Stories 11 – 20 – JJ Grafton

Christmas Drinks

1000 words
One minute past midnight.
Christmas Day.
Barry nudges his wife. “You ready, Cheryl?”
No answer. Snoring gently, Cheryl is fast asleep.
“Oh well,” says Barry. “Looks like it’s up to me. As usual.”
Reluctantly, he gets out of the warm bed, pulls on his dressing gown and makes his way downstairs. In the living room, he retrieves the gaily wrapped Christmas parcels from a high cupboard. He and Cheryl haven’t gone mad this year. Their three-year-old twins, Petal and Peter, have only a hazy idea of what Christmas is all about, anyway, and things have been tight since Barry lost his job.
The Christmas tree twinkles brightly, their one bit of extra expense as the twins love to watch the lights flash on and off. He arranges the parcels, smiling as he envisages the twins’ faces as their little fingers rip the wrapping paper off the carefully selected toys.
In the kitchen, he fills a glass with milk, places a mince pie on a plate and finds a carrot in the vegetable rack for Rudolph. He doesn’t see the sense of doing this, as the twins are so small, but Cheryl is insistent that they begin building traditions immediately.
“We don’t even have a chimney,” he mutters to himself as he looks around the living room searching for a place to leave Santa his goodies. He settles on a small table and then, yawning, hugely, he turns to retrace the steps upstairs.
“Nice tree,” says a voice behind him – a deep voice that rumbles gently through the room – and he freezes.
A few seconds pass with no sound and he tells himself, “Overtired, or else those pickled onions.”
He reaches for the door knob and the voice says, “Could do with a few more lights, though.”
Slowly, very slowly, Barry turns … and looks up into the face of – no, he definitely is overtired. He is not looking at Santa Claus. This is not happening. He closes his eyes tightly, waits a few seconds and opens them again. Santa Claus is still there, resplendent in red velvet, white fur and a hat with a bell that jingles softly.
“You’re not here.” Barry speaks firmly. Whatever is happening, he’s not having it. “It was the pickled onions, that’s all. You do not exist.”
Santa Claus smiles, just a smile, not the hearty chuckle one would expect from the spirit of Christmas, and sits down on the sofa, its springs protesting beneath his considerable weight. “That’s better,” he says. “It’s been non-stop for nine months. I don’t suppose you’ve got a drink?”
“A drink?” stutters Barry. “Er, yes, a glass of milk? Mince pie?”
“God, no. I’m lactose intolerant. Everybody leaves milk and I have to drink it. The rules, you know. And don’t even get me started on how Rudolph suffers after eating all those carrots.”
“A beer?” suggests Barry.
“As long as it’s not that alcohol free rubbish.”
Two minutes later, Barry finds himself sitting beside his strange guest, each with a freshly opened beer.
“I see you’ve gone easy on the presents this year,” Santa observes. “I wish everybody would do the same. My job would be a lot easier.”
“Well, yes, er –” Barry flounders. “What am I supposed to call you?”
“Nigel, Nige, for short if you like.”
“Nigel. Right.” Barry wonders briefly if he’s lost his mind, sitting here talking to a figment of his own imagination, but he can taste the cold beer and his toes are growing cold as the room slowly cools. He gulps his beer and continues, “As it happens, I got laid off a couple of months ago so…” His voice tails off.
“I wish I’d known.” Nigel chucks his empty beer can on the floor and waits while Barry fetches him another one. “I could’ve done with a bit of extra help this year. This new wage increase means I had to lay off a couple of elves. I’d have paid you in toys and maybe a little something for Cheryl.”
“Yeah, the budget was a stinker this year,” says Barry, finishing his own beer and exploding into laughter, bubbles shooting down his nose. This is not happening. He’s not sitting here discussing economics with Santa Claus, or Nigel, or whoever he is.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a cigarette?” Nigel asks hopefully.
“No, Cheryl made me give them up, said it was bad for my health.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve not had a ciggy since 1894.”
Nige looks at a sparkly watch, pinned to his red coat. “Go on, just one more, and then I’d better get off. I should have been over the Isle of Man by now.”
As they sink their final beers, Nigel belches and the Christmas tree shivers in the shockwaves.
Barry glances at the mince pie, gets to his feet and walks to the table. “You’d better have something to eat,” he says. “Soak up the beer.” He picks up the plate but, when he turns back, Nigel is gone, leaving only an indentation of gigantic proportions on the sofa cushion.
“Nigel?” Barry rubs his eyes and looks round the empty room before laughing self consciously. “What a weird dream,” he mutters, turning off the Christmas tree lights and making his way back to bed.
Christmas morning is bright and clear. Cheryl and Barry creep downstairs for a quick coffee before the twins wake up.
“What’s this?” Cheryl calls from the living room.
Barry joins her and stares down at the litter of beer cans surrounding the sofa.
“I, uh …” A smile spreads over his face, broad enough to make his jaw ache. “Sorry, love. My mate, Nigel, came round for a few bevvies after you went to bed. I’ll clear it up.”
“See you do.” As she leaves the room, Cheryl turns on the Christmas tree lights and Barry breathes in sharply.
“Thanks, Nige,” he says as the increased number of lights blaze across the room. “Merry Christmas.”

Dead Ringer for Love

1000 words
Teddie and Freddie Frost were brothers, identical twins who were fiercely loyal to one another, although they had chosen very different paths in life. Teddie was a pimp and drug dealer, wealthy and generous with his money, but always just one step ahead of having his collar felt. Freddie was a lay preacher, poor as the traditional church mouse, tending to a small flock of believers who congregated twice a week in the back room of a nearby nail and beauty bar.
The brothers had never grown out of the childish habit of playing pranks on people by each pretending to be the other. Teddie had once preached a sermon on the evils of drugs to Freddie’s followers and even brought tears to the eyes of a few of the faithful. And, once when one of Teddie’s girls had been roughed up by a punter, it was Freddie who tracked the man down and meted out a brutal punishment. In quite a few ways, deep down, they were as identical as the symmetry of their handsome faces.
They lived in a modest, but well-equipped house – Teddie didn’t believe in drawing police attention to himself by flashing lots of cash – along with Alicia, Teddie’s wife. Alicia adored both of the brothers, turning a blind eye to both her husband’s ‘business’ deals and the shenanigans they occasionally got up to, seeing it as just ‘the boys letting off steam’.
Exactly how it started, neither Freddie nor Alicia was able to say. An accidental touch of their hands, a chaste kiss on the cheek that somehow landed on Alicia’s lips. Then Alicia contrived to be leaving the bathroom, her naked body wrapped loosely in a towel, as Freddie was leaving his bedroom. When Freddie made a move, openly embracing Alicia when Teddie wasn’t about, she’d always push him away, professing to love her husband too much to be unfaithful to him. While enjoying the thrill of the chase, Alicia knew on which side her bread was buttered.
One evening, when Teddie had imbibed well rather wisely, Alicia left him snoring on the sofa, said Goodnight to Freddie and went to bed. As he watched Alicia’s jean-clad bottom disappearing up the stairs, Freddie felt a stirring in his loins, which he tried to ignore by dropping to the floor and doing fifty push-ups. It was no good. The urge to follow his brother’s wife was too strong and eventually he crept lightly upstairs, entering the bedroom where Alicia was snoring softly.
Swiftly dropping his clothes to the floor, Freddie slid into the bed, circling one arm round Alicia’s waist.
“Freddie?” she murmured sleepily.
“Mm,” he grunted, as he lost himself in the joy of finally making love to Alicia.
As they both relaxed in the aftermath, Freddie leaned up on one elbow, looking into her eyes. “You know it’s me, don’t you?”
She winked. “Better if I just call you Teddie.”
After that, the cheating pair got together for a bout of furtive love-making when they could, neither one openly acknowledging their betrayal of Teddie.
It might have gone on forever if they hadn’t got careless. One night, having plied Teddie with drink until his eyelids fluttered and he fell asleep in front of the television, they’d tiptoed out of the room. Unfortunately, shortly after they left, Teddie’s phone shrilled and jerked him out of his boozy sleep. One of his girls was on the line, gasping through hysterical tears. She’d been pushed out of a moving car and needed help.
“Stay where you are,” he muttered. “I’ve had a skinful, but don’t worry, Freddie’ll take care of you.”
He heaved himself to his feet, swaying a little as he registered that he was alone in the room. He groaned, holding his head against the alcohol-induced headache. Now he’d have to climb the stairs to get Freddie out of bed. Clinging to the bannister, he made his unsteady way upstairs, crashing into Freddie’s door as he missed the handle. He barely had time to see that the bed was unslept in before the screaming started.
The words were indistinguishable but the noise was coming from his own bedroom. Instantly alert to danger, his muddled mind cleared and he pounded along the landing, skidding to a halt at the sight that met his eyes. Naked as the day he was born, Freddie straddled a similarly unclothed Alicia, trying to press a hand over her mouth to stop her screaming.
With a primeval roar, Teddie sprang across the room, aiming a punch at Freddie’s head. It missed, but connected with his brother’s shoulder, knocking him off the bed. Anger lending strength to his legs, Teddie vaulted the bed, narrowly missing a cowering Alicia who was pulling a sheet over her nakedness, his fist raised to pummel the brother who had betrayed him. And stopped. Freddie’s eyes were wide open but they’d never see anything again; a pool of blood was spreading beneath his head which rested against the corner of a marble fireplace.
“No!” Teddie raised his head and howled, even as he reached out to gather his brother into his arms, cradling the man who had been an integral part of his life ever since they’d been born. Minutes passed before he remembered to check on his wife. Looking up at her, he said, “What happened?”
Alicia shook her head, eyes wide, cheeks streaked with tears. “I don’t know. I was asleep and … he must have known you were still downstairs … I was half awake, thought it was you and then a noise down the corridor shocked me awake and I saw –”
She shuddered and covered her face, bursting into noisy sobs, thanking her lucky stars that she’d been quick-witted enough to start screaming as soon as she heard Teddie crashing into Freddie’s door. She peeked through her fingers at Freddie’s face and could swear there was a slight smile on his face. She felt bad about betraying him, but at least he’s died happy.

A Good Night’s Rest

606 words
Joyce stirs and opens her eyes.
“Must have dropped off,” she says, peering through the windscreen at the thick fog. “Where are we?”
“Dunno,” grunts Noel, slowing the car to walking pace. “Haven’t seen a signpost for ages. There’s a light over there to the right. We’d better stop and ask for directions.”
The car bumps over a rutted pathway, finally coming to a halt under a creaking, weathered sign illuminated by a dull light.
“Hotel something or other,” mutters Noel, leaning out of the car window. “Can’t quite read it.”
“Thank goodness.” Joyce is already halfway out of the car. “Come on! At least, we can get a drink and maybe a meal. I’m famished.”
A young man, smartly dressed in a crimson and gold uniform, appears at her side. “Welcome, madam. Welcome, sir,” he says. “Allow us to help you with your bags.”
“Oh, no, that’s all right,” Noel says hastily. “We’re not staying, actually, we’re just –” His voice tails off as a second young man removes their suitcases from the boot and carries them across the carpark to where a golden light streams from an open door.
“Oh, don’t fuss, Noel,” says Joyce. “We can explain indoors.”
Noel shrugs and follows his wife. He’s got to admit the service here is pretty impressive. Perhaps they’ll stay the night and drive on tomorrow.
A third flunkey leads them down a dimly lit passageway, throwing open a door and announcing, “Your room, sir. If you’d like to freshen up, your dinner awaits you in the VIP restaurant.”
“What’s going on?” Joyce whispers when they’re alone. “Do you think they’ve mistaken us for someone else?”
“Could be,” says her husband, “but now we’re here, might as well make the most of it. I’ll have a word with the manager and sort it out later.”
The dining room is opulently furnished and, as they take their seats, yet another young man materialises at their side with an expensive bottle of wine.
“I didn’t order that,” protests Noel. “Look, there’s something wrong here. I want to see the manager.”
Their waiter merely smiles and draws snowy white napkins across their knees.“Of course, sir, in a little while. But first –”
Over the next two hours, dish after dish is served to the bemused couple, each one more succulent and rich than the one before. Somehow, they finish the first bottle of wine and another appears in its place. And they eat. And eat. And drink. And Noel forgets to ask for the manager again.
At last, sated and sleepy, they stumble down the passage to their bedroom. A young assistant awaits them, ushers them in and turns down the bed, placing a box of chocolates on one of the pillows. Another bottle of wine chills on a bedside table.
“Goodnight, sir, madam.”
“Have you noticed,” says Joyce, as the young man retreats, “how many of them there are? And they all look just the same?”
Replete and with a pleasant buzz on, Noel heads for the bathroom, ignoring his wife’s questions. “I wonder what’s for breakfast,” he says.
“There’s a menu here; I’ll have a look.” Joyce sinks back on the luxurious pillows, her hand already reaching for a chocolate. Within seconds, her eyelids flutter and she sleeps.
Joyce stirs and opens her eyes.
“Must have dropped off,” she says, peering through the windscreen at the thick fog. “Where are we?”
“Dunno,” grunts Noel, slowing the car to walking pace. “Haven’t seen a signpost for ages. There’s a light over there to the right. We’d better stop and ask for directions.”

Briar Rose

1000 words
Briar Rose was beautiful.
Everyone said so.
“What rosy pink cheeks she has,” they exclaimed.
“Eyes as blue as a summer sky,” they simpered.
“Skin like porcelain,” they praised.
Her parents begged people not to praise her looks.
But they did, until beauty became the only thing that mattered to Briar Rose.
She stopped saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.
She no longer helped her mother in the house.
She learnt that a stamp of her pretty little foot would get her anything she
wanted. Like the wallpaper with a prince on a white horse, riding by a hedge
of beautiful roses on a brilliantly sunny day.
She had to have it for her bedroom.
Even if her mother had to go without new spectacles to buy it for her.
Even if her father had to stay up all night to paste it on the walls for her.
She couldn’t wait to go to bed that night.
With curtains closed and bedside lamp glowing softly, she settled down to
admire her wallpaper.
Her eyes roamed over the banks of velvety soft, pink-hued roses.
“Nice,” she murmured, “but not as beautiful as my pink cheeks.”
Briar Rose drifted off to sleep and, although she still dreamt of pretty clothes
and exciting presents, a grumpy little voice seemed to be saying, “Not as
beautiful? Huh!”
In the morning, the sun streamed in through the window as Briar Rose
opened the curtains. Lighting up the wallpaper.
“Perfect,” she breathed, “and the roses are beautiful. I must have been a
little tired last night.”
Over breakfast, her mother asked, “Are you all right, Rose? You look a little
pale.”
“I’m fine,” Rose answered as she, uncharacteristically, carried her dishes
through to the kitchen and washed and dried them.
That night, as she lay in bed reading a book, she glanced up at the wallpaper
and the brilliant, blue sky.
“Lovely,” she thought. “Not as pretty as my eyes, but then, nothing is.”
For a moment, she imagined she saw a crack in the sky, almost like a
lightning bolt.
“I must be tired,” she whispered and was instantly asleep.
That night, two voices intruded on her sleep and she tossed restlessly,
unable to summon up her usual light-hearted dreams.
“I never heard anything like it,” snapped a high-pitched, silvery tone. “My blue has never been so insulted.”
“Careful,” cautioned the grumpy little voice. “The last time you lost your temper, we had a thunderstorm and the paper nearly peeled off the wall.”
And so it went on, disturbing Briar Rose’s sleep, leaving her very tired when at last the alarm clock roused her from a troubled sleep. It didn’t help that the blue sky in the wallpaper was so bright she had to avert her eyes.
“My goodness,” exclaimed her father when she took her place at the table, listlessly poking at her scrambled eggs. “I’ve never seen you look so washed out.”
“He didn’t mean that,” intervened her mother quickly, knowing how prickly her daughter could be if she received anything less that fulsome praise about her looks.
“It’s OK,” said Briar Rose, picking up her fork and shovelling down her eggs in an inelegant manner which left both her parents speechless. “I was a bit tired but it’s wearing off now that I’m up and about. In fact, I feel quite energetic. I think I’ll give you a hand with the hoovering today.”
And not only did she help with the hoovering but, unasked, stripped all the beds for the weekly wash. At bedtime, she seemed strangely reluctant to go upstairs. When she finally entered her bedroom, however, everything looked normal. Perhaps the roses on the wallpaper were a little gaudy and the blue of the sky was maybe just a fraction too hard on the eyes but, otherwise, the wallpaper was still … sort of … nice.
She was beginning to wonder just why she had liked it so much and … wasn’t that white horse just a touch on the dull side?
She examined her face in the mirror and, yes, she had to admit that the roses in her cheeks had faded and, all right, her eyes were – as her dad said – a little washed out. But she still had the most delicate, alabaster skin. She smiled to herself – that horse should be so lucky; he’d never compare to her complexion. She quickly covered her mouth with her hand as her eyes slid sideways to glance at the wall. She hadn’t said that out loud, had she?
Slipping into bed, Briar Rose read for a while, strangely reluctant to go to sleep but, eventually her eyelids drooped and she nodded off, her sleep disturbed by the sound of hooves and a slightly effeminate, whinnying voice.
“Dull? Dull? That’s it. I’m out of here.”
The grumpy little voice and the high, silvery tone immediately chimed in with conciliatory words and urges to ‘hang in there’ while poor Briar Rose tossed and turned, unable to either stop the racket or wake up. Somewhere towards dawn the voices faded and she fell into a deep sleep until her alarm clock shrilled its morning call.
Briar Rose opened her eyes to a gentle sun streaming through the curtains. Lazily, she arose and drew them back, flooding the room with colour. She winced and said aloud, “Bloody hell, that wallpaper has to go. The colours are so gaudy. What was I thinking of?”
Without bothering to even look in the mirror, she hastened downstairs to help her mother to prepare breakfast.
Her father was already at the table, reading a newspaper, and said, in his usual blunt fashion, “You look different today, Rose.”
“What, washed out?” she asked.
“No.” He thought for a minute. “Softer. Prettier.”
Briar Rose smiled.
After breakfast, she fetched a tin of white paint from the garden shed and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.
“Time for you to go,” she murmured, as she applied the first brush-load of paint. “Your job’s done here.”
“Dull? Dull? That’s it. I’m out of here.”
The grumpy little voice and the high, silvery tone immediately chimed in with conciliatory words and urges to ‘hang in there’ while poor Briar Rose tossed and turned, unable to either stop the racket or wake up. Somewhere towards dawn the voices faded and she fell into a deep sleep until her alarm clock shrilled its morning call.
Briar Rose opened her eyes to a gentle sun streaming through the curtains. Lazily, she arose and drew them back, flooding the room with colour. She winced and said aloud, “Bloody hell, that wallpaper has to go. The colours are so gaudy. What was I thinking of?”
Without bothering to even look in the mirror, she hastened downstairs to help her mother to prepare breakfast.
Her father was already at the table, reading a newspaper, and said, in his usual blunt fashion, “You look different today, Rose.”
“What, washed out?” she asked.
“No.” He thought for a minute. “Softer. Prettier.”
Briar Rose smiled.
After breakfast, she fetched a tin of white paint from the garden shed and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.
“Time for you to go,” she murmured, as she applied the first brush-load of paint. “Your job’s done here.”

The Dress

995 words
Lynda glanced surreptitiously at her watch and sighed. Two hours to go before clocking off time. Wearily, she picked up another cardboard outer and began to pack it with boxes containing hairdryers, the kind she could never afford on the pittance she was paid.
“Lynda” said a voice behind her and she jumped as Colin Chubb, her aptly named line manager, hove into view.
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
Colin looked non-plussed for a moment and then said heartily, “Good. Good to know.”
He stood silently for a moment and Lynda looked around, in case it was some kind of test. Then he cleared his throat and said, very quickly, “Would-you-like-to-come-to-a-dance- with-me-tomorrow-night?”
“A dance?” Lynda echoed, feeling slightly dizzy as the heady aroma of his Old Spice aftershave wafted in her direction.
“Yes, it’s at the Royal Hotel,” Colin said more slowly, now that he’d got the question out. “I’ve got these tickets and –”
“Yes!” cried Lynda, who had been lusting after Colin ever since he’d showed her how to pack a box properly.
It was only as she walked home in the rain that Lynda realised she had nothing to wear to a place like the Royal Hotel. Not in the usual wardrobe-full -of-clothes-but-nothing-suitable kind of way – she really had nothing apart from a selection of coffee-stained blouses, jeans with more holes than denim and a bridesmaid’s dress from five years go with a broken zip.
She badly wanted to impress Colin, appear cool, sophisticated. Not an easy task for someone who lived off pot noodles and had once used a pair socks as oven gloves. (A recent incident she still didn’t care to dwell on.) She quickly checked her bank account balance but it just laughed at the idea of buying a new dress.
In the small flat she shared with Rhianna Roberts, Lynda sat disconsolately staring at the floor. It was no good. She’d have to tell Colin she couldn’t go to the dance, after all. He’d probably never speak to her again and take Janey Jones from the office instead. As she got up to fetch a pot noodle for her tea, Lynda’s eyes fell on the sewing machine she’d inherited recently from her Aunt Gertrude, a legendary seamstress who had once made an entire quilt using nothing but curtains. She stopped. Lightbulb moment. Hadn’t she got a pair of old flowered curtains of her own? How hard could it be?
Excitedly, she opened up a YouTube tutorial on dress-making, scanning through it impatiently, eager to get to work. The tutorial recommended using a pattern. “Well, they just say that to get you to buy things,” she told herself, as she pulled the curtains from under her bed and spread them out on the floor, coughing a little as clouds of dust rose from them. She’d forgotten they had pictures of parrots on them, but never mind. She could make sure none of them appeared on the front of the dress. Probably, Colin would never see her back if she was careful.
Lynda began cutting with optimism and a pair of kitchen scissors, aiming for a sort of flowing elegance and double-checking the YouTube video as she worked. When she sat back on her heels to survey the results of her labour, there seemed to be an extra piece and one of the sleeves was longer than the other. She fixed that by chopping a few inches off before realising she had shortened the smaller of the two. “Cap sleeves it is, then,” she muttered, hanging on determinedly to her fast disappearing optimism.
She approached the sewing machine warily. If an ancient aunt could master it, surely it would be a walk in the park for her? Well, no. It ate the parrot material, jammed the thread and, at one point, whined like a dying food mixer. With gritted teeth, Lynda plodded on.
Three hours later, she stood, eased her aching back, stepped back and held up a dress-shaped object. Technically. It had sleeves, although one was upside down, the hem zig-zagged like a drunken caterpillar and the neckline could only be described as aggressively avant-garde. Putting it on, she looked like a deranged sofa. A fashionable, hopeful sofa, but still a sofa.
She tried to fix it.
The material tore.
She cried.
She sewed the tear shut, inadvertently fastening it to her jeans.
She cried again.
Rhianna wandered in, looked at her, and said, “Are you in a play?” Then backed out slowly.
Lynda sat on the floor in a pile of material and failure, then lifted her phone to text Colin. She keyed in, Sorry, I can’t go to the dance, I’ve got two left feet. Before she could hit send, Rhianna returned with an elderly woman in tow.
“This is Gloria Goodhew,” said Rhianna. “She lives upstairs.”
“The Gloria Goodhew?” gasped Lynda, forgetting her own troubles for a moment. “The burlesque queen?”
“Oh, my goodness,” Gloria said, surveying the wreckage surrounding Lynda. “You are in a mess, but I think we can do something about that.” Delving into her massive shoulder bag, she exclaimed, “Voila!” for all the world like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat. A dress dangled from a hanger – purple, silky and with a twirl factor to die for. “I wore it on my first date with Mr. Goodhew,” she said, misty-eyed. “We danced all night and later ….”
Lynda reached for the beautiful dress and slipped it on. It fitted perfectly. In the mirror, it sparkled. She sparkled. Even her cat paused, clearly impressed.
When Colin arrived the next night to pick her up for the dance, he said, “Wow.”
Lynda smiled. “It’s vintage,” she said. Cool. Sophisticated.
Later, much later, when they’d danced and laughed and talked, she told him about yesterday’s dress disaster.
Tilting his champagne glass towards hers, he told her about the time he’d tried to iron a shirt while wearing it.
They were a match made in Heaven.

The Shining Tree

1013 words
A keen, angry wind snatches at the hem of her dun-coloured dress and lifts long tendrils of her iron-grey hair, whipping them across her face. Skeletal fingers clasp a threadbare shawl around her shoulders, defeating the wind’s efforts at tearing it from her body. Frozen ground, uneven and jagged, stabs at her bare feet, already bloodied from the walk into the deserted village.
No children play in the street and all the doors are tightly shut against her. She approaches the first house and scratches timidly at the door.
A harsh voice calls out, “There’s nothing for you here. Begone before I let the dogs loose.”
Her head bows in hopeless acceptance and she trudges on to the second house … and the third … all the way along the deserted street. Always, the same brutal rejection, even when she whispers through the door.
As night falls, she crosses the street to turn back the way she came, walking in the lee of the tall forest that looms over the village, hoping for some respite from the unrelenting wind. A door opens at one of the houses she passes and a small boy slips outside.
“Please, it’s so cold, won’t you offer me just a little warmth?”
“Here,” he says, bending down to roll a wizened apple across the ground towards her.
Tears form in her eyes, quickly dashed away before they turn to ice. She falls to her knees, scrabbles for the apple and devours it in three bites, wincing at the pain in her decaying teeth.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
The boy doesn’t notice that her words are directed into the dark forest and not to him. He casts a glance over his shoulder at the open door.
“I should go,” he says, but she crooks a long, yellowing fingernail and, as if pulled along by an invisible thread, he slowly draws near to her.
“Kindness should be rewarded,” she tells him. “Come.”
Wordlessly, he follows her into the forest. The trees meet over their heads, cloaking them in complete darkness but somehow he remains sure-footed among the unseen knarled roots and fallen branches. The wind has lessened and the branches sough gently, murmuring in a language he doesn’t understand but which fills him with a mixture of dread and anticipation. He follows her as they move silently through the restless, black world, until a faint glimmer of light ahead leads them to a clearing. The grass is colourless and broken, crushed beneath their feet as they come to a halt in front of a solitary tree whose barren branches soar up into the sky, throwing out an eerie dim light.
She lays a hand gently on the old, rough bark and rests her head on the massive trunk.
“We’re here,” she whispers. “I’ve brought him.”
The tree trembles and the earth shakes beneah the boy’s feet. As he watches in awe, she throws her arms wide, embracing the tree, her head flung back to drink in the night sky. Her clothes melt into the trunk and become one with the bark, while her arms elongate and surge upwards into the branches. Leaves begin to sprout, curling outwards to form a canopy, enhanced by her hair which dances wildly, transformed into delicate, other-worldly blossoms infused with a blinding light. Within seconds, she’s gone and there’s only the silent boy and the beautiful Shining Tree left in the clearing.
He lifts a hand, longing to touch it, only to find that his arm is now a small, stunted branch which stubbornly refuses to obey him. As he watches, his other arm slowly rises skyward, a winter-torn and lifeless bough. On the ground, the roots of the Shining Tree slither across the blighted grass and entwine themselves with his feet, curling tightly round his legs, anchoring him to the ground.His jerkin hardens into a wooden prison, constricting his chest and crushing the breath from his body. Dead leaves grow in place of his hair and the light fades from his eyes. For a few seconds, the new tree mourns for the boy he once was before all thought leaves him and silence falls on the clearing.
In the stillness of the night, the Shining Tree grows in brilliance, its centre a white-hot furnace that consumes itself, rising skywards until it explodes into millions of small pieces, sprinkling the night sky with a canopy of sparkling stars.
On the ground lies a young girl, curled up as if asleep. She wears homespun clothes and, as she rises and stretches her body, long black hair falls down her back She’s barefoot and picks her way gingerly across the clearing until she stands before the lonely little tree.
“Thank you.” She embraces the hard trunk and drops a kiss on the newly formed branches.
In the village, doors open and people pour out of their houses, gazing at the star-studded sky as it ushers in the new year. Huddled together, they stand in the middle of the street, watching the edge of the forest. As the minutes pass, they grow restless.
“Where is she?” is the question murmured again and again. At last, they begin to turn back towards their homes, except for a man and his wife who remain, clutched in one another’s arms, unwilling to give up hope.
And here she comes, stumbling out of the trees, more sure-footed as she reaches the street, until she’s running into her parents’ embrace.
“My child,” weeps the mother. “It’s been such a long year without you.”
“Say no more.” The father casts an anxious glance at the forest and leads his wife and daughter home, where a feast awaits the returning girl.
The street empties, the villagers ready to celebrate the new year now that their yearly sacrifice is home, safe in the knowledge that their crops won’t fail and their beasts will stay healthy.
Except for the occupants of one cottage, where heart-broken parents close out the world and prepare to face a year without their beloved child until the Shining Tree releases him once more.

Swipe Right

996 words
It hadn’t been Pansy’s idea to go on a dating app.
After a series of disastrous failed relationships, she’d become accustomed to being alone. She could lounge about in her pyjamas all day, order a takeaway instead of cooking and drink as much wine as she liked without anyone frowning in displeasure.
Her best friend, Tilly, had other ideas, though, and arrived unannounced at Pansy’s house one morning.
“Right,” she said briskly, throwing open curtains and swiping at the dust motes floating in the air “You’ve been letting yourself go for months and, let’s be fair, you’ve been piling the weight on. Time to make some changes.”
Fishing her phone out of her pocket, she held it up in front of her friend’s eyes.
“What is it?” Pansy squinted at the small screen and read out slowly, “Dating for Mature Singles … are you crazy? That’s the last thing I want to do.”
“No, it’s exactly what you need,” insisted Tilly. The last observation was accompanied by a sharp poke of Tilly’s finger, which sank into the flab Pansy had been trying to hide with baggy clothes. “It’s time you rejoined the real world.”
The two women had been friends from schooldays and Pansy knew, from bitter experience, that resistance was futile. Tilly was a human steamroller when she had made her mind up to do something.
And so, she watched resignedly while Tilly commandeered her phone and scrolled through her photographs, looking for something suitable to upload to DateMyAge.
“Oh, look at this one. It’s perfect,” gushed Tilly, stopping at a picture of a much younger and slimmer Pansy. “It just needs a few tweaks … wait a minute … there!” she said triumphantly, showing the picture to Pansy, who stared at it in disbelief.
“But,” she stammered, “it doesn’t even look like me.”
“Of course it does,” said Tilly. “All I’ve done is slim you down a bit and enhance your eyes.”
“But …” said Pansy again. “Why am I doing that with my mouth? I look like a duck.”
“Oh, for goodness sake!” Tilly was exasperated. “Everyone uses filters now. So, what shall we put as your interests?”
“Food and drink,” muttered Pansy, looking longingly at the kitchen cupboard where she knew there was an unopened packet of Jammy Dodgers.
“Literature, art and philosophy.” Tilly was tapping furiously. “That’ll do it.” She gave a final click and sat back, satisfied. “Now all we have to do is find someone who looks like a good match for you.”
But Pansy had had enough for one day and screwed up her courage to defy Tilly. “No, I’m not going shopping for a man like he was a pound of sausages!”
As they glared at one another, the phone in Tilly’s hand pinged and she gasped, “Somebody’s swiped right for you! And just look at him.”
Staring back at them from the screen was the image of a handsome man in his mid-forties, luxuriant dark hair swept back from a lean face, largely unlined except for a few crinkly laughter lines around the eyes.
“His name’s Lionel and he likes the same things as you,” said Tilly excitedly.
“What? Food and drink?” asked Pansy hopefully.
Tilly whirled into action, liaising with Lionel without recourse to Pansy and, after a series of posts, she sat back satisfied. “There! You’re meeting him for lunch at Antonio’s on Saturday.”
“No, I’m not!” snapped Pansy, but with a sinking feeling, knowing her protests were useless.
When Saturday arrived, she struggled into a pair of Spanx Power pants and tugged a green bandage dress on over her hips, convinced that the dress must have somehow shrunk. Tilly applied what she called a smokey eye and lots of blusher to Pansy’s face, finishing it off with a deep crimson lipstick.
“I feel like a circus clown,” she grumbled.
“No, you don’t, you look fabulous,” retorted Tilly, dropping her off outside Antonio’s. “You’ll knock him dead.”
Tilly tootled off, Pansy peered through the restaurant window, her courage failing her. Turning on her heel, she marched straight across the street and into the Dodgy Duck.
“Sauvignon Blanc. Double,” she said to the barmaid and raised the glass to her lips, swallowing half of the wine in one massive gulp. She banged the glass down on the bar, coughing and spluttering as some of the wine went down the wrong hole.
“Easy there,” said the man sat on the bar stool on her right. “Having a bad day?”
His unexpected kindness brought tears to Pansy’s eyes and she nodded, afraid to speak unless she actually sobbed aloud.
“It can’t be as bad as mine,” said the man. “I’m supposed to be across the road on a blind date. My daughter set me up on DateMyAge with an old photo, and some stuff she made up about hobbies I haven’t got. I just couldn’t face it so I left my apologies with the maitre d’ and here I am. To tell the truth, I’m happier at home in my PJs and a takeaway in front of the telly.”
Pansy sat down abruptly on an adjoining bar stool and really looked at the kind stranger. Silver hair, receding slightly at the front, kind blue eyes in a wrinkled face and a dazzling, white shirt stretched to bursting over a burgeoning belly.
“You’re –” she began and then bit her tongue. This was Lionel? The sob in her throat turned to laughter and she disguised it with a cough.
“Me, too,” she said and took a smaller sip of her drink. “If it’s not too forward of me, shall we get a table? I’m starving and they do a great beer-battered fish and chips here.”
“Now you’re talking,” Lionel said enthusiastically, sliding off his bar stool and offering his arm.
Pansy smiled as they walked to a table. Time enough to explain her little deception later. She had a feeling she and Lionel had a lot of shared time ahead of them.

Flowers of the Field

996 words
The men had worked hard all day with only a quick break for sandwiches when the sun was at its highest. Thankfully, there was standpipe where they could slake their thirst. The money wasn’t much but, when you’re living on the streets, you’re grateful for anything. The old guy who’d approached them early in the morning had chosen the four strongest looking men in the group sleeping under the bridge.
“Fence building, that’s all,” he’d said, not hiding his distaste at their reduced circumstances. “Lunch provided, cash in hand at the end of the day.”
So here they were, re-building the fence that encircled a small airfield with just a small hangar, a windsock hanging limply from a pole, weeds beginning to poke through the concrete of the runway.
The old guy left them to it, saying he’d be back at the end of the day to drive them back to the city. “Make sure you do a good job of it,” he’d said. “I’m not paying for a job half-done.”
The argument started in the late afternoon. Jack, a belligerent Irishman suffering from the heat and alcohol withdrawal, accused Larry of not pulling his weight. Larry was slightly built, compared to the other man, but he was no coward and had a quick temper of his own, so he raised his fists. The fight was short and bloody, leaving Larry unconscious on the ground.
“Got anything to say,” demanded Jack, glaring at the others.
“Nothing to do with me,” muttered one of them and the three men bent to the task of finishing up the day’s work, fitting the gate that had been leaning up against the hangar. Larry hadn’t stirred when the rattle of a pick-up truck announced the arrival of their lift back to the city. Jack walked across to where Larry still lay unconscious and rolled him into a patch of long grass.
“Where’s your mate?” asked the old guy.
“Couldn’t take the pace,” shrugged Jack. “Cleared off a while back.”
A few minutes later, the men were aboard the truck, the gate was locked behind them and the sound of the vehicle faded into the distance.
It was twilight before Larry opened his eyes, groaning as he moved his limbs gingerly, checking that nothing was broken. “Bastards,” he hissed, as he got painfully to his feet, realising the other men had gone, leaving him in the now securely locked airfield. At the standpipe, he sluiced blood and mud from his face and hands before slumping back against the wall of the hangar.
He supposed he’d slept in worse places and, at least, the weather was mild. Come morning, when he felt a bit better, he’d break a hole in the fence and hitchhike back into the city. Reaching painfully towards the back pocket of his jeans, he extracted the remains of a spliff and a big lighter. Lighting up, he inhaled deeply, hoping for some relief from his pain. Eyes half-closed, he didn’t notice the small stream of water still escaping from the standpipe and seeping across the hard, mud-baked ground.
For a while, Larry slept, the spliff dropping from his nerveless fingers. He dreamt of flowers pushing their way through the mud, a mass of strange shapes and colours. Once, he thought he woke up to see that flowers had indeed bloomed in the dry earth, before realising it was part of his dream. Night had fallen, the sky inky black and starless, when he forced open his gritty eyes. An onslaught of colour – pinks, yellows. greens. blues, violets – assaulted his senses, each one thrumming with a deep sound that seemed to come up from the very ground. And the smell – the overwhelming sweetness of decay, filling his nostrils and making him gag. He shouted aloud, his throat tight, the sound hoarse and filled with fear. Unable to deal with the spectacle, he threw himself face down on the ground, hands clawing at the earth.
Like the throwing of a switch, silence descended on the airfield. Larry scrambled to his knees and remained there, open-mouthed, as his brain struggled to take in the scene before him. Neither flowers nor the excruciating colour explosion now confronted him; instead crowds of people, clustered in groups, filled the airfield, all carrying suitcases and watching the skies anxiously.
One by one, then, they came. Cessnas, biplanes, all manner of small aircraft, unseen in the darkness until they touched down on the airfield, loaded up with as many people as they could carry and then took off again. Larry could see mouths moving, the pilots hurrying their passengers along, frightened children crying and being shushed by their parents, but there was no sound, only a silence so dense and oppressive he could feel its weight on his shoulders.
Something drew his eyes upwards, towards a larger plane as it swooped towards the airfield, black swastikas clearly visible on its sides. Terror gave strength to his legs and, involuntarily, he sprang to his feet, running into the crowds, screaming, “No! No! Please, God, no!” But twin guns were already strafing the airfield, the staccato sound shattering the eerie silence. He could feel blood running from his ears and nose but still he ran, reaching for women and children who were dissolving before his eyes. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was a wisp of pink and yellow colour that faded even as his hand touched it.
The morning dawned cloudless, the temperatures already climbing into the sixties. Larry rolled over and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eye and stumbled to the standpipe, drinking deeply of the cold water, while fragments of his nightmare came back into his mind.
“Holy shit,” he mumbled. “Better lay off the weed if that’s what it does to me.”
Lifting a hand to smooth back his hair, a cold finger of of fear ran through his body as two petals – one pink, one yellow – fluttered to the ground.

The Posy

997 words
Nancy hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. When she first sat down on the grass, her back against a tree, the park had been deserted. That suited her fine. The weather was unseasonably warm for March, she had a good book and a chocolate bar – all she needed for a peaceful, relaxing couple of hours before her shift at the fast food restaurant.
The young man arrived first, clutching a bunch of daffodils, tied with bright coloured wool. As he took his seat on the nearby bench, she glanced at him briefly, recognised him as Will, a work colleague, and returned to her book. She turned a few more pages before she became aware of a steady muttering coming from the direction of the bench. Will was on his knees, holding out a small box to an imaginary person. As she watched, he stood, sat down on the bench and again proffered the box to the empty air, speaking haltingly, stopping, starting again.
Nancy smiled indulgently and, realising he was rehearsing a proposal, she closed her book. Better to leave silently before his sweetheart arrived, give him some privacy for his big moment. As she prepared to stand, however, light footsteps sounded on the path and a young girl came into view. Too late to make her escape, Nancy instinctively shrank back against the tree, hoping they wouldn’t notice her.
Will stood, his face alight as he watched Eileen approach. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said. “I brought you some flowers. Daffodils. They mean –”
“I know what they are,” answered Eileen, taking the small posy from him. “Do you think I’ve never seen daffodils before.”
“No, of course not, but I wanted to give them to you because they’re a symbol of a new beginning and I –”
Will started fumbling in his pocket, slightly off-balance as Eileen pushed past him and flopped down on the bench, allowing the daffodils to fall on to the grass. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she checked the screen, grimacing in disappointment, before putting it away again.
“So, what was so important that I had to come all the way up here?” she asked.
From her vantage point behind the tree, Nancy could see that Will was getting even more nervous than before. She willed him to take a deep breath and steady his nerves.
“Well, I, er, I kind of think of it as our special place and, er, I wanted to talk to you. In fact –”
Will had his hand halfway out of his pocket, clutching the precious box, when Eileen said, abruptly. “I’ve got something to tell you and all. I’m not going to be able to see you so much in future.”
Will collapsed on to the bench beside her, accidentally treading on the daffodils in his shock. “Not going – what’s the matter? You’re not ill or anything, are you?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just that Jim thinks it’s not right, me spending so much time with another bloke.”
“Another bloke?” The colour fled from Will’s face. “But I thought we –”
“Well, yeah, we’re mates, aren’t we?” Eileen laughed shrilly. “Here, you didn’t think we …”
“No, course not.” Will attempted to raise a smile but his face betrayed the hurt and bewilderment he felt.
Eileen shifted uncomfortably, grateful when the moment was broken by her phone buzzing in her pocket. “Hang on, got to take this,” she said, raising the phone to her ear. “Hi, Jim. What’s up?”
A male voice sounded faintly from the speaker, then she said, “No problem. I can be there in five minutes.”
She paused again for a few seconds, then said. “No, nothing important. Just hanging out with a mate from work. See you.” She stood and said casually to Will, “Sorry, got to run. Oh, by the way, what did you want to talk to me about? Only you’ll have to be quick, I’ve not got long.”
“Nothing,” said Will, his head lowered, shoulders drooping. “It was nothing. It’ll keep.”
“OK.” Eileen was already walking away. “See you around sometime, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he echoed, grateful that she’d gone quickly before his tears started to fall.
Nancy watched as he wiped his eyes and made a visible effort to pull himself together. Time for her to go and leave him to his disappointment and misery. She stumbled on a tree root, her book fell to the ground, its pages fluttering, and Will looked up.
“Oh,” he said, hastily wiping his eyes. “It’s you. How long have you been there?”
“Long enough,” she acknowledged, shrugging an apology.
“More fool me, eh?” Will’s grief was giving way to bitterness.
Nancy walked to the bench and stooped to pick up the daffodils before sitting down beside him. Casting about for something to say, she remarked, “I always think of daffodils as very smiley flowers. These poor things look like they’ve been through the wars.”
Will nodded ruefully. “I thought she’d love the symbolism, that it would be a romantic moment we’d remember forever. Instead, I’ve made a fool of myself.”
Privately, Nancy considered he’d had a lucky escape. He deserved a lot better than the shallow Eileen, who no doubt would dump Jim as well when she grew tired of him. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the chocolate bar, broke off a couple of squares and offered them to him.
They sat side by side for a few minutes, eating the chocolate and gazing out across the park, until Nancy said, “Time I was off. My shift starts in half an hour.”
She rose and handed him the daffodils. “You’d better put those in some water when you get home.”
“It’s all right,” Will answered. “You keep them. They’ll only remind me of what a prat I’ve been.”
Nancy walked down the hill toward the park gates, clutching the daffodils. “You’ll soon be all smiley again,” she murmured.
“Thanks,” he said.
And her own smile widened.
Will really had the nicest eyes.

Saving the Planet

999 words
Felicity had just poured her midmorning cup of coffee when she heard a faint rattle at the front door. She listened for a moment, expecting a knock, but there was only silence. Curious, she made her way to the door and opened it. On the doorstep sat a small, brightly-coloured package of seeds. She bent to pick it up, examining it front and back. SAVE THE PLANET! it said above a picture of a fat, friendly bumblebee with a brilliant yellow and black body. On the reverse were planting instructions and another message in capital letters. DO IT NOW!
“No, not now,” murmured Felicity. “My coffee’s growing cold.” But, instead of returning indoors, her feet carried her out into the front garden. her fingers already ripping the packet open. She only had time to note that Susan and Chris, her neighbours on either side, were also outdoors, before a gust of wind plucked the packet rom her hands, scattering the seeds all over her garden.
“How odd,” exclaimed Susan, as the wind disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
“Oh, well,” said Chris, looking at his own empty packet. “At least we’ve done our bit to save the planet.”
“So has everybody, as far as I can see.” Felicity looked up and down the street to where every garden seemed to have a person in it with a seed packet in their hand. “Strange. Anyway, must dash.”
In the afternoon, Felicity had a dentist’s appointment. As she walked down to the garden gate, she noticed that some of the seeds were already pushing up small shoots.
“Impossible,” she muttered, as she hurried off to catch the bus, although she could swear she saw one of the shoots growing taller even as she looked at it.
An hour later, as she alighted from the bus, she was surprised to see that nearly all her neighbours were out in their gardens, looking down at the ground. She approached her own gate and stopped in amazement. The new shoots were now nearly eighteen inches tall and heavy buds were nodding at the top of the stalks, ready to burst into flower.
“What’s happening?” she asked Chris.
“Beats me,” he answered. “I just came out to give the lawn a bit of a watering and these things were… just here.”
“I don’t like it,” Susan chimed in. “I tried to pull them up but I couldn’t. It’s almost like they’re taking over by stealth.”
Felicity stood about for a little while, marvelling at the strange plants with large, yellow trumpets that were rapidly overtaking her garden. “It must be some new kind of fertiliser or something,” she said eventually.
“Maybe.” Chris and Susan looked a bit dubious and Felicity left them to it, going indoors with an airy, “See you later, guys.”
That evening, Felicity had a long FaceTime chat with her husband, Norris, who was away at a conference up north. He was sitting by the laket in the hotel garden in the late evening sunshine.
“You’ll never believe this,” he said, turning his laptop so she could see the hotel gardens.
“Lovely,” she replied, admiring the tightly packed, exotic yellow flowers.
“Can’t you see them?’ her husband asked.
Bending closer, Felicity squinted at the flowers, gasping, “They’re moving!”
And they were. The flowers were alive with bumble bees. Not bumble bees as she knew them but fat, friendly little creatures with brilliant yellow and black bodies, just like the ones on the seed packet she’d found on her doorstep that morning.
“Hold on, Norris.” Felicity got to her feet and walked to the window. Drawing back the net curtain, she gave a small involuntary shriek at the sight before her. Her garden was a mass of extravagant, yellow flowers similar to the ones her husband had just shown her at the hotel. Every blossom had at least two or more bees busily collecting pollen. By craning her neck, Felicity could look down the street quite a way. Every garden was the same. Bees on flowers, bees in the air, bees crawling on the paths and even setting on her neighbours, who were all out on the street.
Chris was in his garden, bees on his arms, on his shoulders and even in his hair. He waved frantically at her, waving his arms above his head. She opened the window a fraction to hear what he was saying.
“No!” he screamed. “Don’t let them in –” He gurgled into silence as an extra large bee slithered into his mouth. His warning was too late, in any event, as a small cloud of bees swarmed through the window, settling on Felicity’s bare arms, her neck and her face.
And then, as though someone had tripped a switch, the bees sank to the ground, settling there like a plush black and yellow carpet. The small crowd of neighbours stood motionless, seemingly robbed of all their energy. Felicity remained rooted to the spot by the open window.
She called to Chris, her voice thick as if coated in honey. “Chrizzz, what’zzzz happening.”
He shook his head. “Zzzzzearch me.” With large, yellow trumpets Even as he spoke, he was sinking to his knees, his eyes closing. He reached out a hand and then he was gone, simply gone, merging into the blanket of bees. All around him, people were toppling over and just –
Felicity blinked once, her eyes heavy. Behind her, a tinny voice called from the laptop. “Felizzzity.”
Norris. She had to get to Norris. He’d know what to do. With her last breath, she whispered, “Norrizzz …”
And then all was still.
Somewhere between Mercury and Venus, on a dwarf planet called Xebeeron, the Great High Beezer lifted a glass to his beautiful wife.
Well done, my zzzweet one. You’ve excelled yourzzzelf this time. Another planet zzzaved from the depredationzzz of mankind.”
She dipped her antennae modestly. “Yezzzz, I’m getting quite proficient at zzzaving planetzzz, aren’t I?”
And, down on planet Earth, the bees slept soundly.