A Better You by Jenny Palmer, a non-alcoholic Guinness

Judith had embarked on a process of consciousness raising. She’d been watching a video by one of her favourite YouTube gurus.

‘The world is going to hell in a handcart,’ he’d said. ‘But all is not lost. It might be difficult to change the power structures, but there is something you can do. You can become a better you.’

According to the guru, there were two basic ways to change the world. One was to work on the external structures and institutions that perpetuated the situation where oligarchs and tyrants were running the show, and the other was to work on yourself. Of the two, the second option seemed immediately more appealing. It required looking inside yourself, finding the things that needed changing and working on them.

The first thing that came to mind was that she could be kinder to friends. She’d got into the habit of late, of not answering the phone. It had all started during Covid when phone calls from friends had become interminable, since they weren’t able to meet up in person. And on top of that, there were lots of hoax calls, and you were forever trying not to be caught out.

‘People will always ring back if it’s urgent,’ Judith would tell people.

Next time the phone rang she would go back to checking caller-display before picking up. Her friend Angela was the first to ring.

‘How are you today?’ Judith asked in the most cheerful voice she could muster. Angela had innumerable health issues and liked to go into them in detail. There would follow a lengthy conversation about Angela’s health.

‘Would you like me to come round and do some shopping?’ Judith burst out with, thinking it would keep the conversation short. ‘I’m going into town today.’

Angela was taken aback at first but not being one to waste an opportunity, she furnished Judith with a lengthy shopping list. By the time she’d dropped off Angela’s shopping, Judith was late home for lunch, and too late for her customary afternoon nap.

Skimping on sleep meant she really needed the twenty-minute nap after lunch. It became an integral part of her daily routine. It revived her enough to be able to cope with the rest of the day. And there were other benefits. A nap settled the mind and kept random thoughts at bay - thoughts like, ‘Would there ever be a peace agreement in the major wars that were raging, or would the whole situation develop into World War III?’

Being a night owl by nature, Judith never went to bed before twelve o’clock. She preferred to stay up and watch the news on TV and the late-night Press preview. Being in the know about what was happening in the world somehow made her feel one step ahead. Once in bed, she’d then watch films on Netflix until she fell asleep.

Without the nap, she was tired and irritable. The only thing to do was to focus on her self-improvement programme. One thing she’d noticed of late was her propensity to criticise the newsreaders on TV.

‘Why on earth is she wearing those flared trousers?’ A voice inside her would say, when one of them had changed from her normal attire. Or ‘why doesn’t she realise that curly hair doesn’t suit her? Her hair is naturally straight.’

 The newsreaders were invariably female. She was horrified to realise that she was doing what men were often accused of doing – judging women by their appearance. It might be a case of blaming the messenger, the bringer of bad news, but still it was hypocritical. She resolved to refrain from her criticism and to listen to what they said in future.

The guru maintained that we could essentially choose who we wanted to be, that it wasn’t all down to fate. Judith was a night owl. What if she were to change the habit of a lifetime and become an early bird?

Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise, was a saying often reiterated by her mother, who was also fond of saying, ‘You’ve missed the best part of the day,’ whenever Judith emerged from her weekend slumbers at nine o’clock in the mornings. Her mother would have been up since six.

Becoming an early bird meant going to bed early and missing the news. Not hearing about all the atrocities that were going on in the world could only be a good thing. Judith looked forward to many restful nights of sleep ahead. But getting up early proved to be more of a challenge than she’d imagined. She had to reset her body clock. It meant reintroducing an alarm clock into her life - something she had happily abandoned in retirement. Going to bed early wasn’t the same thing as going to sleep early. For a week she tossed and turned into the early hours, barely falling asleep before the alarm clock rang.

It wasn’t long before she reverted to type. A night owl was what she’d always been and a night owl she would stay. There were some things you couldn’t change. Working on yourself was a distraction, anyway. She couldn’t put it off any longer. It was time to start working on the second option - changing the structures that allowed megalomaniacs to get into power. But who knew how you did that? 

About the author

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections 'Keepsake and Other Stories.' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories,' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford. 

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A Bit of Preloved by Paula R C Readman, icy coffee

 Preloved! The word screamed at me from across the road as a banner fluttered above the window of a vintage clothing shop opposite to where I sat drinking coffee— the bitterness of the flat white only added to the sour taste in my mouth. I couldn’t believe the situation I was in after five wonderful years of marriage.

Preloved!

After five years of a loving relationship, I discovered I was married to a screaming banshee. A recent business trip had me away from home much longer than I expected, and it turned out to be far more difficult than I hoped as I searched for a good supplier to restock my shop. The moment I arrived home, an explosion of verbal abuse instead of a happy wife confronted me; it broke my heart, but no amount of sweet-talking could pacify Sabrina.

‘You are a liar and a cheat, Jethro! I’m tired of waiting at home while you fly off around the world. Oh, you say you have to travel for business reasons, but I’m not as dumb as you think I am. Well, enough is enough. I will wait no more. I want out.’

And, just like that, she left.

Preloved!

A marriage needs trust to survive. Hadn’t I video-called her every night to let her know how much I loved her while I sat eating fast food in the bedroom of the bed and breakfast accommodation?

The sun glinted off my wedding ring as I reached for my coffee cup— a reminder that, at least I had something worth selling. After knowing Sabrina for less than six months, I foolishly told my friends I was in love and I wanted to marry her. They said love is blind and quoted the adage: Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Blinded to the point of distraction by Sabrina’s beauty, I failed to see her faults and proved my friends were right.

The rings had cost a small fortune, along with the wedding. Our wedding day had been all about what Sabrina wanted, which should’ve been a red flag to me. Well, at least, the house had been what I wanted; I bought it before I met Sabrina. Still, she had walked away with it, along with the car and our savings— no, the savings that I had put aside to expand the business and to support our dreams. I tugged the ring off my finger and slipped it into my pocket.

A gush of wind raced down the alley, rattling the cables holding up the banner that read, ‘Fifty percent off all preloved clothes.’

‘If only the judge had awarded my now ex just fifty percent of everything, I wouldn’t have such a sour taste left in my mouth,’ I muttered into my coffee cup.

After leaving the courthouse alone, I hurried across the road seeking somewhere to sit and contemplate the worst morning of my life and to escape the gazes and bitter comments from my wife’s entourage.

Preloved!

The fluttering banner outside a vintage shop kept distracting me from my thoughts. Sighing, I wondered why I had wasted so much time and energy trying to keep Sabrina happy rather than focusing on what would make us both happy. Not once did she offer to find a job or help me build the business. For a woman who loved spending a fortune on clothes, with money she hadn’t earned— I was surprised when she showed no interest in my line of work.

Preloved!

Sabrina always said she wouldn’t be seen dead wearing someone else’s cast off and would only wear branded clothing. Lucky for me, she didn’t know how much my business turnover was, because in her eyes, it was as worthless as a charity shop to her. Having made a decision, I set my cold coffee down and stood. Now that I'm preloved, it's the perfect time to sell my vintage clothing business, and make a fresh start.

About the author 

 

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer and has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives in an Essex village with her husband, Russell. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. 

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Delphine by Liz Cox, kir royale

 Delphine drew the ecru lace curtain away from the window, so she could watch him as he strode down the boulevard. He had a spring in his step and wore his hat at the jaunty angle she loved so much. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and she accepted he had to leave. She accepted many things. She knew he lived in the better part of the city, in an elegant apartment with a wrought iron balcony and heavy draped curtains overlooking the Champs Elysées. She knew because she had followed him. She closed her eyes to shut out the memory of him strolling in the park with his beautiful wife Lisette and two charming children. She dropped the curtain and sighed, pulling the rose silk peignoir he had bought for her across her body.

She had met Jean-Paul one stormy November evening in her brother’s restaurant where she was a cashier. He had doffed his elegant hat and then handed it to her to place in the cloakroom along with his cashmere overcoat. His smile lit his deep brown eyes from within. She smiled as she remembered stroking the soft material as she hung his coat carefully on a hanger. He was with a group of male friends and as they ate and drank, he kept looking over at her and smiling. She had blushed at the time and cast her eyes down to her ledger. When the party left, as he collected his coat and hat from the waitress, he had made a bow to her where she sat behind the office window. The window was mullioned and distorted his features making his smile crooked. She saw the men gathered outside the restaurant shouting their goodbyes, but his face was obscured by the misted gold script on the window advertising Le Pichet d’Or.

Roland, her brother, had left her to close that night, as her sister-in-law was unwell. The rain was lashing down, and the street was awash. She thought she detected one or two early snowflakes in the light of the streetlamp. Struggling with her umbrella, she pulled down the blinds and locked the door. She looked over her shoulder, eyes sharp, on the lookout for danger. A figure stepped out of the shadows. Delphine flattened herself against the damp wall and froze. It was midnight, not the time or place for a woman to be out on her own in this quarter of Paris.

‘What do you want? She cried. ‘I have no money. Go away before I call for the gendarme.’ 

He stepped out of the alley and placed himself under the gas lamp, so she could see his face. She breathed a tentative sigh of relief but still dug her fingernails into the brickwork. She was aware that she could be in danger. He tipped his homburg, and as he did so, she recognised the customer who had smiled at her throughout the evening.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to talk to you.’

Delphine wiped her hands on her serviceable navy winter coat then pulled her worn-out hat over her ears against the cold and wet. She caught their reflection in the window of the boulangerie across the road. A drab young woman in an old-fashioned hat standing next to a tall exquisitely dressed man with dark wet hair curling over his collar. She turned away, unable to acknowledge the picture they made.

‘I’m sorry but I must go home, it’s getting late,’ she whispered. He caught her hand as she began to walk down the wet pavement. She tried to twist from his grip.

Liz writes short stories and poetry and is just finishing her first novel. She lives in North Yorkshire and at the time of writing is looking out at the sheep and their new lambs in the field behind her house.

‘Let go! I tell you, let go!’ She scoured the street hoping to see a gendarme or at least another human being as she tried to shake herself free.

He dropped his hand and stood there meekly before her in the street, as the rain soaked into his overcoat and down his neck.

‘Don’t go. Please come and have a drink with me,’ he pleaded. ‘Come out of this weather, I know a small bar around the corner which will still be open.’ He gently took her elbow.

Delphine did not know why she was allowing this man to propel her along against her wishes. She dragged her feet along the pavement. She had encountered countless men like this one, young, wealthy, out for a good time in her poor arrondissement before going back to their wealthy families. Men who picked up women and discarded them on a whim. But something about this man was compelling.

She hesitated, as he pushed open the door. People knew her in this area, what would her brother think? She had a reputation to uphold. She was known for her morality in this part of the city where women would do anything to survive.

‘No, I cannot,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sorry but I must go home.’ 

He released her arm and bowed.

‘I really would like to get to know you. Can we meet somewhere in the daylight? Tomorrow perhaps? I don’t want to cause you any harm.’

The soft golden light through the window of the bar illuminated his features. Delphine thought him handsome in a coarse kind of way which belied his obvious wealth. His eyes smiled down at her as they stood under a streetlight, a beam fractured into a million shards by the persistent rain.

‘I will meet you tomorrow morning at 10 by the Notre Dame. I will wait for you there. I will be at the market.’ Delphine turned and hurried away leaving the young man standing in the street.

When she reached the safety of her apartment, she leaned against the door, shutting out the night. What had she done? Secretly, she realised that something was carrying her along a trajectory out of her control. She could just not go tomorrow, but she knew she would. She went to her window and looked out at the dark and dismal night. Had he followed her? There was a movement on the corner of the street, and she craned her neck to see what it was. She even opened the window. It was only two tom cats fighting over the overflowing rubbish bin from the nearby café.

Next morning when she rose, the sun was streaming through the tiny square windowpanes making fleeting patterns around her room. It was sunny. She would go to the market. Or would she? As if in a dream, she washed, splashing the chilly water from the jug to the basin. She pulled on her clothes, trying to rub a dirty mark off her best dress. It was already 9.30, if she were going, she would have to leave now.

He was there when she arrived, examining the caged birds in the market. Hiding behind a stall so he wouldn’t see her, she watched him. He was looking at his watch, raising it on its ornate gold chain every few seconds, then dropping it back into his waistcoat pocket. She checked her appearance in the bright café window opposite, smoothing down her skirt and tucking a stray curl under her hat. He had discarded the coat from last night and was wearing a smart check suit and carried a cane with what looked like a silver hound’s head on the top. She looked again at her own reflection. Now was the time to turn back.

He turned around and saw her. A huge smile broke out on his face, and he hurried towards her.

‘You came,’ he said, catching her hands in his.

She freed her hands and stepped back from him.

‘I’m sorry. I’m too eager to see you.’ He fell in beside her as she began to walk towards the cathedral.

‘My name is Jean-Paul,’ he said, ‘Will you tell me yours? I already know your brother is Roland.’

‘I’m Delphine,’ she replied.

They walked along in silence through the heavy oak door and into the cool interior of the church. Delphine looked up at the magnificent Rose window just as the sun streamed through illuminating them in a strange blue glow. She genuflected to the altar and slipped into a pew at the back of the building. Jean-Paul followed her.

They sat gazing at the beautiful displays of white lilies illuminated by the soft candlelight of the wall sconces. This time when Jean-Paul reached for her hand she did not withdraw it. She had made her decision for good or ill.

 

She dropped the curtain across the window and turned back into the room. The fire still glowed softly in the grate and as she cleared away the wine glasses from the table the cutglass sparkled like diamonds, but with a red stain. She loved her Jean-Paul and although difficult, she would never regret her decision. 

 

About the author 

Liz writes short stories and poetry and is just finishing her first novel. She lives in North Yorkshire and at the time of writing is looking out at the sheep and their new lambs in the field behind her house

 

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Forgiveness by Barry Garelick, cappucino

In the fall of 1970, during my senior year at the University of Michigan, I convinced myself that I would have a better chance being a writer than a mathematician. I dropped out and figured I would work at any job I could get to support myself. The only job I could get was unloading telephone books from a truck into the cars of people who were to deliver them. The job was to last three days—I quit after the first. During that first day, around the time when my arms became like rubber and I could hardly even lift one phone book, I had a flash of insight and decided to return to school and get my degree. Then I would become a writer.

In the summer of 1971, after taking my last math final, I vowed to never set foot in another math classroom in my life, telling myself that if I ever did I would puke. That fall, I told my parents I was moving to San Francisco. I had made it clear I wasn’t going back to school for a masters. “What are your plans?” my father asked.

“I just told you”

“What about a job?” he asked.

“I’ll find work,” was my reply. I explained that my intent was to work at whatever, so I could write at night and make it as a writer. This seemed as plausible and realistic as anything else I could be doing or that anyone else was doing.

“But what are your plans?” he asked.

“Those are my plans,” I said.

At that time it looked like the war in Viet Nam would never end and it seemed that countercultural values would stay forever. The war did end eventually and countercultural values seemed to fall by the wayside when the majority of the counterculture that wasn’t drafted went to grad school. And when they entered the work force, the final death knell was struck.

Over the course of the next thirty plus years, the world was to change many more times, and I along with it. Eventually I made my peace with the mathematics I thought I had left behind. Ironically my start on this journey back came about through a girl I had left behind—a dark haired girl with whom I kept up a correspondence and occasional passionate visit for two years after I had left school. She got accepted to graduate school at Stanford and moved out to the west coast. It took all of about two weeks for us to discover there wasn’t much behind our romance and we broke up—or at least I thought we had.  She called me one morning, very sad about the break-up and asked me to please come to a housewarming party she and her housemates were throwing in Palo Alto. She was crying, so I said yes.

The party was rather dull; the handful of people who showed up camped out in private spaces within the party boundaries and avoided talking with one another. In the meantime, I was dedicated to stay broken up with my ex-girlfriend which became evident to her when all the guests had gone and I asked “Where am I going to sleep?”

She seemed taken aback by this while at the same time pretending to take it in stride. She disappeared for five minutes and when she came back, she told me I could sleep in one of her housemates’ room which was the only one that had two beds in it.

I was alone for a few minutes in her housemate’s room relieved at how things had worked out. “That was easier than I expected,” I thought as I stood, clad in my boxer shorts, in front of a large bookcase. I caught sight of the book “Men of Mathematics” by Eric Temple Bell. Bell was a mathematician who had written a number of books for lay people. On the front inside cover was an inscription that started “To my darling granddaughter…” and was signed “Eric Temple Bell”.

At that point, the woman who belonged to the room walked in. She was surprised not only to see someone she only knew for a few hours standing in his underwear, but who asked her with wide-eyed astonishment: “Your grandfather was Eric Temple Bell?”

“Yes,” she said, and dashed out.

I have no idea what happened next but imagine that there were a few words exchanged between Bell’s granddaughter and my ex-girlfriend, and that whatever was said was not very pretty. Given her reaction at seeing me, I surmised that the arrangement hadn’t been explained to her—or at least not very fully. The granddaughter came back in, not looking very happy and told me “You can sleep in that bed,” pointing to the one I was standing next to. “And don’t get any wise ideas.”

The next morning I had breakfast with the rather somber group of housemates. They weren’t a very happy bunch to begin with, I had been told. Bell’s granddaughter wouldn’t look my way. I found out later that on top of everything else, my snoring kept her awake.  Being resolute in my blindness of her hatred of me, I asked “So what was your grandfather like?”

She was about to eat a spoonful of corn flakes but instead put her spoon down on the table with a loud thunk. She glared at me and said “He was an absolute jerk. He wouldn’t give my father the time of day his whole life, and he didn’t have time for any of us.”

I imagine that her statement made a lot more sense to me than the others at the table, since her description matched the general population of the University of Michigan Math Department. Not that they were bad people, but math professors at that time generally held undergrads on a spectrum of little regard at one end to non-existent at the other.

As an example, my Advanced Calculus professor was hired directly from Poland and although a brilliant man, spoke so very little English that his lectures were impossible to follow. I complained to the head of the math department who offered an apology in the form of “This man is so brilliant, he’ll have the chair in mathematics in a few years. Unfortunately we were in such a hurry to grab him that we neglected to notice that he didn’t speak English.” How one escapes from noticing this little detail is indeed puzzling, and I wasn’t too pleased with this explanation.

I replied that with his lectures so incomprehensible, I would be better off just reading the book rather than paying tuition and taking a class. His response: “This sounds like a wonderful opportunity for you to learn.” For those of you who know a bit about upper level math courses, the textbook was “Advanced Calculus” by R. Creighton Buck, which doesn’t lend itself to do-it-yourselfers.

I did have a friend, however—a very nice professor who had taught my class in Introduction to Real Analysis. I told him I was having problems, and he said there was a more straightforward advanced calculus course, for engineers rather than math majors. He was of the opinion that “It’s all bologna no matter how you slice it” and told me he’d put in a good word for me to be able to take the engineering-based course in lieu of the one I was in. A few days later he told me that the answer from the math department was “No.” The advanced calculus course I was in was for math majors and if I was to major in math, that was the course I was to take, no ifs, ands or buts.

Over the years since my experience as an unwelcome guest in the granddaughter’s  bedroom, I have realized that her harsh words about her grandfather made me aware of an allegiance to the subject that I didn’t know I had. I’ve also realized that she was being loyal to her father who she felt had been slighted and ignored. I too recognized my loyalty to my father, and eventually made my peace with him as well.  

I recall a visit with him about a year before he passed away. He was very old and his health was failing along with his memory. We were many years away from the conflicts and arguments that I faced when I left home after finishing college which is why, I suppose, I was amused when he said “So what are you doing these days? What are your plans?”

I told him I was planning to teach math when I retire. “I always thought you’d wind up as a writer,” he said, his mind dwelling on my rebellious days when I turned my back on math and school in general. I explained as well as I could my interest in trying to help young kids with math and how I had over the years rejuvenated my interest in the subject. Always wanting to see his kids as great he said “You mean all these years you were a mathematical genius?”

No, I’m afraid I can’t make that claim. I just like the subject. The amazement I felt at the age of seven when realizing that counting to one hundred twice is the same as counting to two hundred once was no less than when as a sophomore in college I discovered I could prove that a set of mutually non-intersecting discs in a plane is countable. Life with my father and his inconsistencies and eruption of temper was often difficult. With his passing, I forgave him his inconsistencies.

While I was at it, I also forgave the transgressions of the academic world. Although I have not ascended into the world of true mathematicians, the math world has been kind to me. I remain grateful for it providing me with the refuge that was and is so wonderfully and eternally consistent. 

 

About the author  

Barry Garelick has fiction published in Heimat, Cafe Lit, Ephemeras and Fiction on the Web. His non-fiction pieces have been published in Atlantic, and Education Next. He lives in Morro Bay, California with his wife.

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Ghost of a Husband by Daniel Day, whisky on the rocks

 

It wasn’t an easy decision, but it had to be done – I could see no other way in the end. I had become so sick and tired of the monotony, day after day, week after week, Sunday lunch followed by Monday evening bridge followed by Tuesday afternoon tea and so on and so on, forever and ever. 

And the effort it all took! Retirement was supposed to mean rest from work, but it had turned out to be anything but. 

‘You will get the step ladder out and dust off the curtains before this evening won’t you dear?’ she would say. Heaven forbid that our bridge club guests would look up and notice just how much dust had accumulated on the rail since last week’s visit.

‘You know I can’t do it, not with how I am with heights.’ she would always add.

Then there was the afternoon tea, always at Deborah’s Tea Rooms in town, Tuesdays at precisely two o’clock. 

They knew us by name in there. I hated the condescending tones, the cooing at us like we were infants. The way they would pull chairs out and hold doors open like we were incapable of looking after ourselves.

‘He’ll have the smoked salmon salad,’ she insisted. I hated smoked salmon; I wanted a bacon roll but apparently my cholesterol was very much her business and not my own.

In the end, I just couldn’t stand it. I announced one evening that I was going for a stroll. 

‘You’ll degrease the kitchen backsplash when you get back then?’ she said. ‘You know I can’t bend so far over the counter.’

            I didn’t reply. What would have been the point?

I stepped out into the cold night air and began my sombre march across town. Under the ghostly light of streetlamps, I arrived at the road bridge. It spanned the great river which had flowed through our town since before I was born and would not cease to flow after I was gone. 

I took in a gulp of bitter air like a shot of whisky, climbed trembling up onto the iron railing, and said farewell to the world.

I plunged into pressing darkness. An uneasy weightlessness took me then I knew no more.

That is until I found myself inexplicably standing right back in our kitchen, my soaking wet clothes seeming strangely not to drip on her porcelain floor tiles. 

My skin felt sticky and cold.

There was a newspaper sat on the table. The headline read: Body of Retired Man Found by Fisherman. I reached out to pick it up but found that my hand went straight through both it and the table. 

I quivered in the stark realisation that my plan had been successful. An unnerving dread dripped from a soaked lock of my hair and trickled down to the tip of my nose.

I heard slipper-clad footsteps on the stairs. Hide! The ridiculousness of the thought startled me and I found myself laughing. 

‘Really dear, whatever can be so funny at a time like this?’ 

I was dumbstruck. I spun towards the door to see her standing there, just as she always had been. I stumbled backwards, discovering my legs passed right through the oven door which had been left open. 

‘Do be careful.’ she said. ‘And try not to sit on any of the furniture, you’ll only get it wet.’

‘I won’t.’ I said, indignantly. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t sit on the furniture even if I wanted to.’ 

She sighed. ‘No, I suppose not.’ She looked deeply forlorn. With effort, I contorted the sickening guilt I felt to feel more like pity. 

‘So, you know I’m…’

‘Dead?’ she interrupted, and I felt a jolt in my chest at the word. ‘It would have been difficult not to notice, especially after the police came round.’

I felt sick; this wasn't what I’d wanted at all. I had wanted freedom, release from hard labour, this was so much worse.

‘But you can see me?’ I said. ‘You can hear me, we’re speaking right now aren’t we?’ 

She shuffled forwards, passing right through my body to get to the sink.

‘Yes, I can see you.’ 

‘But how?’ I said, half to myself.

‘Don’t know; suppose you must be haunting me.’ she said. ‘Unfinished business and all that.’

‘But I don’t have any further business, I have nothing more to say.’

‘No.’ she snorted. ‘You said it all when you jumped off that bridge.’ Another jolt in my chest, this time more violent. 

She looked dreadful. Not externally, she was always immaculately put together, but deep in her eyes there lay the cold, bitterness of a woman betrayed.

‘I’m sorry…’ I began, but the empty words withered and died, like the last feeble, flickers of a candle in the overwhelming dark. She finished washing the last of the dishes then passing through my body again, drew out a chair. She picked up the newspaper which covered her face as she read.

‘I suppose you’ll want to know why?’ I said.

‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘It’s quite obvious why – you couldn’t stand to live with me any longer.’ Her bluntness was excruciating. ‘Most people would have just had an affair or something.’ she added.

‘I’d have never done anything like that!’ I defended.

‘And this is so much better is it?’ she said. ‘Why couldn’t you have simple talked to me? You never spoke! Whenever we’d go out you’d sit there, silently squirming, I knew something was wrong. I suspected you were unhappy, so I tried to arrange things for us to do, things we enjoyed!’

‘Well I didn’t enjoy them!’ I snapped. ‘I just wanted to rest for once and have a bloody bacon roll if I felt like it!’ I became suddenly aware how much my words sounded like that of a sulking child.

She tutted then turned a crinkly page, the uneasy quiet illuminating my shame.

‘Well…’ she said, crinkling the edges of the newspaper in her fingers. ‘It’s too late now, now that your'e…’ Another jolt in my chest and my entire body trembled.

‘Can you hear me?’ she said. I found that I couldn’t speak, she called my name.

‘Come back!’ she cried. Her sobs were muffled and distant.

The light in the room was suddenly unbearably bright. I raised my hands to feel tubes coming out of my naked flesh.

‘He’s regaining consciousness.’ another voice said.

‘Come back to me!’ she cried.

 

 

About the author 

 Daniel Day is a writer and musician, living with his wife and two children in West Yorkshire. He writes about ordinary things with an extraordinary twist. He has had short stories published on East of the Web and Cafe Lit. 

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Sunday Serial: 280 x 70, 56. Colours by Gill James bitter lemon

 Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 280 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day. 

56. Colours 

What to wear? What to wear? Could she say it in colours? A blue jacket. That was a lie. But didn't blue represent lies now? The red rosette said it loud enough, didn't it? She knew her black shirt and black hair set it off well enough. And what of the crucifix? Oh yes, indeed. Red lips pouting to boot. She was arriving.

She would always stand up for the working class. Working class? Those who had to work for their money, who didn't get given it.

Not for her the yellow bellies. Broken promises to the students and this absurd pipe dream of maintaining the status quo. Ye gods. The people had spoken and said what they wanted. 52% of them. (Sort of.) Come on. Get on with it.

She touched her jacket lightly. A pity it was blue. The colour suited her. She could never be blue. Especially with the almighty mess they were making now. The whole caboodle an argument between a couple of public school boys. Shame on them. What were they thinking? Their mothers should talk to them seriously.

"I'd rather get into bed with the Jack Russell. I despise what he stands for with his racism, hatred and division. They'll crucify me for sure. But so be it. The people have spoken; I'm not alone in my party thinking this way."

On cue the young man in the purple beanie jumped up in front of her and cried. "The will of which people? Those who were lied to?  Those who pay taxes here but aren't allowed a voice? Those who've changed their minds? Those who were too young to give their opinion back then? 

About the author 

 Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation. She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.  

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

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

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter  

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.)