Monday 18 March 2024

Zoom by Allison Symes, green tea

 ‘The advantage of flash fiction writing is you zoom in on the most important part of a character’s life. There is no room for waffle.’

The flash fiction tutor only wished the Zoom video function didn’t hone in on her greying, thinning hair. Didn’t matter how she changed her computer angle. Whenever she set up a meeting with herself to practice and record her latest talk, all she saw was her hair. It wasn’t a flattering look. 

Maybe I should just switch the camera off when I record myself, she thought. My attendees are only interested in what I can share with them which will helps them with their writing. Why do I worry so much? I don’t the rest of the time.

Still that old saying was proven true. The camera never lied. She only wished it would - or at least be a little kinder.

She smiled as the thought of a story came to her. Just what would Snow White’s evil stepmother have done if, instead of having a magic mirror, she had a magical Zoom camera which honed in on every single fault she had?

The flash fiction tutor shook her head. No. Evil stepmother would just smash the thing and have done. Still, the tutor thought, maybe I can write this one up, make this one humorous, and for good measure, I’ll give the evil stepmother problems with her hair too. Write my angst out!

Later the tutor’s flash fiction came second in a humorous mini story competition. Her prize was a posh comb and brush set. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.


About the author  

Allison Symes, who loves quirky fiction, is published by Chapeltown Books, CafeLit, and Bridge House Publishing. She writes for Chandler’s Ford Today and Writers’ Narrative. 

Website: https://allisonsymescollectedworks.com/ 

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@allisonsymes Her flash fiction collections are From Light to Dark and Back Again and Tripping The Flash Fantastic 
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Sunday 17 March 2024

Sunday Serial, 240 x 70, Gill James, 8. Clouds 5 June 2018, rain water,

A clear blue sky.  Great wide chimneys belch out what they say is only steam.   A threatening black spreads across the sky, obscuring the sun.  Oh the irony. The sun gives us life and warmth and light. We create this power to run, heaters, light bulbs and machines that save lives.  When everything else goes wrong the sun carries on shining.   Except it doesn’t now because we have covered it up.  We’re putting out the sun.   

Mary Phillips could not breathe. She could not quite get her oxygen mask to her mouth in time. She died uncomfortably at 4.30 p.m.

Robby McArthur had given up the fags ten years ago but still had a hacking cough. During a coughing fit he lost control of his lorry on the M6 and ploughed into the crash barrier.  The lorry jack-knifed. He was killed instantly.

Farmer Peter Robinson’s crop failed because there weren’t enough sunny days. He couldn’t pay his bills. When the bailiffs came, his wife and daughters left in a hurry.  He tried to hang himself from the old oak tree in the top field but fortunately – or unfortunately – it was dying and the branch broke. 

It carried on going wrong. The squirrels and the birds in Mary’s garden realise there was something amiss. The flowers they left for Robby wilted. Peter never saw his family again.  It never came right.

No one was aware of the main problem, though: the trees were all dying and soon would no longer be able to turn carbon dioxide into oxygen. And that the sun had had enough of the folly of the human race and had decided to look for a new home.            

 

About the author

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

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

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

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

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

https://twitter.com/GillJames

 

Saturday 16 March 2024

Saturday Sample: Glit-er-ary, Liz Cox, A Little Bit of Sparkle,


 

A Little Bit of Sparkle

Elizabeth Cox

 

Ruth pulled her summer jacket tightly around her and zipped it up. Even though it was still August, it had been raining earlier and the sky was overcast. She hurried to the pay station to get a ticket for her car, as she was running late. Her friends would think she had stood them up. Hunger was eating away at her; she was eager for her coffee and scone. Without looking where she was going, she was scrabbling in her bag to find loose pound coins in the voluminous interior, when she stumbled. As she steadied herself on the wet metal pole, there on the floor she saw a pair of child’s trainers, silver and covered with sequins. Neatly placed side by side, as if left there on purpose. They were filled with rain water.

She looked around her, thinking that someone had just put them down while on a similar mission to herself and had simply forgotten to pick them up. But there was no one to be seen. She reasoned that they must have been left there some time ago to be so full of dirty water. She didn’t know what to do. Should she tip the water out? She might save the shoes from becoming soaked through, but looking at them it appeared to be too late for that. Should she pick them up? No, someone might remember where they left them and come looking. It would be unfair for her to take them away. No, she would leave them. She expected they would have been retrieved by the time she left the café.

As Ruth crossed the road to meet her friends her thoughts were occupied by the shoes to such an extent that she almost walked under a black car, only brought out of her daydream by the angry honking of a car horn. Smiling a vague apology, she raised her hand to the irate driver and continued towards the café.

She met her friends here each week for coffee and a chat. It got her out of the house, but she never felt completely at home there. As she pushed on the chrome handle of the smoked glass door, it opened silently in her path. The clacking of her heels across the grey tiled floor of the entrance, caused all eyes to be raised and glance in her direction. The room was full this afternoon and smelled of wet coats and coffee. Black and chrome chairs were scraped across the light beech floor of the dining area, as people turned back to their conversations. As she moved across the floor, she pretended to look at the abstract art from local artists which adorned the grey walls; the only bright spot in a dreary room. Her friends were waiting, coffee cooling, as she approached.

‘Hello everyone, I’m sorry I’m late, I was distracted by the strangest thing.’ The waiting women looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.

‘Go on, do tell,’ her best friend Janet encouraged, as she summoned the waitress with an imperious wave of her bony hand. A young girl with a row of piercings along her ear lobe sauntered over, shuffling her feet across the scuffed floor.

‘Yes,’ she sniffed.

‘Four coffees please and take these dirty cups away.’ The girl turned away, leaving the cups behind.

Ruth smiled apologetically at the tattooed girl, ‘Leave her alone, Janet, she’s only a child.’

‘Tell me what distracted you.’ Janet’s acerbic voice brought Ruth back to reality.

‘Well’, said Ruth not knowing where to start. ‘When I was leaving the car park, at the bottom pay station, there was a pair of child’s silver trainers, covered in pretty sequins.’

‘What’s so special about that?’ Janet’s interest had waned, as she was expecting something more salacious.

‘They were placed neatly, side by side, which seemed oddly deliberate to me. And they were filled with rain water.’

‘Some careless child left them there I expect. Nothing unusual about that. Careless little blighters, children.’ Janet, who didn’t suffer fools gladly, was bored with the subject now and was stacking the dirty cups, as the waitress reappeared with the coffees, slopping the contents into their saucers. Ruth looked as if she had been slapped across the face, but smoothed her skirt down and said nothing. The others glanced at each other. Janet could be so insensitive sometimes.

The subject of the shoes was soon forgotten in the general conversation that followed, but not by Ruth. Round and round in her mind a picture of the shoes turned like a kaleidoscope, sequins flashing blue and red and purple.

‘I’ve got to go,’ Ruth pushed her chair back with a scrape, grabbed her paisley scarf and large leather handbag and fled. Her friends stared in amazement.

‘What’s wrong with Ruth this afternoon?’ Pauline drawled, flicking back her blonde fringe. ‘She’s not a creature of impulse normally.’

‘She did seem a bit odd, something to do with those shoes I expect,’ said Annabel, a petite brunette wearing a thick sweater and old jeans. ‘You can never tell with Ruth.’ 

The others looked to Janet for her opinion on this unusual situation.

‘Who knows,’ shrugged Janet, sipping her coffee and negotiating a cream slice.

Ruth ran to the carpark. What if the shoes were no longer there? What would she do if they had gone? As she reached the pay station, she could see the shoes gleaming in the sun, the sequins turning orange and red now. They were still sitting side by side on the tarmac. No one had come for them. They were hers. She skipped the last few steps across the road, despite her aching hip. Picking up the shoes, she carefully tipped the water out onto the floor and caressed the shoes dry with her paisley scarf, the one Alan had bought her for her last birthday. There, they were lovely and dry now, look at how the sequins were shining.  She flicked a damp leaf from the toe of the right shoe, buffed them once again with her scarf and placed them neatly together in her bag.  She patted the bag and turned towards her car. Tilly would love them.

She laid the bag carefully on the passenger seat, so as not to upset the shoes onto the floor of the car which was rather grubby, and draped her scarf carefully over the bag to shield its contents. All the way home she sang along with the car radio; Eddie Cochran, Cliff Richard, Ed Sheeran, Rod Stewart, Katy Perry, tapping her chewed finger nails on the steering wheel in time to the music. This was a good day.

When she arrived home, Alan was already there. His golf match must have finished early, and he was in the kitchen putting the kettle on. She had to tell him.

‘Guess what I’ve got for Tilly?’ she blurted out unable to contain her excitement.

‘Now, love,’ said Alan, ‘come and have a nice cup of tea. It’s ready and I’ve put some chocolate digestives out as well.’ He placed the mugs on the pine table, then turned to get the teapot.

‘Alan, you have to see, they’re so lovely, Tilly will be thrilled.’

Alan sighed and turned to look at her, the plate of biscuits still in his hand.

‘What have you brought?’ Alan was tall and spare with thick grey hair which he wore closely cropped. His face was tanned yet etched with lines.

‘Look here they are,’ Ruth exclaimed, unwrapping the shoes from her scarf with a flourish. She placed them neatly side by side on the table, then ran her fingers through her curly red hair, streaked with grey at the temples. ‘This is how I found them, but they’re a bit wet inside. They were filled with rainwater. I’ll have to dry them out properly, before I give them to Tilly.’ The shoes twinkled at her, as if delighted to be in her company.

‘But Tilly can’t wear them my love, you know that.’ Alan spoke patiently but Ruth, distraught, grabbed the shoes from the table and turned for the stairs.

‘You don’t understand. Yes she can, of course she can! She’ll love them.’ Ruth ran up the stairs clutching the sequinned trainers in her hand, her hoarse voice trailing in her wake. She tripped up the last step and reached for the second door on the landing grabbing the handle. A plaque on the door said ‘Tilly’s Room’ picked out in gold letters on the cream painted wood. She turned the handle and entered the room. Illuminated by fairy lights which she kept on all the time, the room glowed with pink; flowery curtains and pale pink walls contributed to the womb like feeling of the space. She smiled and closed the door quietly behind her, inhaling the scent of the roses that she always kept there. Her soft whisper filled  the empty space.

‘Here you are, Tilly, just for you, I know you’ll love them’

Ruth closed her eyes, imagining Tilly slipping her feet into the glittering shoes. She watched her tie the silver laces in a big bow, then grin up at her mother, her childish eyes, shining, as she twirled her feet around under the fairy lights to make the sequins gleam. Happiness engulfed her.

Alan followed Ruth up the stairs wearily, his hand gripping the pine bannister, his knuckles white. He turned the door handle, entering the room behind her just as she was placing the shoes side by side on the narrow bed, smoothing the flowery bedspread, as she did so. His face crumpled with sadness. Turning to Alan, Ruth whispered, her face alight,

‘There, when she comes home from school, they’ll be ready for her.’

‘But Ruth,’ said Alan, taking hold of his wife tightly, ‘you know she won’t be coming home from school.’ For an instant Ruth was defiant, but then her shoulders slumped. Her knees buckled, as he held her. She laid her head on his shoulder, her eyes glittering, reflecting the sequins on the lost shoes.


Find your copy here. 

About the author 

Born in Yorkshire and now residing in Anglesey, Elizabeth spends her time working at the ‘day job’ and writing short stories, poetry and attempting to finish a novel. She had her first short story, Winking at Angels, published in the Baubles anthology in 2016. When inspiration dries up, she gazes at the wonderful Snowdon mountain range from her window until it returns.

Friday 15 March 2024

Anger Management by Rahcel Hawes, ristretto

 

One

“Hello Cordelia” Sherry said. Again, there was the same circle of chairs. Same people like all the other times. Just one new guy with his arms crossed tightly over his bulging chest.

“Sorry I’m late,” I squeaked, after grabbing the last two snicker doodles on a plate next to the 1990’s almost empty coffee pot. Only a few people looked up to register my apology as I shook the dregs before pouring them into a cracked mug. I took the seat next to the new guy and smiled, waving my lukewarm beverage in greeting. His name tag read “Butch”. He stared straight ahead, as if I didn’t exist.

“It’s kind of obvious, isn’t it” I whispered loudly after leaning closer to his ear. “Your name, I mean.” I wiggled in my seat to get a better view of his massive body.

“Huh?” Butch said, frowning.

“I mean, look at you. Your shirt is so tight I can see your nipples.” I said, licking my lips. “Your muscles are like the ones the guys on the cover of those romance novels have. It’s as if, I don’t know, it’s like they’re speaking to me.” I made talking gestures with my right thumb and four of my fingers to illustrate my point while giving my most charming smile.

“Jesus Christ” Butch said, throwing his pamphlet on the ground. “Do I have to f*cking sit next to this b*tch?” he asked Sherry after standing up. He was even bigger upright. A pleasant tingling went from the base of my spine up to my face.

"Cordelia, personal space,” Sherry intoned. “Personal space.”

“Of course!” I inched my chair a foot away from Butch, closer to Michael. Michael put his hoody over his head and started humming The Star Wars theme. I tapped my right foot in lock step with the music. I knew this one.

“I love that song!” I jumped up into the middle of the circle to face Michael while conducting my arms to the crescendo. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in before letting it out with a loud sigh.

“You gonna let that tiny b*tch do that?” Butch asked Sherry. “Just like that, in front of all of these mother-f*ckers?” Tears tinged the corner of his eyes where the top and bottom lids met.

Sweetly I turned to face him, made a raspberry noise with my lips, kissed my hand and touched my butt before sitting back down in my designated chair.

“Cordelia only has a few more weeks before she graduates out of AM1, Butch. She’s made so much progress,” Sherry said, glancing down at her clipboard. “Cordelia, can you remind everyone why you were sent here?”

“Weeelllll, the people I work with didn’t understand any of my jokes,” I said, laying my hand against the top of Michael’s head, trying to figure out if both of my palms could fit under his hoody so I could better stroke his thick wavy black hair.

“Can I go to the restroom?” Michael asked, but he left the room before Sherry replied. I rested my hand under my chin and raised my eyebrows while curling my legs under me in a lotus position. I stared into Butch’s eyes.

“You’re full of sh*t” Butch said, cupping his right fist inside his left hand like a pitcher with his ball and his glove before a throw. “Is she for real?” Butch asked, looking at everyone else in the room.

“Anger comes out in many ways,” Sherry said, writing a few notes on the paper on her clipboard.               

Michael came back into the room and walked around all of the chairs but still the only one open was next to me. I stood up, grabbed his arm, and pulled him back to his previous seat.

“Boundaries, Cordelia. Boundaries,” Sherry nodded left and right with her eyes closed.

Two

I followed Butch out to the alleyway when the meeting was done.

“You live around here?” I asked, giving him my best curtsy. Butch kept walking and smoking his cigarette. I tried to keep up.

“You didn’t make any sense in there,” I said, running so as not to lose him. I hated to lose people, especially ones with huge arms and tight grabby-looking hands.

“I have to catch my bus, you dumb twit,” Butch spat out, picking up his pace. In the far distance a bus moved slowly towards us.

“You think you can just leave me?” I said to his retreating back. Without looking he started to cross the street. “You’re not as big as you think you are,” I yelled while looking for something, anything, to throw at his huge head. Not to hurt him, of course, just to get his attention. Not finding anything I threw my phone and it glanced his right ear.

“What the f*ck?” Butch said as he turned to look at me as the blinking walk signal morphed to the stop hand signal.

“Oh my God, get my phone, get my phone. Hurry up. Please get my phone! Oh my God!”              

And the funny thing was, Butch did! He bent down to pick up my phone just as a tractor trailer ran through the light. As the horn blared and his body was lifted high up into the air I thought, hmmmm, someone really should have taught him the right way to cross the street when he was younger. But I guess no one had cared enough to have done that for him.

 

About the author

 

Rachel Hawes writes about education, technology and history. Currently Rachel is a middle school English and Technology teacher. Originally from the Boston area, she now lives in Arizona where she enjoys southwestern sunsets, the dry heat, and walking with her dogs. 

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

Thursday 14 March 2024

A Visit to Grandma’s by Jane Spirit, pressed apple juice

Rosie hesitated at the door of her grandmother’s little home on the Deep Woods Estate. She wanted to capture her arrival there for her many admirers. Standing on the threshold she could feel the icy winds that blew through the estate despite the many sheltering trees that surrounded it. She found herself recoiling from residual raindrops that dripped, even on this dry day, off the massive chestnut whose branches were growing ever closer to the bungalow’s wooden facade. Still, Rosie was pleased with the image when she checked it. The wind’s slight ruffling of her trademark scarlet cape and the slight fuzziness added by a water drop on the camera lens had added a touch of mystery to the selfie. Content, Rosie cropped the shot to highlight the little basket of fruit she carried casually over one arm. Thinking that she was lucky to get any kind of signal in this god forsaken forest, she posted the picture. Then came the familiar surge of adrenalin as she saw in her mind’s eye her two thousand followers simultaneously pressing their screens and witnessing her doing her good deed for the day. This was inevitably followed by a dragging sense of uncertainty. How would the image be received? How quickly would her followers swipe their screens in search of something more diverting? Surely this wholesome persona thing could not continue indefinitely.

Then again, she already had plans and would be taking some artfully arranged pictures for her new media account that afternoon. Rosie planned to use those new images to launch herself as a chic interior designer. Her company strap line would be ‘Cabins with attitude’. She had recently completed renovating grandma’s to reflect the current trend for Scandinavian shabby chic. She’d started by knocking down the old dividing walls to create one room out of the space and then added a couple of strategically placed screens instead. Next, she’d installed some brightly painted chairs and rustic tables before distributing mostly faux animal skins to give a cosy effect. Not that her grandmother had shown any great appreciation for what she had done, but then the old woman spent most of her days in bed in the winter waiting for her stock of logs to be replenished by the local woodsman who offered cut price timber in return for cash. In any case, Rosie hadn’t minded doing her bit for her grandmother by transforming the faded chintz decor. And, when she stopped by, she could make use of the off-grid candlelight, snapping her noir self in black and white angled shots taken against the large scroll work mirrors that now festooned the remaining solid interior walls.

Ready for her visit, Rosie let herself in and went straight towards the cabin bed in the far corner of the room to let her grandmother know that she would be taking a few pictures whilst she was there. She sat down briefly on the folksy painted stool by the bed in which grandma appeared to be taking her customary afternoon nap. In any case the patchwork quilts and blankets she liked to use to warm herself had been pulled up high above her chin obscuring her face, so that all Rosie could see was a little of grandma’s hair escaping from underneath the ridiculous floral nightcap she insisted on donning in the winter. That was understandable, perhaps, thought Rosie. It was a cold day, and the stove was not lit to give warmth. She explained to the dozing old lady why she would not be able to stay long at all. She had an important business meeting to prepare for back in town. She had just wanted to drop by with some fruit. Yes, she went on, she knew that grandmother did not particularly like fruit, but all the same, she hoped she would at least try an apple just to please her. Rosie worried about the lack of vitamins in grandma’s porridge -based diet. Anyway, she would leave the fruit basket by the bed and then she would be on her way. She’d just take a few pictures first.

As Rosie stood up and balanced her basket on the rickety bedside table, grandmother suddenly opened both her eyes and stared at her granddaughter before saying rather gruffly,

 ‘Thank you my dear.’

 ‘You’re welcome,’ Rosie replied, feeling a little concerned by the old lady’s hoarse voice.

 She must have got a bit of a cold. She might even have caught a fever, judging by those bright, rather over-dilated eyes. Rosie supposed that colds were almost inevitable when you did not eat the right foods. She also noticed that a little more of grandmother’s hair had come loose from underneath her nightcap and that, even in the dim light coming from the single lit candle, she was sure that the hair was no longer its sparse, wispy silver self. It had become somewhat wiry and was now a kind of steely grey.  How odd, she reflected, but then she supposed that even an old person might experience moments of vanity and seek to change their appearance. Her grandmother must have hobbled her way into the nearby hamlet and subjected herself to a perm and colour at the old school hair salon by the crossroads. Rosie decided that it would be more tactful to ignore the hair and not to rebuke Grandma about the incipient cold. Instead, she bent down to pat her through the bed clothes. As she did so, the old lady stirred a little and began to yawn, exposing to view what now seemed like massive yellow teeth. What was most out of character, was that she also started to slobber. Then she began to make noises that seemed to bear no resemblance to human speech. Could her grandmother be growling at her, thought Rosie? She had been finding it increasingly hard to be confronted by the old woman’s growing decrepitude, but to be growled at seemed to her to be the final straw.  Without so much as a backward glance, Rosie jumped to her feet and hurried towards the door. Flummoxed as she was, she still could not help but notice the reflection of herself in the huge gilt- edged mirror next to the door and, with instinctive approval, she raised her phone to capture a selfie.

At the time Rosie caught only an impression of herself before rushing from the house and back down the track to find her little red convertible. She jumped into the car, revved its engine, and made her escape from Deep Woods. Only when she was safe and sound back in her modern apartment did she look at the photo. She noticed then how the phone’s barely focussed camera had somehow transformed the figure of her grandmother as she loomed up behind her into a multilimbed giant beast, overshadowing her with its tufty hair, fanglike teeth, and a jaw wide open to omit the terrifying wordless screech that had followed the growl and still echoed in Rosie’s ears. She decided that it would be best to delete the photo, telling herself that she did not want to remember her grandmother as a demented howler unable to communicate as she once had by gentle speech and whimsical folk songs. Rosie shivered at the thought of becoming an object of pity, and of fear, if she were ever to lose her reason like that. Still, looking again at the image, she took comfort in her own familiar contours. She could see that her blond hair was as gorgeously plentiful and fly away as ever, her sharp features still just visible in the half light and contrasting well with the rounded shape of the cape. And yet, absorbed as she was in her beauty, she could not help but notice how one side of her hair looked somehow a little flatter and even matted in comparison to the rest. Its texture was more like that of the wolf pelt that she had hung behind grandma’s bed, and which could just be discerned at the edge of the picture. Rosie put that down to the candlelight, but, when she zoomed in, Rosie’s attention was drawn first to her face and then to her mouth, which was slightly open in the shock of the moment. Rosie realised then that, amidst her pearl drop teeth, she could detect the slightest suggestion of jaggedness in the two incisors just visible between her red lips. It was as if they had acquired a new tendency to protrude. She pressed the delete option immediately.

The next morning, Rosie hurried to her car and drove herself out of town fast. She took no selfies as she followed the track she and her grandmother had once taken through the forest to reach the drowned quarry that everyone local knew as Echo Lake. Alone by the water’s edge, Rosie took out her ‘phone and threw it as hard as she could manage into the deepest and darkest part of the lake she could reach. The phone must have been faulty, she told herself, and she needed a new one to reconnect with her followers and her ambitions. She paused for a few minutes longer before retracing her steps. How could she resist opening her mouth to call out ‘Rosie’ as she had done on that childhood visit, delighted to hear her name rebounding round the lake’s steep sided rock surrounds. This time, however, no words came out; instead, she heard a babble, and then what could only be described as a growl, building to a screech whose arc of sound faded only when she drew breath, and began to walk and then to run from its reverberations.

Rosie drove back into town with her mouth firmly shut. New lines of grim determination across her forehead made her look suddenly older, but she made sure to avoid looking properly at herself in the car mirror. Instead, she allowed herself to think only about her immediate plans. First, she would purchase a new phone. Then she would postpone the meeting with her potential backers and make an urgent appointment with her orthodontist and hair stylist instead. Momentarily, she found herself forgetting recent horrors and even musing on how she might pitch her newfangled ‘howling therapy’ to any rich celebrities who might be interested. Suddenly becoming aware that she was rapidly approaching the familiar signpost, she was forced from her reverie and slowed just enough to swerve her car into the turning for Deep Woods. Rosie knew that whatever her dreams might have been, she still had no choice but to return to grandma’s house. How else could she ever hope to understand what was to become of her?

About the author 

 Jane Spirit lives in Suffolk UK and has been inspired to try writing fiction by going along to her local creative writing class. 
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)