Crossing the Line

‘Have you taken your medicine today?’

Benny Adler smiled – not at hearing Mitzi utter her famous catchphrase, but at the wild reaction of the television studio audience. They didn’t care how familiar the line was; on the contrary, it was what they’d come to hear. They were whooping and whistling so much that the actors had to wait for quiet before continuing. 

Benny tried to remember how long ago the episode had been filmed. Thirty or forty years, maybe? Watching it now, in his room in a downmarket care home, he reflected on the craft that went into eliciting that reaction. It wasn’t the line itself that was funny – he should know, he wrote it – it was all in the build-up and in Mitzi’s delivery.

The build-up was always the same. Harold – Mitzi’s husband in the show – would work himself up into a state of agitation about something or other until finally erupting in fury. They had rules, though. When Harold had his tantrum, he never touched or even stood close to Mitzi, and he never broke or threw anything. The slightest intimation of violence and his behaviour would cross the line from funny to disturbing. 

Mitzi’s reaction was a comedy masterclass. The look of reproach. The precisely timed pause. Then the perfect delivery of the line that pops Harold’s balloon.

‘Have you taken your medicine today?’

Cue audience explosion.

Watching the actors wait for calm, Benny focused on the actor playing Harold – Jeff something. No – Jack. Unlike the others in the scene, Jack wasn’t struggling to keep a straight face. He probably wasn’t amused. 

‘How come you give Mitzi all the best lines?’ he used to say. ‘Why don’t you write some zingers for Harold? I can deliver a line as well as she can.’

Benny had tried telling Jack they were his laughs as much as Mitzi’s. That Mitzi’s catchphrase would be meaningless without all his work in the build-up. Eventually, Benny had tired of playing nice and reminded Jack who the star of the show was. 

‘Check the front page of your script, Jack. The show is called “Mitzi and Co.” Now get over it.’

That had told Jack. Or Jeff, or whatever his damned name was. 

A knock on the door interrupted Benny’s reminiscences, and Ashley, one of the carers, walked in. Something about Ashley appealed to Benny, and it wasn’t just that she was half his age and wore a crisp blue uniform.

‘Morning, Benny. How are you today?’

Ashley rubbed sanitising gel into her hands, and her eyes darted around the room. Benny found it slightly intimidating that Ashley could appraise his physical and mental health from a five-second scan of him and his surroundings. He wondered what involuntary signals he was sending and if he would pass muster.

‘Have you had any breakfast, Benny?’

‘Yes. I think so.’

Benny thought he’d had yoghurt and fresh fruit, but maybe that was yesterday. Besides, wasn’t it Ashley’s job to know?

‘I don’t see a bowl or anything,’ Ashley said. ‘I’ll check – make sure they didn’t miss you out. Don’t want you wasting away, do we?’

Ashley made to leave, but the TV caught her attention. 

‘She’s great, isn’t she? What’s her name again?’

‘Mitzi Lang.’

She was officially Mitzi Adler at that time, but Benny didn’t care to discuss that. Mitzi’s decision to keep working under her maiden name had been a canny move, considering the show ended up outlasting their marriage.

Ashley nodded in recognition at the name.

‘Of course – Mitzi and Co. My mum and dad used to love this programme.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

‘Oh, is this one of yours? I should have guessed. And here it is, still on TV after all these years. Must have earned you a fortune, eh?’

‘If only,’ Benny snorted. ‘I could do with a fortune, the amount they charge for this place.’

‘It doesn’t go on my wages, Benny, believe me.’ Ashley opened the door. ‘I’ll go and ask about your breakfast. Back in a bit.’

The conversation with Ashley had unsettled Benny. He muted the TV, watched the actors mouth his lines, and wondered how he’d ended up in this shabby cell. He deserved better than this, he thought. He picked up his phone and looked up the number for Alan Goldsmith, his former agent. He dialled, then paced the floor, fretting that Al’s number might have changed. 

‘Alan Goldsmith.’

‘Al? It’s Benny.’

‘Benny – how the hell are you? What’s happening?’

‘I’m watching Mitzi and Co on TV.’

‘At nine o’clock in the morning?’

‘It’s on all the damned time, Al. Five days a week. They show all six series, then they start over again.’

‘Incredible. I mean – it was always a great programme, but who would have imagined they’d still be showing it thirty-odd years later? That’s terrific.’

‘Maybe, but it got me thinking – why the hell aren’t I getting paid for all these re-runs? I could use those damned royalties.’

Benny heard Al hesitate, and he felt himself getting increasingly worked up. He was vaguely aware that the answer to his question was in his own head if only he could locate it. 

‘You’re not due any royalties, Benny. You signed the rights over to Mitzi in the divorce settlement. Remember? You kept the house and most of your cash, but you let her have the TV rights. You were pretty pleased with the arrangement, as I recall….’

Something exploded inside Benny. He smashed the phone on the TV cabinet and hurled the shattered device at the wall. As he did so, he saw that Ashley was standing watching him. He strode up to her and let out a scream of frustration in her face.

Ashley took a step back, and Benny felt a shiver of recognition at her ice-cool response. It was all there, every element: the look of reproach, the precisely timed pause, and the perfect delivery of that familiar line.

‘Have you taken your medicine today?’           

Third Prize, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition-19. December 2023

Profit and Loss

The sun was barely up when Grant unlocked the shop, but already he was thinking about the grief he’d have to face when he got home. Karen resented him leaving the house so early and accused him of running away. He’d argue that it was to catch guys going out for a day’s sport in the countryside: they’d come in for bait or cartridges, and he’d persuade them to buy some new gear. Trouble was, the customers weren’t convinced, and Karen wasn’t buying it either. And tonight, when her parents came over for dinner, he’d get it in the neck from them too.

Grant flipped the sign on the door to “Open” and headed to his office at the back. 

He could pretty much predict how the conversation with Karen’s parents would go. George would ask how Grant’s ‘little shop’ was doing and offer again to look over his business plan. He’d enquire, in his offhand way, about when Grant ‘might be in a position’ to repay their loan. And Christine, half as subtle and ten times as sanctimonious, would go on again about how ‘uncomfortable’ they were with Grant selling firearms.

Didn’t they get it? If he went back to only selling fishing tackle, they’d never get their damn money back. 

He put some coffee on to brew and tried to clear his head by contemplating Megan’s inexpert drawing of “Daddy’s Shop”, on the wall by his desk. Even today, the “Rods and Rifels” sign made him smile. 

The shop door opened, and a familiar voice called his name. 

‘In the back, Nick,’ he replied.

Nick, clad head-to-toe in camouflage gear, seemed to fill the small office.

‘How’s it going, Grant?’

‘Never better. How about you? Is it ammo you’re after?’

‘You bet. There’s a big old boar out there with my name on his back.’

‘Isn’t it time you retired that old Remington? You should treat yourself to a new gun in time for the deer season.’

‘Oh, please, not that again.’

‘Just take a look at this,’ said Grant, undeterred. He unlocked a cabinet and took out a hunting rifle. Its long barrel, a lustrous bluish-grey, emerged from a smooth, exquisitely sculpted walnut stock.

‘I got this in for a guide down in Rockbridge. Try it.’

Nick raised the rifle and took aim at an imaginary target.

‘Feel that balance?’ said Grant. ‘Easy action. High-precision. Softer kick than a baby.’

Nick weighed it in his hands.

‘It’s a beauty, all right.’ 

He handed it back. 

‘But I don’t make the kind of money those guides do.’

Grant nodded. 

‘Maybe next season, huh?’

As Grant replaced the rifle, Nick pointed at another gun in the cabinet.

‘Woah – is that an AK-47?’

‘Sure is. Well, a Chinese copy.’

Grant unfolded the stock, clipped in a magazine, and passed the gun over. 

Nick held it awkwardly in front of him.

‘No way this is for hunting.’

‘It’s for a collector down in Martinsville. I already sold him two, now he wants another. Who am I to argue?’

‘Huh. Ugly brute, if you ask me. Damn ugly. Anyway, how about that ammo? I need to get going.’

When Nick had gone, Grant dismantled the Kalashnikov, ready for delivery. Nick was wrong, he thought. Sure, it lacked the sleek lines of the hunting rifle, but it had a certain style about it. 

After he’d finished parcelling it, he was unsure what to do. The last thing he’d said to Karen was that he was going to deliver the gun in person, a three-hour drive to Martinsville. She’d made it pretty clear what she thought of that idea.  

‘You win,’ he sighed. He labelled the package with a black felt-tip pen, sent an email to say it was ready for collection, then sat down to deal with the online orders.

The morning ticked by, bringing a trickle of customers wanting the usual small stuff: bait, hooks, cartridges. Then – nothing. At three o’clock, bored and frustrated, Grant flipped the sign to “Gone Fishing” – and went fishing. 

He switched his phone off and brooded for hours by the sullen river, looking for answers in the murky water.

Customers like Nick, he decided, were a waste of time. They spent a few dollars here and there on bullets or bait and bought maybe one gun their whole life. There wasn’t much profit in that. The only way he could get out from under was to double down on the online gun business and reach out to the collectors, the guys who spent big money on a repeat basis.

He’d talk it through with Karen. She was smart; she’d get it. And she’d support him like she used to do before her condescending parents started interfering. 

Grant jumped into his pick-up and sped home, the CD player blasting out Karen’s favourite song: “Throw Your Arms Around Me”.

As he stepped through the front door, Karen caught him with a slap that knocked him sideways. 

‘Where the hell have you been?’ she said. Then she pulled him close and sobbed into his chest. ‘I thought you’d gone to Martinsville.’

‘No. Why? Has something happened?’

‘Haven’t you heard? Some guy down there has gone crazy, shooting people.’

Karen’s mother emerged from the living room, ushering a confused looking Megan in front of her. 

‘Let’s get this little one to bed, Karen,’ said Christine. She looked accusingly at Grant. ‘She shouldn’t see this.’ 

Grant joined George in front of the TV. 

‘It’s awful, Grant. Horrific.’

Grant absorbed the news – fifteen people killed, the gunman holed up – and when he heard the shooter’s name, he could picture it written on a package in black felt-tip. 

His stomach lurched. The TV images – an isolated house, policemen crouched behind cars – seemed dreamlike. The newscaster’s voice was muffled and distant.

‘Fifteen people shot dead. Five of them children.’ 

‘Grant?’

George was speaking to him. 

‘Grant – do we need to talk, son?’

[END]

First published in the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize Anthology ‘Sticks and Stones’ (ed. F.J. Morris) 2022.

One Across and a Bit Down

Clive knew he should feel grateful to his daughter and son-in-law for their kind invitation to stay the weekend. Emma and Neil’s house was more spacious and better appointed than his, and they were attentive hosts. They’d even bought The Guardian, so Clive could do his beloved cryptic crossword. But he still couldn’t settle. He couldn’t even get started on the damn puzzle. 

“Swipe right (11)”, read the clue to one across. 

Something to do with a dating app, perhaps? He messaged his pal Steve, who shared his crossword obsession.

‘Have you got one across?’

Steve responded immediately.

‘Yep.’

‘Smartarse,’ muttered Clive.

His phone pinged again.

‘Begins with A.’

‘I know,’ he lied.

He went outside to where Neil was washing his car.

‘You know that dating app – Tinder? What does “swipe right” mean?’

Neil looked at him dubiously.

‘You do know I’m married to your daughter, don’t you?’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you use it. I just thought you had your finger on the zeitgeist.’

Gesturing with the dripping sponge, Neil said, ‘Do I look like a man with his finger on the zeitgeist?’

‘Point taken. Anyway, do you know what it means?’

Neil plunged the sponge into the foamy water and resumed washing the windscreen.

‘Like, I think. Or is it dislike? Fifty-fifty chance, isn’t it?’

‘I need to be a damn sight surer than that,’ said Clive, retreating into the house.

Emma found him in the kitchen, staring blankly at red lights flashing on the coffee machine. 

‘What on earth is this about you using Tinder? I know you’ve been lonely since Mum died, but I thought you and Jean were getting on so well. She told me recently you might be going on holiday together.’

There was so much to unpack there that Clive wasn’t sure how to respond. First, he was pretty sure he’d never told anyone how he felt since Alice died. Second, he liked his friend Jean – she made him laugh – but holidaying together? Had he agreed to that? And third…

‘Why the heck shouldn’t I use Tinder if I want to?’

He saw Alice’s face in the look Emma gave him.

‘Oh, Dad. Do you really think it’s appropriate?’

‘Appropriate? What business is it of yours?’

Back in the living room, Clive took out his phone. Fingers stabbing the screen, he installed the Tinder app.

‘Bloody cheek,’ he muttered, ‘telling me what’s appropriate and what’s not.’

But by the time he’d finished setting up his profile, the fire inside him had died.

‘You silly old sod,’ he murmured.

He deleted the app, tossed the phone aside, and picked up the crossword again. The solution to one across came to him immediately.

‘Of course: appropriate, appropriate. Two meanings, verb and adjective. Nothing to do with Tinder.’

Clive silently saluted the setter; if he’d been led astray, it was his own stupid fault. Before long, the puzzle was complete. He messaged Jean.

‘How about treating ourselves next weekend and going away somewhere?’

[END] 

Awarded Second Prize in the Beacon Lit Flash Competition July 2022

The Biology Lesson

‘Have you had a good weekend, then? The football was great, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Josh. ‘Thanks for taking me.’

Steve glanced across, trying to make eye contact, but Josh kept staring straight ahead as the windscreen wipers beat a monotonous rhythm.

‘Spit it out, then. You’ve been brooding about something all weekend. We’ll be at your mum’s in five minutes, so if you’ve got something to say, now’s the time.’

‘Mum’s found someone else.’

‘You what?’

‘I wasn’t supposed to say anything. I think she wants to tell you herself.’

‘Oh, right.’

Steve paused to digest what Josh had told him. He felt a pang of something but wasn’t sure what it was. Jealousy? Hardly. He’d moved on; he didn’t have feelings for Gill anymore.  

‘Who is it then?’

‘One of my teachers from school.’

‘Really? Blimey. What do your mates say about that?’

Josh blushed.

‘They don’t know, thank God.’

‘Right.’

They halted at a set of traffic lights and sat in silence. The wipers dragged intermittently across the greasy windscreen with anguished squeals. Eventually, Steve spoke.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised, to be honest. All that bravado about being happier on her own – she can’t cope on her own. She’s a bit weak, your mum. Always has been.’

He was making the boy feel uncomfortable, he knew, but if a father didn’t tell his son the hard truth, who would?

‘Sorry, matey. I don’t mean to put your mum down, but I just have to say it the way I see it, right?’

Josh mumbled a reply, his head turned towards the side window.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said, she’s not weak.’

He should leave it there, really. But couldn’t.

‘I’ve known her a lot longer than you have, Josh, and the fact is, your mum needs someone strong alongside her. A real man. The sort of man who can make decisions for her, tell her what to do. Like I used to. Before it all went pear-shaped.’

He glanced across, but Josh still had his face turned away. Best leave it now. He’d made his point.

‘So, yeah, I knew she’d have to find a new fella sometime. I didn’t expect it to be one of your teachers, though. That is a surprise.’

At last, the lights changed, and they pulled away.

‘Can you drop me at the end of the road?’

‘Don’t be daft, lad; you’ll get soaked.’

Steve brought the car to a halt outside his old house and sounded the horn. The front door opened, and Gill stood on the threshold, out of the rain. She gave Josh a friendly wave and nodded at Steve.

 As they waited for Josh to sort his backpack out, a woman emerged from the gloom of the hall to stand at Gill’s shoulder. She was a few years younger than Gill and strikingly attractive.

‘Blimey, she’s a bit of all right. Who’s that then?’

‘That’s Emma. Ms Varley. She’s my biology teacher.’

Finalist, Wild Atlantic Writing Awards, Flash Fiction Competition, published Jan 2022.

The Cinders of 2021

Scene: The Royal Ball. Prince Charming and his aide, Dandini, are surveying the packed ballroom.

Prince: Ah, the Royal Ball! Isn’t it marvellous, Dandini?

Dandini: It’s a marvel we’re even holding it, what with a pandemic raging across the land and the decree against having parties.

Prince: Oh, does that rule apply to us?

Dandini (rolls his eyes): Don’t worry, sire. We’ll just say it’s a work meeting. 

Prince: Good plan, Dandini! And it’s fair enough, actually. I mean, if this isn’t a Royal Prince’s job, what is?

Dandini (aside): Good question…

Prince: Look, there’s Baron Hardup. He really is the most awful man. How on earth did he get to be a Baron?

Dandini: The King ennobled him, sire. For services rendered.

Prince: Really? What sort of services?

Dandini: The £3 million pound donation sort. He’s not as poor as he tells the taxman, you know.

Prince: I see he’s brought daughters, Teresa and Tracey

Dandini: Ah, the infamous Tess and Trace. (Aside) Very expensive and utterly useless.

Prince: They’re the only guests wearing face masks. That’s very responsible of them, isn’t it?

Dandini: Not really. I told the doorman not to let them in without masks on. I didn’t want their ugly mugs scaring everyone.

(At the side, Cinderella, preparing to enter, speaks with Fairy Godmother)

Cinderella: Thanks for everything, Fairy Godmother: the makeover, the gown, the glass slippers. That carriage you magicked up was a-ma-zing, darling – although it was a bit cramped inside.

Fairy Godmother: It’s made from a pumpkin – it was bound to be a squash. Just remember, you must leave by midnight or the spell will be broken. Look out, Prince Charming is coming over – good luck!

Prince: Sweet mistress, your beauty astounds me – why have I never seen you before? Have you been in quarantine?

Cinderella: Social isolation, more like. Eighteen flipping years of it.

Prince: But why so long?

Cinderella: Basically, because of a patriarchal, plutocratic system that tolerates nepotism, perpetuates the impoverishment of the proletariat, and subjugates women.

Prince: Come again?

Cinderella: Never mind. Are you going to ask me to dance or what?

They dance and dance, but the hands on the clock begin to race. Cinderella notices it is nearly midnight and runs off in panic.

Prince: Help me, Dandini – that beautiful girl has disappeared and I don’t even know her name. The only clue she left is this glass slipper. How will I ever find her? 

Dandini: Fear not, sire. We will scour the land performing LFTs on all young women.

Prince: LFTs?

Dandini: Lost Footwear Tests. Whoever the slipper fits will be your mystery girl.

Prince: That’s ingenious, Dandini. Although, you know that a positive LFT has to be confirmed by PCR.

Dandini: PCR?

Prince: Prince Charming’s Reaction. I’ll look in her eyes and if my heart starts to pound, she’s the one.

Dandini: (aside) Good to see he’s following the science.

Prince: Come, Dandini! We leave at dawn!

[End]

First Prize in Writers Forum flash fiction competition, published Jan 2022. The brief was to write a scene from a classic panto, including current news and topical jokes.

Debating With Mister D

The last thing John needed after a stressful day was some stranger knocking on his door. Especially this stranger.

‘There must be a mistake.’

The stranger sighed and checked the details on his smartphone.

‘Are you John Howard Pettifer?’ 

‘Yes.’

‘Born 25^th June 1990?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then there’s no mistake.’

John felt sure this was a scam but couldn’t for the life of him figure it out.

‘Wait – how do I know you’re who you claim to be?’

‘Seriously? Come on – I’m Death. I don’t carry ID.’

‘But – those clothes….’ 

John gestured at Death’s outfit: an orange sweatshirt with a white D on the chest and baggy blue shorts.

‘These? I just fancied lightening things up for a change. That black shroud is horrendously drab.’

‘Aren’t they rather…. inappropriate?’

‘Give me a break. Fifty million times a year, I do this.’

John was surprised to find himself sympathising. Nevertheless, he wasn’t ready to submit just yet.

‘Listen, I realise you’re appallingly busy, but can we talk?’

‘Sure. I’m omnipresent; I’ve got infinite time. Unlike you….’ 

John gestured for Death to step inside and take a seat. 

‘Look, I don’t want to tell you your job, Mr Death….’

‘Please, call me D.’

‘Right. The thing is, D, I’m only 31. I’m in my prime.’

 ‘You know, I’ve never understood this “prime of life” thing. Who decides if you’re in your prime? There’s more to it than just being young, right?’

John took a deep breath. 

‘It isn’t a question of age, per se. It’s a quality one recognises in one’s self….’

‘That’s convenient.’

‘…. or that others recognise in you.’

D studied John for an uncomfortably long time.

‘Help me, John. What am I looking for?’

‘Well, I’m young….’

‘Didn’t we discount that?’

‘….and I’m bursting with creative potential. I’ve a plan, well, an outline sketch, for a business. And a podcast, possibly. I may even write a book.’

D waited.

‘Is that it?’

‘It’s more than some people I could mention.’

‘That’s, what, a ten-year plan?’

‘Quicker, probably.’

‘Great. So, if I come back when you’re forty, you’ll be done?’

‘Ah, no, I’m not saying that. In fact,’ asserted John, as if quoting established doctrine, ‘the end of a person’s prime can only truly be recognised retrospectively.’

‘After they’re, say, 100?’

‘Or thereabouts.’

D sighed.

‘I have to say, John, I’m surprised you didn’t mention your wife and children. Where are they, by the way?’

John was puzzled.

‘I’m not married. I don’t have any children.’

D frowned. He swiped at his phone until he seemed to find what he was looking for.

‘Well, I’ll be damned. Un-be-fricking-lievable. Another John Howard Pettifer, exact same birthdate as you.’

‘I knew it!’ shouted John. ‘Didn’t I say you’d made a mistake?’ 

D grinned wickedly.

‘I’m messing with you, man. It’s definitely you on my list.’

He stood and reached out his hand.

‘Come on, Johnny, time to go. Someone else can decide if you were in your prime or not.’

Winner of the Thame Art & Literature festival Flash Fiction Competition 2021 https://www.talfestival.org/flash-fiction-winners/

Things My Grandfather Left Me

My immediate thought was, ‘Rachel is going to kill me.’ 

That may seem a strange thought to have when some young thug has his knife at your throat, but my daughter had been warning me something like this might happen. 

Just yesterday, when she brought little Robbie around to visit, she asked me if I’d checked the peephole before opening the door.

‘Of course, I did.’

‘Really? How many fingers was I holding up?’

God knows where she learned to be so sneaky.

‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ I retorted. 

She didn’t like that. If Robbie hadn’t been there, she’d have sworn at me, I reckon. She let go of his hand, and he ran into the lounge and started jumping on the sofa, the little monkey. I didn’t mind. He can do what he likes, so long as he stays out of my bedroom. 

‘I can look after myself,’ I told her.

‘Yeah, right. Just use the bloody peephole, will you?’

And now this lout had forced his way in. I hate it when Rachel’s right.

Kicking the door shut behind him, the intruder steered me into the lounge and made me sit on the sofa. 

‘If it’s cash you’re after, my wallet is on the bureau.’

He found it and took the notes out.

‘Forty bloody quid? You must have more than that.’

‘What makes you think that?’

He gestured around the apartment – the high ceilings, the tall windows overlooking the park.

‘You couldn’t afford this place if you didn’t have money.’

‘I was very fortunate; my grandfather left it to me. I’m not wealthy myself.’

He grunted and started poking through the bureau drawers. I tried to recall if there was anything of value in them. I’d no sooner remembered my grandfather’s watch than he found it. 

‘Hello, what’s this?’

Sunlight from the window caught the polished silver case of the vintage Rolex. I pleaded with him not to take it.

‘I’m keeping that for my grandson. My grandfather wore it all through the First World War.’

‘Oh, please don’t, my grandfather left it to me,’ he said, in a mocking tone. ‘Say goodbye to it, Pops.’

As he slipped the watch into his pocket, I felt my heart race. My hands started to shake.

‘I don’t feel well. I need my medication.’

He looked sceptical, but I insisted.

‘You don’t want a dead man on your conscience, do you? I need my heart pills. They’re in my bedroom.’

‘All right, Pops, go and get ‘em,’ he said, returning to his search.

 I walked hesitantly to my bedroom and found what I needed in my bedside cabinet. By the time I got back to the lounge, I felt calm and composed.

My uninvited guest looked at me in shock.

‘What the hell is that?’

I looked down at my hand. It was steady now; the tremor had gone.

‘This? This is an army-issue Webley revolver. My grandfather left it to me.’

Shortlisted in Farnham Flash Festival Competition June 2021

Farnham Flash

All Filler, No Killer

It wasn’t the psycho pointing a gun at my chest that scared me. It wasn’t the 100 feet drop to the pavement, inches behind my heels. It was the fear of not grabbing your attention with these opening lines. 

‘Excuse me,’ said the psycho. ‘What exactly are you talking about?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘That wasn’t meant for you; it was supposed to be interior monologue. I’m not used to handling this first person point of view.’

‘I can tell. It’s not the author’s thoughts we’re supposed to hear, you know. What I wanted to say was, I don’t think it’s too smart calling a guy a “psycho” when you’re stuck between Rock and a hard place.’

Damn. As soon as he said that, I realised it wasn’t right. For the gag to work properly, I should already have established that the psycho was called Rock. I made a mental note to fix it in the next draft.

Besides, I wasn’t altogether happy about him introducing his Bruce Willis style humour into my story. It risked deflating the suspense.

‘Suspense? You haven’t created any damn suspense,’.

‘Am I still saying this out loud? Bugger.’

Out there on the roof, time seemed to stand still. That’s a cliché, I know, but it’s convenient for this next bit. 

The gun aimed at my chest was a Beretta ML901, first produced in 1953. It had a reputation for accuracy that was unparalleled for a pistol of its size. When Beretta announced that it was planning to cease production of the model in 1969, it was persuaded to make a one-off batch of 2000 pistols for its best customer: the CIA.

‘Oh, puh-lease.’

‘What?’

‘What is this? The History Channel?’ 

‘It’s authenticating detail. It adds…you know…authenticity.’

‘Give me a break. You’ve obviously just dropped in a chunk of your research that you didn’t want to waste. It’s irrelevant. It just holds up the action. Not that there is any action. I’ve been standing here pointing this gun at you for the whole goddamn story.’

He had a point, I supposed. I made a mental note to fix it in the next draft, along with that other thing. Whatever that was. I really should write this stuff down.

My phone pinged.

‘That’s a text message,’ I said. ‘May I take my phone out of my pocket and see what it says?’

‘Why the hell should I let you?’ 

‘Well, it could be an important plot point.’

‘Deus ex Nokia? That’s bold. Or desperate. Go on then. Slowly, mind. One false move and I’ll shoot.’

Finally, I thought to myself, an element of drama.

‘You’re still talking aloud, you know. What’s the message?’

‘Oh. It’s just a warning that the word count is getting close to 500.’

 ‘Okay. That’s enough. You’re under arrest. Turn around while I put these handcuffs on you.’

‘Wait a minute – you mean you’re the good guy? Wow. I did not see that coming.’

Awarded Third Prize in the Wild Atlantic Writing Awards (WAWA), Flash Fiction Competition, July 2020. http://bit.ly/32taeAA

Dominoes

“Did you hear about my run-in with the landlord of The Pheasant? He wouldn’t let our walking club into the pub before we’d washed our hands with that disinfectant gel stuff. Have you ever heard such nonsense?

I said to him, ‘Viruses? We’ve been walking over the moors, in the fresh air and sunshine. You should try it sometime – do you a damn sight more good than washing your hands.’

Then I told him where he could put his flaming gel and the miserable sod barred me.

The others kowtowed, of course. I said to them, ‘You’re such a load of sheep, there’s more chance of you catching foot-and-mouth disease than ruddy coronavirus.’

Still, I’m not sure we’ll be going for another hike any time soon, with so many members kicking the bucket. I don’t believe this baloney about a virus, though. It’s just old age, isn’t it? You can’t fix that with soap and water, can you?

Speaking of fallen brethren, it was John’s funeral on Monday. John’s wife wasn’t well enough to go, sadly. Doesn’t have long herself by the sound of it.  Which was a shame because he had a good send-off. Bit of a low turn-out but that was only to be expected with all this fuss going on.

It was that new woman vicar did the service. I don’t normally hold with women vicars but she did a decent job, to be fair. Mind you, I could have done without her pontificating about coronavirus, telling us we all have a responsibility to stop it spreading. More propaganda about washing your hands, in other words. What a load of twaddle.

I wanted to say to her, ‘Stick to the God stuff, love, you’re not a flaming doctor.’

Well, you don’t go to church to be lectured on public health, do you?

And then, blow me if it wasn’t the same at Paddy’s funeral. The priest – little African chap – was spouting some claptrap about ‘super-spreaders’ propagating the disease.

I was sat next to Frank and I said, ‘What the heck’s a super-spreader when it’s at home? Sounds like a piece of farm machinery.’

Frank told me to keep my voice down, which is typical of him. Or was. He’s at death’s door too now, apparently. So much for ‘blessed are the meek’.

To top it all, the priest wouldn’t shake anybody’s hand. He stood at the church door doing ‘fist bumps’ with us mourners as we filed out. Fist bumps – I ask you.

I’m not being racist or anything but a proper English priest wouldn’t do that, would they? After all, it’s a funeral, not a bloody football match – show a bit of respect.

I mean, what would you have thought, if I’d bumped your fist just now instead of shaking your hand, eh?

Anyway, must be off – I’m going down the social club. There’s always a good crowd in there and I’ve lined up some old pals for a game of dominoes.”

 

Awarded First Prize in the flash fiction competition on the theme of ‘scorn’  in Writers’ Forum magazine May 2020.

 

 

 

 

Burnt Sugar

‘Didn’t Maggie want to come this evening, then?’ asked Rachel.

‘No,’ said Max. He was busy jotting notes and setting the menu straight in front of him. ‘I thought she would when I told her I was coming here but…no.’

‘Does she know you’re with me?’

‘Sure,’ said Max, fiddling with his phone. ‘She knows you’re one of my regular companions.’

‘That’s me, the critic’s anonymous “companion”.’

She watched as Max took photographs of the menu.

‘What’s she doing tonight, then?’

‘Hmm?’ said Max, studying his screen.

‘Maggie. What’s she doing tonight?’

‘She’s watching that baking thing,’ said Max.

‘Oh, damn – is it the final tonight?’

Max peered at her over his glasses.

‘Please, not you too.’

‘I’d better switch my phone off,’ said Rachel. ‘I don’t want to hear the result.’

She slipped her phone into her bag, scanned the menu briefly, and then surveyed the room.

‘This place is unrecognisable, isn’t it?’

Max inspected their surroundings. It was light and airy, the noise levels were comfortable, the atmosphere relaxed.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I hate it.’

#

Lockton’s has been a fixture in Fitzrovia for decades. You might think you know it but you don’t, not now. It’s had a ‘defurb’. The thick carpet and dark wallpaper have been stripped out to leave brutally bare floorboards and walls in a shade so neutral it could win the Peace Prize.

It’s not just front of house that’s had a makeover. New head chef, Josh Lampard, has served with several Michelin starred chefs and now he’s striving for a star of his own. Per ardua ad Michelin astra?

Back in the day, Lockton’s was the sort of place you’d take your best girl if you were planning to pop the question. Trust me, I know. If you were lucky, she’d take the steady, dependable nature of the restaurant to be a reflection of your own character and say “yes”. I’m not sure that trick would work now.

#

As they were studying the menu, the Maître D’ materialised at their table bearing two glasses of champagne.

‘Mister Howell,’ he said, ‘Please accept this small gesture, with our compliments.’

‘Naughty naughty, Edouard,’ said Max. ‘Still, I suppose it would be rude to refuse.’

‘One would never accuse you of being rude, Mister Howell,’ said Edouard. He withdrew, promising to send their waiter over.

‘Cheers,’ said Max, sipping his champagne. ‘Right – what are you going to have?’

‘Gosh, do I get to choose for myself?’

‘It was a rhetorical question, sugar. You start with the roasted cauliflower and zhoug. I’ll have the squid.’

‘You’ll have to remind me what zhoug is. Anyway, I fancied the Japanese tacos.’

‘They do sound intriguing. In fact, I’ll have those – you have the squid.’

Rachel sighed and put the menu down,

‘This new chef – is he related to Frank Lampard, the footballer?’

‘Don’t ask me. Now, for the main course, you’ll have to have a meat dish.’

‘My Mum used to have the hots for him.’

‘The lamb sounds good…,’

‘Still does, actually.’

‘… or there’s the pork cooked three ways. That reminds me, did you see they cut my “fancying a three-way” gag last week?’

‘Quite right. I told you it was disgusting.’

#

Happily, the service at Lockton’s is still a model of attentiveness and we’re made to feel very welcome before inspecting the menu.

For starters, there are many enticing options but my companion eventually opts for the squid.  The mound of tender, pearly-white loveliness in a creamy almond-flavoured sauce induces such an ecstatic reaction that the woman on the next table tells the waiter, ‘I’ll have what she’s having’. (No, of course, she didn’t. Life’s not a rom-com, is it? Well, mine certainly isn’t.) I’m gagging for a mouthful myself but apparently, some things are too delicious to share.

Still, there are plenty more fish in the sea. There’s obviously a risk of “confusion cuisine” with Japanese tacos but this transpacific synthesis is sheer gastro-porn. Crisp nori shells are filled with minced raw tuna in carnal shades of pink and decorated with beads of lime-green wasabi. First, the rich taste of the oily fish, then a hit of hot wasabi. Oh, the pain and the pleasure.

#

‘By the way,’ said Rachel, ‘the forecast this weekend is dry, perfect weather for fell walking.’

‘Sounds great. I’ve got two restaurants to review though.’

‘That’s Friday night and Saturday night, which still leaves all day Saturday and Sunday …’

‘Thursday night and Friday night,’ interrupted Max. ‘Thursday’s the one-star place in Ambleside. Friday’s a new place in Keswick.’

‘We’re travelling up on Friday, aren’t we? Back Sunday night.’

‘Slight change of plan. I had to bring the schedule forward 24 hours.’

‘But – I can’t take two days off work. I was pushing my luck taking Friday off.’

‘I’ve got a family thing Sunday lunchtime. I thought I told you, sugar.’

‘You know damn well you didn’t.’

They paused hostilities as the waiter served the main course.

‘You can still come up on Friday,’ said Max. ‘I’ll just have to do the Thursday gig solo.’

‘Are you serious?’ hissed Rachel. ‘Travel up to Cumbria for one sodding night? It was supposed to be our weekend away.’

She fell silent, her gaze fixed on her plate.

‘How’s the lamb?’ asked Max.

‘Fine.’

‘Just fine?’

‘All right – it’s delicious,’ said Rachel. ‘I’ve no idea how they’ve prepared it but I expect you do. The vegetables are as fresh as if they’d just been picked. Excuse the cliché, you can fix that. The mushrooms – some Japanese name – are sumptuous. Will that do?’

‘Thanks. Very helpful.’

He ate another mouthful.

‘This fish isn’t great.’

Rachel did not respond.

‘I say, this fish…’

Rachel threw her napkin on the table and stood up.

‘I’m going to the loo.’

#

For her main course, my companion chooses slow-cooked lamb and relishes telling me how sumptuous it is. For service it is sliced, quickly seared, and served with fresh peas and beans with clusters of shimeji mushrooms. Delightful.

 I was less fortunate with my own choice. A fillet of brill has been stranded on a bank of herb risotto, alongside a pool of langoustine reduction. Over-cooked and with a soggy skin, it’s brill by name, not by nature. This plate of food should never have made it out of the kitchen. If Lampard wants to prove that there’s a new sheriff in town, he really should be heading the baddies off at the pass.

It’s a let-down, frankly. I expect a bit of magic when I dine out but if you find yourself thinking, ‘I could get this at home’, the spell has been well and truly broken.

#

‘I ordered crème brûlée for you,’ said Max, when Rachel returned. ‘I thought it might cheer you up.’

‘It’ll take more than a sodding crème brûlée,’ said Rachel. She ate a mouthful, pulled a face, and pushed her plate away.

‘I’ve had enough,’ she said.

‘Is it that bad?’

‘I meant us. And, yes, it is.’

She grabbed her bag and got up to go.

‘Find yourself a new dining companion, Max. I’m tired of being a mistress you can put on expenses.’

Max watched her walk out. He tried a spoonful of the brûlée and made a note.

Edouard appeared and said quietly, ‘Is your friend okay? She seemed rather upset.’

‘She received some bad news. Had to leave.’

‘How unfortunate. And how is Mrs Howell? Will we have the pleasure of her company again soon?’

‘Mrs Howell is fine,’ snapped Max. ‘Not that it’s any business of yours. Now, clear off and order me a cab.’

Max waited in the vestibule, slumped in an armchair.  He was still deep in thought when Edouard emerged to inform him that his cab was outside.

Max rose and touched Edouard lightly on the elbow.

‘I’m sorry about earlier. Don’t know what got into me. I’ll tell my wife you asked after her, she’ll be delighted.’

As he opened his front door, Maggie called to him from the living room. Max found her reclining on the sofa with a glass of wine and a magazine, the TV flickering soundlessly.

‘What brings you home so soon?’

‘Just felt like an early night. Listen, do you fancy coming up to The Lakes on Thursday? We’ll be back in time for the do on Sunday.’

Maggie studied Max’s face.

‘What happened? Did someone let you down?’

‘Yeah. No… I don’t know. Maybe it’s me.’

Max sighed heavily.

‘I just thought you might like to join me. We used to go away together all the time. It was fun, wasn’t it? But if you’d rather not…’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Maggie. She stood up and hugged him. ‘Yes. I’d love to come.’

‘The weather’s going to be perfect for fell walking, apparently.’

‘Come off it, Max. You hate fell walking.’

#

“Would you care to see the dessert menu?”

Oh, go on then. Even though we know it’ll be another catalogue of insincere promises. Those tired old tarts and sweet young things flutter their eyelids and we succumb to temptation again.

My own fall from grace comes in the form of a tarte au citron. A just-set filling has the perfect level of acidity and sits on a crisp thin pastry. Does it make my heart sing? Well, yes, but sadly it’s crooning that old Peggy Lee number, “Is That All There Is?”.

Still, you can’t go wrong with crème brûlée, can you? Oh. Apparently, you can. My companion can’t even finish hers. It’s dismal. What a pity to finish like this – a wobbly mess and the bitter taste of burnt sugar.

I wanted to like the new Lockton’s but it seems they’ve forsaken the steady and predictable only to find that the thrills of the new can be illusory. Well, which of us hasn’t made that mistake? Sure, there were occasional delights and fleeting excitement but, in the end, I found myself yearning for more familiar comforts.

[END]

 

Originally published in Writing Magazine in May 2020 having been awarded second prize in their short story competition with the theme ‘food’.

Burnt Sugar in Writing Magazine

JUDGES COMMENTS

Burnt Sugar, the runner-up in WM’s competition for food-themed short stories, is a witty, sophisticated soufflé of a story, whose apparent lightness conceals careful crafting and attention to detail on the part of its author, Kevin Cheeseman.

The conceit in this worldly, kindly story is a restaurant critic taking his mistress to review a restaurant. The menu choices and their dialogue show without telling the state of their relationship; the interspersed fragments of the critic’s review allows a reading of another layer of the food critic’s emotional life.

It’s an elegant rom-com of a tale; slightly mannered in a way that shows Kevin casting an amused satirical glance in the direction of pompous restaurant reviews, and with a kindly insight into the foibles of human nature and the way tiny cracks in a relationship can be revealed by something as apparently insignificant an imperfect topping on a creme brulée. Amusing and humane, Kevin’s Burnt Sugar is a delicious confection to present to a reader.