wins anything and, after all, the others will get consolation prizes. Kevin is delighted with his book on dinosaurs and beams with pride when Mr. Joseph affixes a large, gold sticker to his jumper. The sticker says Winner! Even better, Mr. Joseph tells him that if he wears the sticker to bed, he’ll dream of some wonderful dinosaurs that no one else has ever seen before. With large, round eyes, Kevin promises that he will.
Miss Crump notices that Mr. Joseph is looking quite ill now and suggests he have a lie-down in his apartment above the library. He accepts gratefully and she organises the children into their coats, so they’ll be ready when their mothers come to collect them. When the library is empty at last, she locks up a little early and sets off for home and a nice evening in front of the television with her marmalade cat.
The streets darken and snow falls. All is quiet.
As the clock on the town hall chimes midnight, two things happen. The library windows blaze with light. At the exact same second, a few streets away, the sticker on Kevin’s pyjamas glows and his eyes fly open. He’s a little annoyed at first because he had indeed been dreaming of wonderful dinosaurs. And then a thought pops into his head – a very clear thought, as though someone was speaking to him. There are even more dinosaurs waiting for you at the library. Hurry!
Kevin is a good boy and knows he should never leave the house alone, especially at night. He thinks he’ll go and fetch his mum so she can take him, but another thought pops into his head. No! You must come alone. The dinosaurs are only for you. Kevin nods and tiptoes downstairs in his slippered feet, undoing the bolts on the front door and slipping out of the house.
Two inches of snow have fallen and Kevin’s feet leave small footprints as he runs to the library, anxious to see his own special dinosaurs. The library door stands wide open, spilling a welcoming, yellow light on to the snow. Kevin walks up the steps, enters the library and the door closes softly behind him.
The snow starts to fall again and, within minutes, Kevin’s footsteps disappear.
The library lights go out.
The next morning, as Miss Crump plods through the snow on her way to work, she sees a police car outside Kevin’s house. She stops to ask what’s wrong and is shocked to learn that Kevin has gone missing. She hurries on, eager to tell Mr. Joseph the terrible news.
Although they are both shocked and need a strong cup of tea, Miss Crump is pleased to see that Mr. Joseph is looking much better today.

A Picture of Rosie

999 words
A fine drizzle falls on Betty’s freshly set hair and she tuts in frustration. She knew she should have taken the bus instead of walking. By the time she gets to the restaurant to meet Louise and Tricia, her hair will be a frizzy mess while theirs will be impeccable, as usual. Not that it matters, she assures herself. They’ve all been friends since junior school and nothing can sour their friendship. It’s just that – sometimes – she feels that they look down on her a little. The way they offer to pay for her lunch, as if she can’t afford to share the bill and then, the looks they exchange when the subject of grandchildren
Out come their smartphones – much more expensive than Betty’s – and they scroll through dozens of recent pictures, showing a never-ending stream of events. Visits to the petting farm, first day at nursery, the soft play area – on and on, with Betty expected to admire every single snap. Which she does. Of course she does. The children are bonny and beautiful. comes up.
Eventually, either Louise or Tricia asks, “And what of little Rosie? How is she?”
Rosie, Betty’s only grandchild, was born in Canada eighteen months ago and Betty has yet to meet her. She has one precious photograph of the little girl at a few weeks old but, since then, her son and his wife have gone their separate ways and neither are very good at keeping in touch. She lives in hope of a FaceTime Call or a letter but, as time goes by, she fears she will never see the little girl.
So Betty spins stories of long phone calls and how her son has been begging her to visit them in Montreal. She searches the depths of her handbag, muttering about forgetting her phone, otherwise, of course, she’d show them the latest snaps and videos. At that point, one of the other ladies will tactfully change the subject and leave Betty to sit quietly and close to tears.
Lost in thought, she bumps into a young woman with a buggy, apologises profusely and bends to pick up the scattered belongings that had flown off the buggy on to the pavement.
“Don’t worry, me duck,” laughs the young mother. “I weren’t looking where I was going, either.”
Betty looks at the little girl sitting in the buggy. “And who’s this?” she asks, wagging her fingers and pulling a funny face at the child, delighted to be rewarded by a wide, toothy smile.
“Rose Anne,” comes the answer. “And a right little monkey she is.”
“Rosie,” whispers Betty.
“Yeah, that’s what we call her. Anyway, better get off before the rain starts properly.”
“Bye, then.”
Betty turns to walk on when she spies a photograph lying on the pavement. Picking it up, she stares at an image of little Rose Anne, sitting on a picnic blanket, messily eating an ice cream. She turns to call out, “You’ve dropped this,” but the woman and buggy are gone, so she slips the photo into her pocket.
Later, in the restaurant, when the usual question is asked, “How is Rosie? She must be getting quite big now,” Betty fingers the little bit of pasteboard in her pocket. Dare she? There’s no harm in it, is there? Dismissing the thought, she produces the picture, saying, “I’ve forgotten my phone, as usual, but this came in the post this morning.” She sits proudly while Louise and Tricia exclaim over the beautiful child.
As they take their leave of each other outside the restaurant, Tricia suggests that they meet in the park next time, if the weather is nice. “I’m babysitting little Oliver and it would be nice to have a bit of a picnic.”
“Wonderful idea,” enthuses Louise. “I’ll see if I can ‘borrow’ Susie. They can have a little playdate.”
Betty says nothing and, after a few awkward seconds, the ladies go their separate ways.
The day of the picnic dawns sunny and bright. Betty considers crying off but gives herself a little talking to. “Of course you must go. It will be lovely to see the children and, perhaps, when you come home, there really will be a letter from Canada.”
There’s a small retail centre on the way to the park and Betty decides to call in to the bakery for a few cupcakes as her contribution to the picnic. About to enter the shop doorway, she stumbles a little as a small teddy flies through the air and lands at her feet. Picking it up, she’s amazed to see Rose Anne in her buggy, giggling and holding out her arms for her teddy bear.
“What are you doing here?” Betty asks the child, giving back the bear, only for it to be hurled out again. “Where’s your mummy?”
Peering into the bakery, Betty can see Rose Anne’s mum in the middle of a long queue, waiting to be served. Really, how careless. Fancy leaving a small child outside a shop. Why, anybody could walk off with her. Almost of their own volition, one of her hands releases the brake and the other wheels the buggy rapidly away from the shop. A little voice in her head screams, “Stop! What are you doing?”
“It’s all right, Rosie,” she says aloud, drowning out the cautionary voice. “Grandma will look after you. We’re going to a picnic. You’ll like that, won’t you?”
Louise and Tricia are sitting on a bench a little way into the park, watching two small children playing on a blanket.
“Surprise!” calls Betty brightly. “Look who’s come on a visit from Canada.”
The arrival of the policemen and the screaming, crying woman mar the afternoon a bit but Betty often relives that golden, happy hour as she waits for the orderly to bring her tea.
Perhaps today there’ll be a letter from Canada with another picture of Rosie.

Nice Day for an Ice Cream

486 words
Heaven. Friday morning
Angel number 4501 is summoned to His Presence, or HP, as he likes to be called.
“I have an important job for you, 4501. There’s a music festival tomorrow in Everyman’s Park.” HP’s magnificent voice rolls out, setting clouds, cherubim and seraphim a-tremble. A few feathers shiver and fall off 4501’s wings. “I was very upset at the amount of sin that went on at the last one – drugs, blasphemy and …” HP lowers his voice and the Heavens still. “… you know, s-e-x that went on.”
4501’s heart leapt in anticipation.
The celestial voice rumbled on. “It will be your mission to point out the error of their ways to these young people, put their feet on a new and better path.”
OK. So it’s Mission Impossible, but I’m going to a music festival.
“Of course, HP. An honour to be chosen. In what guise shall I descend?” A rock star? A Hell’s Angel? Oh please, not a groupie.
“You will temporarily take over the body of an ice cream salesman called Kevin.”
HP taps his foot and watches through the one way mirror in the sky as 4501 plummets to earth, his heavenly raiment already changing to jeans and a Nirvana tee-shirt..

Hell. Friday afternoon
His Satanic Highness kneels on the backs of two recently arrived politicians, his backside bare and pulsating with inner evil. A ring of hellfire encircles them, holding back a legion of imps and fiends with singed hair and blistered skin.
“Kiss my arse!” roars HSH. “A day back on earth for whoever braves the flames and kisses my royal arse.”
None are brave enough to risk self imolation until Black Bart steps forward. Seven feet tall, once a grave robber and now an upper level demon, he’s been a thorn in HSH’s side ever since he fell into an open grave and drowned in the seepage.
One almighty leap and he’s through the hellfire, skin smouldering and bubbling, smoke seeping from all his orifices
Bending at the knee, he kisses the putrefying buttocks before him.
Beelzebub, as he likes to be called when dealing with the Damned, rears up and points upwards, searing a hole through the charcoal-blackened vaults. “Go, Lulu, enjoy your day.”
Black Bart only has time to say, “Lulu? What the f–” before he vanishes in a swirl of silk and Chanel No 5.

Everyman’s Park
His Presence watches the materialisation of the ravishing young woman, her modesty barely covered in wisps of green silk.
“You’ve outdone yourself this week, Lucifer.” He prefers the old names to all this high-falutin’ Royal Highness stuff.
The Devil laughs. “Kevin the ice cream seller won’t stand a chance. Shall I make the first move?”
The two deities settle down to their Saturday afternoon game of Celestial Chess.
Lulu basks under the hot sun and a thought pops into her mind.
I’d kill for an ice cream.

Edith and Alan’s Spring Break

995 words
Edith and Alan had been looking forward to this trip all winter. It was their tradition to drive north each year on the first weekend of Spring. The sun was unseasonably warm and the sky cloudless as they travelled up the A1, the radio tuned to gentle, classical music and the sunroof open.
Edith was especially looking forward to seeing her friend, Beryl, who ran The Oaks, the quiet hotel they habitually stayed at. Although The Oaks was on a busy road, there were no surrounding buildings and, on the other side of the road, was the beach.Ten minutes away was the city where Edith would enjoy an afternoon shopping before she and Alan took in a play at the theatre. All in all, a really relaxing break before the hotel became busy with summer visitors.
As they rounded the bend in the road that led to the hotel, Alan suddenly slammed the brakes on with a muttered oath.
“Alan!” exclaimed Edith sharply, not only at the profanity but also because the sudden stop had caused her to bang her head on the headrest. Then she saw it, too. The Oaks was no more. Instead, a garish sign, picked out in neon lights, read Barney’s Beach Hut. Where a tasteful painting of an oak tree had hung was a large, inflated plastic palm tree.
As Alan slowly drove forward, the sound of loud music wafted across to them and they saw a large banner proclaiming Barney’s Beach Hut as ‘The Only Place to be’ and listing a whole series of events to entertain their customers.
“What’s an open mic night?” asked Edith faintly.
“I don’t know,” answered Alan grimly, “but I don’t like the sound of it.”
“What are we going to do?” Edith was fanning herself with a road map. “We can’t stay here.”
“We might have to, at least for one night,” came the morose answer. “I’ve been driving for over two hours and I don’t fancy going on to the city to find somewhere else.”
Fighting back tears, Edith sniffled, “I wish we’d never come.”
“Well, we wouldn’t have if we’d only known, would we?” Alan was getting irritable so Edith bit her tongue and waited while Alan got their weekend bags from the boot. Inside, the reception area was dominated by a bamboo desk, behind which sat an enormous man in a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, tapping furiously on a laptop. His face was flushed and beads of sweat stood out on his bald head.
“Excuse me,” said Alan, perhaps a little louder than necessary, after a couple of minutes had gone by without the man acknowledging their presence.
A few more seconds ticked by until, with obvious reluctance, the man tore his gaze away from the screen and composed his face face into a smile. “Sorry about that,” he said. “This bloody computer will be the death of of me.”
“Literally,” thought Edith, looking at his girth and heightened countenance.
“I’m Barney,” the man introduced himself. “How can I help you?”
“We want to book a room for the night,” Alan said.
“You do?” Barney’s gaze took in Edith’s tightly-permed white hair and her sensible lace-up shoes and Alan’s food-stained cardigan and ancient trainers. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”
“Well, we thought we were,” snapped Alan. “Where’s Beryl?”
“Ah, Beryl. She and her hubby – whatsisname – have retired to somewhere in Cornwall. She has family there, I believe,” answered Barney. “But, as soon as she left, this sodding thing started playing up and I seem to have lost all the booking information.”
Alan’s eyes lit up. “Booking, you said? What programme are you using?”
“Hang on a minute.” Barney turned back to the laptop screen. “Quite an old-fashioned one but Beryl said it was the best for what Iwe need. Ah, here we are – the Jenkinson Complete Office, it’s called.”
Edith and Alan exchanged glances and she nodded. Alan pushed his cardigan sleeves up. “Let the dog see the rabbit,” he said, walking round the desk.
“Hang on there, Mr. er …” Barney blustered.
“Jenkinson. My name’s Jenkinson.” Alan sat down, scrutinised the screen for a few minutes and began tapping the keys with quick, deft strokes.
Barney’s jaw dropped. “Jenkinson. As in …”
“Yes,” nodded Edith. “That Jenkinson.”
”This’ll take a little while,” muttered Alan. “You’ve really buggered it up, but it’s recoverable.” He looked up, briefly. “I think my wife would like a cup of tea.”
“Of course!” Barney sprang into action, ushering Edith through a door into his private quarters, seating her in an armchair while he busied himself in the kitchen, She looked around her at the cosy room with its well-worn, comfortable furniture, stacked bookshelves and ornaments cluttered on every available surface.
“If you don’t mind me saying, this is very different to, you know, out there,” she said when Barney returned with a tray of tea and biscuits.
“I’m just a figurehead, Mrs. Jenkinson,” Barney replied. “My son and his wife run the place and I do a few odd jobs, just to keep me occupied.”
Half an hour later, Alan tapped on the door and entered the room. “All shipshape,” he said, accepting a mug of tea from Barney, “but you need to be more careful or you might lose some vitl information next time.
Barney hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’d …”
And so, Edith and Alan stayed in Barney’s private quarters, far from the noisy bar. In the mornings, Alan taught Barney the intricacies of the Jenkinson Complete Office before he and Edith spent the afternoons enjoying the lovely Spring weather.
When they finally drove away after four days, the three had become firm friends with Barney insisting they come back any time as his guests.
As the plastic palm trees and the garish neon sign receded in the rear view mirror, Edith and Alan whole-heartedly agreed that, next year, they’d go to Cornwall for their Spring break.
Anywhere butBarney’s Beach Hut.

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

1023 words
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Who is the fairest of us all?”
   Cinderella waited a moment, then poked the mirror impatiently.
   “I said –” she began.
   The ornate, gold-framed mirror shivered slightly, then said hastily, “Er, Thou art the fairest, lady queen.”
   “I should think so,” said Cinderella, crossly. “What took you so long?”
   Immediately, the mirror said, with increased enthusiasm, “Thou art the fairest, lady queen.”
   “Charming,” called Cinderella, shrilly, “there’s something wrong with the mirror.”
   “Coming, dear,” answered King Charming, excusing himself from a Very Important Meeting. Hurrying to his wife’s side, he enquired, “What’s the matter, my precious one?”
   “The Magic Mirror is behaving erratically. I haven’t got all day to stand about waiting for it to make its mind up. After all, it’s not rocket science, is it? I am the fairest in the land,”
   “Of course you are, my dearest flower,” the king answered, groaning inwardly. “I’ll see to it, immediately.”
   “See you do,” she snapped, stamping away in a cloud of Black Opium. “Can’t you change its batteries or something?”
   King Charming watched her retreating figure for a few moments, then addressed the mirror. “What do you think you’re playing at?”
   The wall on which the mirror hung moved outwards slightly and Lucien crawled out from behind it.
   “My legs have seized up,” he complained. “I’ll never be able to stand upright again.”
   “Of course you will,” said Charming irritably, grasping the back of Lucien’s jacket and hauling him upright. “Cinders says you’re not answering her quickly enough. Why not?”
   Lucien stretched his arms above his head and moaned with pleasure as his long limbs unkinked. “Fell asleep, didn’t I?” he yawned.
   “Fell asleep?” Spluttered the king. “I don’t pay you to sleep, I pay you to tell my wife she’s the fairest in my kingdom.”
   Lucien was sorely tempted to say, “Well, we both know that ain’t so, don’t we?” but he wisely kept his counsel. Everyone throughout the kingdom knew that Cinderella had fooled the then Prince Charming into thinking the glass slipper was hers, by the simple expedient of chopping off her big toe so that it fitted. Her twin sister, Mirabella, who was the real object of the prince’s love, had been locked in the cellar while Cinderella pulled off her evil plan.
   King Charming was blissfully unaware of the subterfuge played upon him. At the direction of the new Princess Cinderella, the court Chronicles had published a load of nonsense about fairy godmothers and evil stepsisters that everyone pretended to believe. And, once she was queen, perhaps they really did.
   “Sorry, sire,” muttered Lucien, swallowing his resentment. Pretending to be a Magic Mirror might be a rubbish job but it was better than herding sheep under the watchful eye of old Grindle, who’d kept him a prisoner until Charming had rescued him. “It won’t happen again.”
   “I should think not,” said the king. “What’s our motto?”
   Lucien gritted his teeth. “Whatever the queen wants, the queen gets,” he recited.
   “Exactly,” confirmed King Charming, “and if she wants to be told she’s the fairest in the land, then you’d better be wide awake to tell her so. Understood?”
   “Understood.” Lucien nodded, sketched a cursory bow and crawled back behind the mirror.
   And, for a time, he was vigilant, never sleeping on the job and giving all the right answers to Queen Cinderella.
Until, one day while he was in the kitchen eating his dinner, he fell head-over-heels in love with Gloriosa, the new cook. She had flame red hair, the bluest eyes he’d ever seen and, wonder of wonders, she loved him, too. For a little while, they were content with kisses at meal times but soon decided they wanted more from life than a few stolen moments. Lucien, at the beck and call of the queen’s whims, grew depressed, seeing no way forward, But Gloriosa wasn’t only beautiful, she was clever, as well. And, one dark night, she made her way to the humble house where Mirabella, resigned to a life without love, still lived with her father. The two women talked well into the early hours of the morning, each finding a kindred spirit in the other. All they had to do then was persuade Lucien to go along with their plan.
   And so it came to pass that, on a day when King Charming was off for a day’s hunting, their plan was put into action. As always, when the king was away, Cinderella roamed the corridors of the palace, constantly checking in with the Magic Mirror. A little while after lunch, she stopped and peered into the gleaming glass.
   “Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Who is the fairest of us all?”
   A slight pause, a nearly inaudible gulp and then the answer came.
   “Thou wer’t the fairest, lady queen
But now it’s Gloriosa, I we’en.”
   Before Cinderella could choke out her enraged reply, Lucien sprang out from his hiding place, stuck his thumbs in his ears, waggled his fingers and cried, “Can’t catch me, you old hag!”
   Through the corridors he ran, across the courtyard and out into the surrounding fields, hotly pursued by a furious Cinderella, with murder in her heart. He scrambled through hedges, waded across muddy ponds and still she followed him, although her silk gown was torn and dirty and her hair snagged loose by the thorny brambles. Just as Lucien thought his laboured lungs would collapse, he reached old Grindle’s shepherd’s hut on the lower reaches of the mountain.
   Gasping, he leaned on the door, beckoning to the old man. “The king’s sent you a new shepherdess,” he panted, “but she’s a bit wild. You’ll have to guard her well or she’ll run away.”
   “Don’t you worry,” said the old man, grasping hold of Cinderella’s arm as she staggered into the yard. “She’ll not get away from me.”
   King Charming arrived home, weary from his day’s hunting, to a find loving, gentle wife waiting for him. The Magic Mirror was gone from the wall and, although the king would never know this, Lucien was enjoying his new life as the beautiful, flame haired cook’s assistant.

The Letter

993 word
The sun was pouring through the French windows. Alice was curled up in an over-sized armchair, halfway through the latest James Patterson novel and with a tall glass of chilled Pinot Grigio on the small table at her elbow. She didn’t often get an afternoon to herself, but with her husband away for the weekend visiting his parents and her son busy upstairs on his computer, she was making the most of it.
She sighed when the letterbox rattled and, reluctantly, rose and made her way through to the hallway. A rather battered envelope lay on the mat with a hand-written name and address on it. Her maiden name. And it had been re-directed from her previous address. Slowly, she ripped the envelope open and unfolded the two pages of closely written words.

Dear Alice
I guess you’ll be surprised to hear from me after all these years. But it’s me, your Christopher Robin. Remember how our mums used to call us that and sing the song. They thought it was cute but I hated it. Anyway, I got your address from Joe next door although he wasn’t sure if you’d still be there. Said your mum and dad were dead now but he thought you were still in the house you’d moved to all those years ago.
It’s hard to believe we’re both nearly forty now. I still think of you the way you were the last time I saw you with your blonde hair tied up in a ponytail and those patched jeans you always wore. How old were we then? Eighteen, nineteen, something like that. You waved as you got in the car and were driven away, following the removal van.
My heart was breaking, I won’t lie, but you said it was only a hundred miles and you’d write when you were settled in. I was saving for a motorbike and would come to see you as soon as you let me know the address. Eh, the plans we had, Alice. You were my first love and, don’t laugh, my only love. I waited for that letter for a long time until my mum said to forget you, we’d been too young to make plans and that you’d probably found a new love. She was probably right but not me, I never found anyone who could compare to you.
Well, I suppose I’d better get to the point of this letter. I can’t avoid it any more. My mum died a few weeks ago and my dad, he’s been gone for a few years now. I’m back at their old house, clearing it up and, the thing is, I found a shoebox full of letters in the attic. Yes, Alice, your letters that she’d kept from me. It broke my heart to read them, I can tell you. The way you kept asking why I didn’t answer you and didn’t I love you any more. I don’t mind admitting I cried out loud when I read the last letter where you told me you’d found a new chap and was going to marry him. I hope you’re happy with him. I really do. Anyway, that’s not the last of it and I’m not even sure I’m doing the right thing, but here goes.
There were more letters in that box than just the ones you’d written to me. She’d kept in touch with your dad. It seems the two of them had been close at one time, if you know what I mean, even though they were both married. From what I read, they were heartbroken at being parted but he – your dad – wrote that it was the only way to keep us apart. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I just left the letter lying on the attic floor and took myself off to the pub. I’m not a drinking man, never was, but I got smashed out of my head that night. I was so full of anger at them, I just wanted to blot everything out.
I’m rambling now. I know. It’s because I’m scared to tell you the next bit but I think you deserve to know. Next morning, after the hangover eased a bit, I climbed back up into the attic and read the rest of the letters. I hope you’re sitting down when you read this, Alice, because it seems we’re brother and sister. Your dad is my dad. Can you believe it?
When they realised we were falling in love, he took that job up north and my mum made sure I never heard from you again. I wish you could see the letters he wrote to her, so full of self pity because they’d been ‘torn apart’, as he put it. Not a word of guilt about how they’d sneaked round behind the backs of my dad and your mum. I remember her as a lovely woman and my dad was a good man. They didn’t deserve it.
I just wish they’d told us. It would have been a shock but maybe we could have been friends, good friends, who knows? I don’t think I can write any more, my love – can I call you that one more time?
In brotherly love.
Chris

The letter fluttered from Alice’s nerveless fingers to the floor, a low moan escaped her lips and she staggered against the wall.
“What’s wrong, Mum?”
Her son, Liam, sprang down the last few stairs and took her arm, guiding her back to her armchair.
“Nothing at all,” she said, weakly. “I think I’ve had a little more to drink than I should have.” She patted his hand. “I’ll be fine. You go and get on with your work. You don’t want to miss that deadline.”
“Well, if you’re sure …”
He smiled reassuringly at her, his warm, brown eyes so like his father’s that, just for a moment, she thought she was looking at Chris once again.

A Pocketful of Stars

944 words
Sean Brannigan had magic at his fingertips. Nothing strange in that. Nearly everyone in Ballycomelately had at least a smidgeon of magic, even if it was only making sure the chickens laid large, brown eggs every day or conjuring up sunshine on washing day.
Sean Brannigan was also a lucky man, having married Mairi, his childhood sweetheart as soon as they had both left school and were earning enough money to rent a small cottage on the outskirts of the village.
One of Sean’s favourite sayings was, “Into each life some rain must fall” because, above all else he was a pragmatist who knew that everything in life had to be paid for in some way.
The rain in Sean’s life fell in the form of his marriage remaining childless, due to an accident that left Mairi wheelchair bound and unable to bear a child. But their blessings far outweighed these things and they lived happily together for many years, Sean tending their small patch of land and Mairi knitting shawls as light as gossamer which she sold for extra income.
Every afternoon, as the sun began its slow descent, Sean would wheel Mairi to the village green and they would sit and watch the children play before they were called in for bedtime.
Sometimes a boy would fall and scrape his knee or perhaps a girl would twist her ankle while skipping rope. Sean would beckon the tearful child over to where he sat on the grass beside Mairi’s wheelchair.
“Now, ye know what’s in my pocket, don’t ye?” he’d say and the child would nod in eager anticipation, all his friends crowding round to watch.
“Yes, Mr. Brannigan,” would come the answer. “A pocketful of stars.”
“Aye, that’s right.” Sean’s hand would stray to his pocket, teasing out the moment. “Now look here … and don’t blink or you’ll scare the magic away.”
He’d slowly hold his hand out, palm upwards, to reveal a shimmering, glimmering, beaming, gleaming, swirling, twirling light that dimmed even the sun in all its glory.
“Are ye ready?”
“Aye, Mr. Brannigan.”
Sean would blow gently on his hand and the light would flow up into the air, dancing wildly before fading and sinking back to earth.
“Is your hurt gone now?” he’d ask and the child would rub the spot that had been troubling him, eyes wide in amazement as he nodded his head vigorously.
“Now, that’s your star and it’ll never leave you as long as you never do or say an evil thing. D’ye understand?”
Mairi would smile indulgently as the child ran away. “You and your tricks,” she’d say and Sean would just smile because he could never bring himself to disagree with his beloved wife.
And so the years passed, as they do, and more than one generation of children were healed by Sean’s pocketful of stars.
The day came when Mairi, the light of Sean’s life, went to her heavenly rest, leaving him a bereft and broken man. His only desire was to follow Mairi but he knew he couldn’t take away the life God had given him so he eked out his days, neglecting his land, letting his crops wither rather than harvest them and eating only enough to keep him alive.
After a while, his friends called at his door, saying would he not join them again on the village green. The children missed him and his pocketful of stars.
He smiled sadly and shook his head, turning out his empty pockets to show them.
“I have no stars,” he said. “I never understood it but my magic came from Mairi and now she’s gone, so is the magic.”
That night was a bad one for Sean. Sleep eluded him and, at last, he gave up trying to nod off and made his way down to the village green where all was in darkness. For many hours he sat on the grass, gazing up at the stars high above in the heavens and thinking of his lost love.
As dawn stole away the darkness, the villagers came out of their cottages and slowly approached him. First it was Agnes Flynn who knelt before him. Holding her hand out, she showed him the shimmering, glimmering, beaming, gleaming, swirling, twirling light that danced on her palm.
“Remember this?” she said. “You gave it to me when I fell from the oak tree and bumped my head.” She blew gently on the light and it rose a little way into the air before settling gently on Sean like a silken cloak before disappearing.
Next was Padraig Quinn. “I got a bloody nose when I tripped over a tree root. Ye gave me a star from your pocket and it made me a better person. I give it back to ye with a thankful heart.”
One by one, the villagers gave Sean the stars they had nurtured for many years and, with each one, his soul became a little lighter and his mind filled with love until, at last, he put his hand in his pocket to find it full of stars.
He had no words to thank his friends but they understood and returned to their homes, leaving him underneath the oak tree that had stood there for centuries.
For the last time on this earth, Sean put his hand in his pocket and drew out not one but a whole pocketful of stars. Cradling them in both hands, he drew a deep breath and saying, “I’m coming, Mairi,” he blew gently on them and they spiralled up to the heavens, taking Sean with them to where his beloved Mairi was waiting for him.

Letting Go

1025 words
Born in the closing years of the nineteenth century, identical twins Esme and Elsie were brought up in the seclusion of a country vicarage. They had no siblings, their father was a benevolent but remote figure and their mother, although loving, was undemonstrative and not given to displays of compassion. The two little girls didn’t go to school, but were taught to read and write at the kitchen table when their mother had a few minutes to spare from her duties as a vicar’s wife. Esme and Elsie didn’t mind; even at a tender age, they were free to roam the grounds of the vicarage, paddling in the stream that ran along the bottom of the garden and climbing trees in the orchard to pluck the rosy apples.
The first World War, terrible as it was, made very little impression on Esme and Elsie, now young women. They knitted scarves and balaclavas for the soldiers, led prayer meetings for the wives and mothers of the men at the front and wrote letters in their rather wobbly handwriting for those who couldn’t do so. Tragically, when the war was over, very few of the young men from the village returned home and those who did were mentally and physically scarred by the horrors they’d seen. As a result of this, the twins never married or were even courted.
Esme and Elsie were unfazed; they had each other and, when the time came for their father to retire, the family moved to a small cottage on the outskirts of the village. Esme, the more dominant of the two, carved out a life for herself in the outdoors, hiking for miles at a time, learning to swim in the river that flowed through the village and keeping chickens and goats. Elsie, quieter and a little introverted, dabbled in watercolours and taught the smaller village children at Sunday school. And so, the years passed, marked only by the passing of their parents, and the women grew gently into old age.
On a sunny Spring morning, daffodils nodding in their garden, Elsie tapped lightly on Esme’s bedroom door and entered, carrying a tray with two cups and saucers, a teapot and a jug of milk. It was the sisters’ habit to begin their day by taking a few minutes to talk about the small tasks ahead of them. Placing the tray carefully on a bedside table, Elsie bent to give her sleeping sister a gentle shake.
“Come on, sleepy head, the sun’s up already and not a cloud in the sky.”
No answer was forthcoming and nor would there ever be. Esme had slipped peacefully away in the night to meet her Heavenly Father and, for the first time in her life, Elsie was all alone in the world. The sun rose to its highest point and began its descent back to earth before Elsie arose from her knees beside her sister’s lifeless body. She’d shed no tears, neither had she prayed for Esme’s soul. There was only a deep numbness, an inertia that clouded her mind. Without Esme, how could she go on? At last, she clambered stiffly to her feet, holding on to the furniture as feeling slowly came back to her legs.
It was a short walk to the vicarage, where she simply told the minister, “Esme’s gone,” and sat down next to a chair, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes staring unseeingly ahead. In the days that followed, the villagers rallied round, recognising that Elsie was in deep shock and fearing that she would never come out of it. Esme had left instructions for her burial, detailing hymns, passages from the bible and even the words she’d like spoken instead of a conventional sermon. Elsie moved through it all, sitting where indicated, standing when required to and eating only when coaxed by a kindly neighbour.
The day came, however, when normal life resumed for the village. Except Elsie. Left to herself, she closed the front door, drew the curtains and took a seat by the fireplace. The grate still held the remnants of the fire Esme had lit on her last evening. The tea tray Elsie had carried upstairs still sat on the bedside table, the milk rancid in the jug and the tea growing mouldy in the pot. None of it held any meaning for Elsie. Without the twin sister who had been the other half of her very being, nothing had meaning any more.
Days passed. Occasionally, Elsie drifted through the house, looking at the dusty surfaces, shivering in the chill air. She drank water, ate an apple or picked at a piece of dry bread, more from habit than any desire for nourishment. Mostly, though, she sat in the chair by the fireplace. Slept there. She grew thin, her hair unkempt. Sometimes, she talked to the empty chair opposite her, eyes dry and hard as she berated Esme for leaving her.
The sun rose earlier, climbed higher in he sky as Summer made her presence felt. And the morning came when a shaft of sunlight fell on Esme’s chair, the dust motes dancing in the golden beams. Elsie opened her eyes from a fitful sleep and gazed at her sister, sitting opposite her.
“Is it you?’ she whispered. “Have you come back to me?”
“I never left you, my dearest one, and I never will, but I can’t be at rest and you can’t have peace until you release me.”
“Me? Release you? But, how …”
Elsie stopped talking as Esme began to shimmer, becoming one with the sunlight. In the last second before her sister disappeared, Elsie felt a finger lovingly brush her cheek. She touched her own face and felt the wetness of a single tear. Her whole being lightened as more tears fell, releasing the hurt and sadness she’d been holding back for such a long time. How long she’d cried, she’d never know but, eventually, she rose to her feet ad walked to the front door. She threw it open and the sunshine flooded the house, filling it with joyous memories and the spirit of her beloved Esme.

Two Ps in a Pod

997 words
Primrose reached out a hand for the pink, leather handbag with the little Scottie dog dangling from the handle.
“Mum?” she said, turning to Petunia, who was watching her with an indulgent smile.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but it’s too much money,” her mother replied. “Maybe next month if I earn a bit more commission.”
“Oh, all right.” Petunia said with a small sigh, letting her fingers trail over the handbag once more before turning away. She knew things had been a bit tight since her waste-of-space father had run off with his secretary. Petunia worked long hours, often tapping away at her computer until midnight, chasing leads to earn enough to give them a comfortable lifestyle. And Primrose appreciated it. She and her mum were a tight unit, each doing everything they could to make the other happy. “Two Ps in a pod,” Petunia liked to say.
Primrose especially loved their Saturday morning shopping trips, often only window shopping, but Petunia occasionally managed to treat her daughter to something special. Today, she had already bought some Pretty Pink lip gloss and a little bottle of Daisy cologne, even though Primrose was really a little too young for make-up. “Fourteen going on twenty-one,” Petunia would say with a smile that always made Primrose feel special, as if she was the centre of her mother’s world.
They settled at a table in the department store’s coffee shop and, just as Primrose was about to take her first bite of lime and lemon gateau, Petunia said, “Er, there’s something we should talk about.”
Without knowing why, a small prickle of unease crept into Primrose’s mind and she lowered her dessert fork. “What sort of something?” she asked.
“You know how I go into the office once a week?”
Primrose nodded her head, her eyes fastened on her mother’s face.
“The thing is,” continued Petunia, not meeting her daughter’s eyes, “there’s this guy, Peregrine, who’s – um – quite nice and we, well, we really get on. And, the thing is …”
“Hello, girls!” came a jovial voice from just behind Primrose’s left shoulder.
Petunia blushed scarlet. “Peregrine! I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Oh, am I too early?” Peregrine skirted the table and came into Primrose’s direct line of vision. “I thought you’d already told her.”
“Told me what?” asked Primrose, something telling her that she wasn’t going to like the answer.
Petunia and Peregrine exchanged guilty glances and then her mother said brightly, “I was about to tell you. Peregrine’s coming to live with us. Won’t that be nice?”
Primrose stared up at Peregrine’s plump face, his wispy blonde hair and his ever-so-slightly protruding teeth. “Not in a million years, he’s not,” she thought.
Aloud she said, “Well, this is a surprise.”
“So you don’t mind?” asked Petunia anxiously.
“Not at all.” Primrose smiled widely, showing all her teeth. “And aren’t new stepfathers supposed to come bearing gifts?”
“Primrose!” Petunia was shocked and, turning to Peregrine, she said, “I’m so sorry, Perry, I don’t know what’s got into her.”
“No, not at all,” said Peregrine, his smile as wide as Primrose’s but showing even more teeth. “What do you have in mind, my dear?”
Primrose pretended to consider, gazing out of the window at the small patch of grass two storeys below and imagining Peregrine spreadeagled on it. Finally, she side, “There was that darling pink handbag but Mum said I couldn’t –”
“Say no more,” cried Peregrine. “Lead the way, my dear.”
“If he says my dear once more, I’ll scream,” Primrose told herself as she rose and led Peregrine to the handbag department. He paled a little at the price tag but managed to keep smiling as he produced his American Express card.
Clutching her new handbag, Primrose said, “I’ll see you back at the table, Peregrine, I just need something from the stationery department.”
The atmosphere at the table was frosty when she returned. Petunia’s face was flushed with irritation and Peregrine was looking sheepish. Primrose guessed Peregrine had been ticked off for buying the expensive handbag and could barely suppress a smile. Exactly what she’d hoped for.
Petunia pushed her chair back. Popping to the little girls’ room,” she said, “and then we’d better be off home, Primrose.” No invitation was extended to Peregrine.
As soon as her mother had left the table, Primrose put the handbag on the table, retrieved the Sharpie she’d just bought and began to draw on the delicate pink leather.
“What are you doing? Stop!” exclaimed a horrified Peregrine. “That cost a bloody fortune.”
He reached a hand out to grab the Sharpie and Primrose immediately stabbed him with the point, leaving a wavy, black line across his hand.
“Didn’t Mummy tell you?” Primrose raises her head, her face a study of puzzled innocence. “I have hypergraphia.”
“Hypergraphia,” stuttered Peregrine, scrubbing at his hand.
“Yes, It’s a rare phenomenon. It means I have a compulsion to draw. Not just a little, but all the time,” says Primrose quickly, afraid she’ll forget what she’s just read on Google. “On everything –walls, kitchen cupboards, clothes – even underwear – crockery, computers, you name it, I’ll cover it with ink.”
“Petunia never said,” Peregrine murmured weakly.
“She struggles,” Primrose shrugged. “Two nervous breakdowns already and she has to keep her clothes locked in a suitcase. Otherwise I’ll have them.” She stops drawing on the handbag and turns her attention to the tabletop, scribbling furiously.
Petunia returned to the table to find Peregrine already on his feet. “I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you,” he said. “I’m moving to the head office in Birmingham, er, tomorrow. It’s been lovely knowing you.” He rushes off, mopping his sweating forehead with a handkerchief, leaving Petunia open-mouthed.
Primrose smiled and capped the Sharpie, peeling the plastic covering from the beautiful pink handbag. Ignoring Petunia’s stricken expression, she took a large bite of her gateau. All in all, it had been a very rewarding afternoon.