Wants and Wishes

 by Peter Lingard  

It’s a beautiful day; golden sunshine, a fiercely blue sky, and flowers blooming, their scent pervading the air. A kookaburra laughs as I stroll along the street toward the boardwalk, thinking of Reena.

A dishevelled man approaches me. “Ya gotta cigarette, mate?”

“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

“What’s that packet of fags doing in yer shirt pocket then?”

“That? That, my friend, is there to remind me not to smoke.” I take out the pack, rattle it, then open it to show him a rainbow of M&Ms inside. “These M&Ms act as an effective deterrent. Perhaps you should try the same?”

“I don’t think so. Lollies are fattening.”

“Oh, I don’t eat them, well, maybe one or two a week, but, if I did, fat is better than cancer, wouldn’t you say?”

It was Reena’s idea, the M&Ms. I used to smoke more than a pack a day until she told me I tasted like an ashtray. Now my breath is sweet but she isn’t around to test the evidence. Could I tempt her to kiss me again if she were here today? To be brutal, we only kissed once and that was beneath a sprig of mistletoe. I tempted her with plastic mistletoe. Plastic. It’s a bit desperate to have to tempt a woman to kiss me. Simultaneous spontaneity on both our parts would be preferable. I can see her, in my mind’s eye, running toward me with a smile on her face and her arms spread wide. She calls out to me. ‘Stephen, it’s been so long.’ After we kiss, (semi-long, lips almost closed/almost open, but definitely without inducement), she says, ‘Your mouth tastes so much better. You did what I suggested. Well done, you! Let’s go to yours so I can discover the rest of you.’

“How about a coupla dollars?” the dishevelled one asks.

“What?”

“A coupla dollars. Don’t be a tight ass.”

“So you can buy cigarettes?”

“Food, mate. I’m dyin’ of starvation ‘ere.”

A can protrudes from a grimy grip that dangles from his filthy fingers. “Looks like you’ve got food in your bag.”

“That can’s not even labelled, mate. Someone just gave it to me. She said it was soup but for all I know it could be dog food. What’s the cost of a hamburger ta someone like you?”

The thought of Reena diminishes everything, like the perfect wave to a surfer, the guitar riff in ‘Sunshine of Your Love’, like the vagrant finding lobster thermidor in his unlabelled can. Reena’s nibbling her bottom lip. Is she hungry? What should I do? Sex followed by dinner, or dinner before sex? Better get her while she’s in the mood; experience a crescendo of ecstasy together. “Yeah, let’s go to my place.”

The kookaburra laughs again.

“Your place!” shouts the beggar. “Ya got the wrong one ‘ere, ya sick perve.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Peter Lingard

When a youngster, Peter Lingard told his mother many fantastic tales of intrepid adventures enjoyed by him and his friends. She always said, ‘Go tell it to the Marines’. When he asked why, she said, ‘They’ve been everywhere and done everything, so they’ll want to hear about what you’ve been up to’. Of course, Peter joined the Royal Marines as soon as he was old enough and now has a seemingly inexhaustible supply of tales to tell.

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Dead-Eyed Dick

by Luigi Pagano

My life changed the day I gave up DIY.

It was not a hobby that I would have gone in for, given the choice. To be honest it was not even a hobby for me, more like forced labour brought about by necessity.

We had just moved to an old cottage which was, in the estate agents’ parlance, in need of some attention although dilapidated would have been a more accurate description. It was what we could afford at the time and we had to accept the reality.

I made an inventory of the most urgent jobs to be tackled: dripping taps in the kitchen and in the bathroom which had to have new washers or be replaced; sash windows, caked in many layers of thick glossy paint and stuck in their grooves, to be loosened so that fresh air could be allowed into the rooms to ventilate the stuffy atmosphere that pervaded the cottage; and a host of minor defects to be rectified. It meant that the tool box had to come out of retirement.

Had it been my decision, that is where it would have stayed. What forced my hand was that there was not a plumber, nor a joiner, to be had this side of Christmas. They were solidly booked months in advance.

‘And think of the exorbitant prices they charge’, said my wife who, knowing my reluctance to part with money unnecessarily, was, as ever, ready to play the psychological card. So I knuckled down, albeit reluctantly, to what I judged to be the duty of a considerate husband.

I must confess here and now that I am not a very skilled craftsman and even when the little tasks I undertook turned out to be functional, they did not have the polished professional look.
Even so they were, in my opinion adequate for the purpose. My wife, normally very punctilious, did not seem to find any faults either.

That is until we got an invitation to a barbecue from Molly Purbright, whom Deborah, my better half, had met in the local supermarket and befriended.

It was a friendly get-together and informal with most of the guests dressed in jeans and casual shirts. The gathering was well attended; it looked as if all the inhabitants of the village had been asked to the jamboree. The reason was to become clear later in the day.

It was the perfect weather for a barbecue; the sun shining and not a cloud in sight. People, holding a glass of wine, wandered round the lush garden and mingled in small groups engaged in inconsequential conversation; nostrils twitched with anticipation as they detected the aroma wafting from the steaks sizzling on the grill.

Molly introduced us to her husband Richard who, it transpired, was an absolute genius at Do-it-yourself. In fact this mise en scène was the prelude to a grand finale yet to be revealed.

He was in his mid-forties with hair beginning to grey at the temples. He had a good physique, with bulging biceps showing through his tight T-shirt. He was aware of the furtive, admiring glances cast in his direction by a group of giggling girls. He pretended not to notice but was secretly flattered by their attention. He clearly saw himself as a ladies man. By contrast Molly was rather unassuming; dressed soberly, hair tied in a bun and glasses which gave her an austere look.

Towards the end of the afternoon the boisterous and jovial atmosphere subsided and a sort of reverential hush descended on the assembled crowd. The veterans in our midst knew all about the well rehearsed routine but to newcomers like us it proved to be a journey of discovery.

We were taken on a guided tour of the house and shown Richard’s latest masterpiece: a newly refurbished bathroom with a sunken bath. There was no denying that it was a perfectly executed job, though a bit too glitzy for my taste. A turquoise bath in the shape of an oyster shell was surrounded by an array of ceramic tiles with a representation of green and blue dolphins; gold taps; a shower curtain with a green algae motif and coloured rugs to match the decor. A series of marbled steps led gradually down to the lower level.

‘Real marble, old boy,’ said Richard turning towards me with undisguised pride, ‘all the way from Carrara. You won’t find its equal anywhere else in the world.’

After that spectacular display, everything else was bound to be an anticlimax but that did not deter Richard from extolling the virtues of his other achievements. The walnut refectory table; the Victorian conservatory erected all on his own – actually he had to employ glaziers to install the huge glass panes, he admitted with a pang of regret – and line upon line of highly polished bookshelves affixed to the wall with ornate brass fittings.

He nudged me in the ribs and confided: ‘Look how straight those shelves are. I didn’t need any spirit level to put them up. They don’t call me dead-eyed Dick for nothing, you know.’

He was talking to me as if I was his lifetime friend but was obviously trying to impress somebody and I had my suspicions as to who that person might be.

I caught sight of Molly and could not help thinking what an unlikely couple they were. She seemed happy to remain in the background as much as Richard liked hogging the limelight.

The experience of that afternoon was indeed remarkable but the mere thought of all that slog had left me drained of energy. Deborah on the other hand had been fascinated by what she described as the finest workmanship she ever witnessed.

Needless to say, from that moment all my poor efforts fell short of the ideal standard she had mentally set. It was no use telling her that the kitchen shelves were in fact level and that the wall not being straight gave the optical illusion that they were crooked. Or that the wrought- iron plant holder had crashed to the ground because the plaster on the wall was weak and crumbly and could not support the weight of the flowerpot.

I was continually lectured on the types of plugs I should use – apparently there is a variety of them; some suitable for plaster boards, others for cavity walls. I would have liked to think that she had memorised a hardware catalogue but I knew that those words of wisdom had originated from the house of the master builder.

She was spending an inordinate amount of time at the Purbright’s residence ostensibly to have tea with Molly but I was sure the technical vocabulary she had acquired had not come from the lips of the dear lady. She also got into the irritating habit of affixing adhesive yellow stickers to whatever needed attention, with messages like: “James, will you do something about the cooker’s ignition. It won’t spark.”

No endearments, you’ll notice, just a stark, plain, instruction. I was getting cheesed off about her attitude and decided that the time had arrived to clear the air.

The final straw came when I entered the bedroom. Even my untrained eye could see that the wardrobe was listing to one side and one of the doors had come off its hinges. The inevitable ‘post-it’ sticker was attached to the handle. I was ready to blow my top when the first word on the message stopped me in my tracks. It said: “Dear…”

It was such an unusual opening that it took me a few moments to realise that this was not an ordinary request for a repair but something more serious.

“Dear James,” it said, “I am at the end of my tether. It has taken me a long time to realise that I am not cut out for a life of mediocrity and cannot stay any longer with someone whose inadequacy I have come to resent. I am looking forward to a more fulfilling future with Richard with whom I feel a greater affinity. Together we have decided to make a break with the past.”

The note stopped abruptly as if she was unsure how to end it. I was still dazed by the news when the doorbell rang.

I expected her to be distraught but she was calm and composed. ‘Hello, Molly,’ was all I managed to say.

‘You heard, then?’ she asked, then waving a bottle of wine added: ‘I thought that we should drown our sorrows.’

I don’t know whether it was the wine or her demeanour, but for the first time I was seeing Molly in a new light. Here was a lady who was sensitive, intelligent and witty. She had shed her plain-Jane appearance. With blue eyes which glinted behind her spectacles, her blonde hair – now loose – and a radiant smile, she was suddenly beautiful. We talked interminably and by the time we finished it was too late for her to return home. That night she slept in my bed.

I took the sofa.

We have just returned from a holiday in the south of France. Oh, didn’t I say? Molly and I are living together now. We are what they call ‘an item’. We were attracted to each other by our mutual dislike of DIY and swore that we would not touch a screw or a screwdriver ever again.

Now as we sit down to a candlelit dinner we gaze with satisfaction at our cottage completely refurbished, with new fixtures, and tastefully decorated. All done by professionals, of course.

◊ ◊ ◊

Luigi Pagano
Luigi Pagano was born in Italy and lives in England. He has published three collections of poems, entitled ‘Idle Thoughts’, ‘Reflections’ and ‘Poetry On Tap’. He has appeared in several anthologies, including UKAuthors anthologies and ABCTales magazines. His work has also been featured in ‘Take Five Poets’ and ‘Kiss of the Sun’ (I*D Books), ‘Land of Stories‘ (BarNone books), ‘Aged To Perfection‘ (Gwanwyn). He is a regular contributor to the websites ABCtales.com, UKAuthors.com and he is a relatively newcomer to The Flash Fiction Press.

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Coward’s Siege

by Nidhi Singh
A vast army is gathered along the forest edge; hot dust swirls around stomping, hobnailed leather boots, and a great din rises, scaring away finches and dingoes as spears are struck against iron breastplates, and the roll of drums and wail of bugles call the faithful to post.

I clench my hands into white fists and press them against my temple but the tempest within does not cease. The hand instinctively gropes for Rosa, but her side of the bed is empty, the dank pillow reminding me she is gone.

Pressing my burning cheek against her cold arm, or sliding an arm around her soft belly always quieted the mêlée inside, but as the fumes of alcohol lift, I realize she has left. She left me soon after I got fired. They said I didn’t have…what was it…a fire in my belly. Her things are still in the house—the studded dresses, the dribble-spotted underwear, the ointments and potions crowding a small vanity table: there is hope still.

With a groan I rise to visit the John. Damn—the door is jammed! Leaning my slender frame in doesn’t do the trick. I turn the knob – it is stuck – locked from inside!

“Rosa,” I softly call out, “Rosa?” In reply a missile is hurled against the door and the toilet seat is slammed a couple of times. As the object rolls away I realize it must be my canister of shaving foam. The only—just one thing I like since Rosa left is that I don’t have to raise the toilet seat. I move away from the door—just in case the man has a shotgun. I look around for a weapon—what good can a rubber hose of an unsold vacuum cleaner be against assailants armed to the teeth?

My hand trembles as I remove my size-6 slipper and shake it at the door. Yes—I do have small, dainty feet. Rosa loved to paint my big toenails a bright scarlet on Sundays, telling me how she wished she had my feet.

I press my ear against the door—I can hear the shower running. There is a patter of feet, some screeching and swoosh of water. I rush to get the main door—alas—it is unlocked. I forgot again, after drinking last night, to lock it.

A thief, or thieves have walked in the front door and locked themselves in my washroom and are taking a cold bath! And they have a thing about shaving foam cans and toilet seats. I rush to the bedroom door and lock it—at least I have one line of defense before my trench lines are stormed. I slam a chair against the door—just to make sure. I summon reinforcements, but the security blokes don’t answer the intercom—they must be snoring. The time now is 3:45 AM; an unearthly hour to expect any help from the neighbors. I debate on calling the police—they must have some law against unemployed, single men who are long due on their rent. Are they still conscripting young, healthy men, and sending them away to the cold front to die? I wouldn’t know; I stopped keeping up with the world once Rosa left. O Rosa, why did you leave?

I long to reach out to the nearly empty rum bottle from last night, but with a major heave of the willpower, decide it may not smell nice on a dead battle hero being prepared for a martyr’s farewell. For the end is certain: for help is not at hand. Worrying wearies me, and I dose off. I slip into the usual nightmares, and just when I am about to lose a grip on Rosa who is slipping into an abyss, I wake up, sweaty and breathless from fear.

The intercom is buzzing in my head. I lunge toward it. “Yes? Neil Coward residence.”

“Sir: did you make any call?”

It’s 6 AM, thank god! I have survived the siege! “Please, help! There are armed robbers—I have managed to lock them in the toilet. Quickly!”

I must look the part—of the lone guardsman at the gates, holding off the romping marauders. Grabbing a broomstick, an olive raincoat, and my most terrifying expression, I collapse on the chair against the door; the effort is too much for a civilian not used to the cut and thrust of hand-to-hand combat.

Help, in the person of semi-clad housewives—some with sucklings at the breast, saxicoline uncles, and half-asleep guards with whistles at lips swells at my doorstep. Together, we remove the fortifications, namely the chair and frying pan atop it, and gingerly march toward the besieged bunker, brandishing our weapons high, some chanting hymns, others plain bellowing. Hurling shoulders, boots and abuses in unison, we manage to bring the door down, ready to whip the offending Adam out of the adversary.

Behold then, the astonishment of the liberators, as they witness a deserted battleground! My meager objects of conceited vanity lie spattered about the walls and floor, but the enemy is as scarce as toothpaste in the tube. All eyes search the nooks and corners, and pause at the open window high above, where the shutter is banging in the wind.

“They have run away!” Mr. Dogberry, our President, raises a broom-toast and proudly exclaims, “ Victory!” People hug, pat each other, and start to file away.

Suddenly the twigs of the gnarled Bunyan outside the window rustle and lurch violently. Amid the howls and gasps, the hairy intruder, with a baby riding on its back, swings adroitly onto a branch, and then strides away, leaving us gaping at two huge, orange-crimson bollocks swaying majestically in the monkey’s wake!

At the doorstep pretty Miss Butterworth from next-door pauses. “Rosa’s gone forever. I miss her as much as you do. Would you care to talk about it sometime? Over a cup of coffee perhaps?”

I struggle for words. A tear escapes my eye.

“I’ll be here by eight. I’ll drive you,” she says, tenderly squeezing my hand before walking away.

◊ ◊ ◊

Nidhi Singh
Nidhi studied English Literature at Delhi University. She has a number of novels and miscellany published in India, including commentaries on Sikh Religious Texts, and Bollywood.
Several of her essays and short stories have appeared in Aerogram, eFiction, Flash Fiction Press, Fabula Argentea, Romance Magazine, Under the Bed, and Nebula Rift. She lives near the sea in Kutch, India.

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The Followers

by Janet Haigh

We watch the two of them move up the hill. Swaying like boats, they collide then drift away and back together in the early morning dark. Dressed in T-shirts, green and grey, and mismatched charcoal pants, their faces are all but identical. Two boys this time. They hand a bottle back and forth, swaggering up past the palm, to the white spear of the monolith on the hilltop.

My night vision is good. I turn away to look back across the abandoned bowling green and out to sea. The water below the cliffs roars through the night and, far over the lurching surface, I can still make out the irregular chunks of coal ships. In the past, they might have looked to the obelisk for navigation—truth be told, it’s a beacon on many levels—guiding lost souls to shore or to other lives as fate would have it.

Beside me, my brother, the angel, can’t take his eyes off the hopeful sight of another set of twins approaching the doorway. It’s been over thirty years since we fell into our respective roles and it’s been no picnic, trust me. Kind of like jury duty, only hotter. Rolling his shoulders to release tension, his wings shift, the feathers ruffled by salty wind straight off the ocean. No halo but he towers over me. He got the better part of the deal, surely?

I’m sceptical of a change. Really, what are the chances? Running my tongue along the double row of serrated teeth I got out of the bargain, I suddenly start to snigger uncontrollably.

He looks down at me in shock.

“Stop it, Addie!” He retches. So undignified. “You’re making me sick.” His voice sounds like pan-pipes; a chorus of notes combined to speak as one. It makes me shiver. The chime of his words is a reminder to be ashamed of the layers of black, gelatinous flesh that encase me, wobbling with every chortle.

“Not my fault.” I mumble, swiping a curtain of saliva from my chins. Absentmindedly, I toy with my horns and think of plucking chickens.

We’ve each adapted to suit our different environments, I can’t very well help the scales or slug-like exterior I’ve developed, any more than he’s earned the gossamer wings and buttermilk skin. But I have friends. Even in the darkened underbelly of Hell, I’m no longer in the habit of being judged simply on my appearance. Mirrors aren’t exactly in high demand down there, it’s been quite liberating.

Stretching out my fingers, I contemplate the full horror of gnarly nails and bulbous joints covered in blue-black skin. I wonder what might happen if we got lucky enough to bag replacements tonight; would all this physical wonder disappear in an instant?

What happens then? Back to the daily grind of life on the up-top?

A car rounds the bend, headlights bouncing over us for a second, and slides on up the road. The old bowling green is more desolate than it was thirty years back, its low concrete walls are crumbling and the clubhouse is gone, scrubbed away with saltbush. It seems more appropriate to our cause now.

On the hill, the lads have reached the spire and slouch at its base, staring back out to sea, oblivious to the danger. If they happen to glimpse us in the blustery dark, there are no recognisable features, just shadows and bulk. They might mistake us for lumps of concrete or scrub. I’d made the same naive assumption, long ago.

Peter moves his feet beside me. “Now.” he flutes, eager to go.

I hesitate, filled with sudden guilt. “Give them a minute. There’s no rush, is there?”

He stares down at me, seething. “That’s our only chance.” He stabs a finger in the direction of the hill and righteous anger radiates from his eyes with a physical heat.

I study my blackened hands again. It’s amazing what you can get used to.

Even through the booze, they sense us before they can see us. Jittery like horses, they rise to their feet, gulping the air.

“You’ve been called.” A statue come to life, my brother dwarfs them. He used to be short.

I smile around his shoulder apologetically but, on reflection, the result is probably less than effective. Shutting my mouth with a clack, I meekly tuck my hands behind my coal-dust girth.

He presses his coin into the hand of one and I undulate forward to do the same with the other. Instinctively, the boy recoils but I grip his wrist firmly and peel back the fingers to force the ancient metal into contact with his skin.

Peter’s eyes flash over them, ruby in the darkness, but the boys are already moving, throwing the coins at us as they run. They won’t go far.

Stretching his wings to full span, my sibling is suddenly aloft. Ignoring a shriek of terror from down the slope, I slide over to inspect the abandoned tokens in the dust.

A moment later, he returns, filling the sky above, a struggling shape in his arms, and I chew my nails and squint through the updraught.

“Heads or Tails?” I shout.

◊ ◊ ◊

Janet Haigh
Janet Haigh had several stories shortlisted for national competitions and, to date, have been published in the Newcastle Herald, Aurealis and Coastlines Literary Magazine. Most recently, my work has been selected for inclusion in the speculative fiction anthology Sproutlings, due to be published in February.

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The Smokers

by Alvin Burstein

The study group had been meeting on a biweekly basis, every other Sunday afternoon, for over ten years. Three of the psychoanalysts originally involved had dropped out and were not replaced. The remaining five occasionally resented the commitment, but the meetings had the comfort of a familiar ritual, one that provided them with the increasingly unfashionable opportunity to smoke. Vernon favored cigars, Alan, a pipe. The others, Mel, Florence and Ken, cigarettes. They dubbed their group, ‘The Smokers’.

They met at Alan’s second floor apartment, partly because Alan had taken the initiative in founding the group, and partly because his cool and tolerant rationality lubricated discussions.

Meetings would get underway after an exchange of greetings and, sometimes, carried over chat about their psychoanalytic center’s politics. In recent years, the focus of the study group had shifted from discussion of published books and journal articles to presentations by the members of the study group on some topic of interest to the person presenting.

At the previous meeting, Vernon, whose turn to present was coming up, had announced that he planned to discuss premonitions of death. Mel had groaned, “Not another odd-ball rehash of ESP!”

“Yeah, Vern,” Ken chimed in. “Maybe the grandfather that owned the famous clock had a premonition and decided not to wind it.”

“Freud had the good sense to keep a lid on his mystical interests, Vern. You should, too,” laughed Flo, endorsing the jibes.

Vernon had shrugged the criticisms off, “You guys hate to surrender your stereotypes. You need to loosen up.”

Alan stood, ending the conversation, “Look, topics are dealer’s choice. And it’s time to stop for today. I’ve got stuff I need to read tonight and an early patient tomorrow.

“Vernon’s last paper comparing astrologers’ and psychologists’ ability to predict behavior was interesting. Let’s see what he has for us next time.”

Two weeks later, Vernon arrived last. He bustled in a quarter of an hour late, puffing and red-faced from his climb up the stairs.

“OK, let’s get started, Vernon,” Mel grunted, “I can hardly wait.”

Vernon’s uninspired presentation included a citation of Phillipe Ariés, a jumble of material from internet sites and excerpts from an interview Vernon had done with a critically ill hospital patient. The patient had surmised that he would die in a week’s time and did so eight days later.

The desultory discussion invoked a few references to the nursing literature and some questions about differences between personal premonitions and premonitions of the death of others. The exchange lagged into a silence. Then Flo noticed Vernon’s cigar rolling across the carpet.

“Vernon!” she blurted.

Vernon was slumped in his chair, jaw slack, a thread of saliva glistening on his chin. Ken got to him first, “My God, he’s dead.”

Mel grabbed for Vernon’s throat, feeling for a pulse. “Jesus, nothing.”

Alan and Ken quickly eased Vernon to the floor to start CPR. Alan, starting to release Vernon’s left hand, clung to it, staring at Vernon’s watch. Its face filled his field of vision. His widened eyes registered watch’s second hand.

It wasn’t moving.

◊ ◊ ◊

Alvin Burstein

Alvin Burstein is a retired psychology professor and psychoanalyst with numerous scholarly  works to his credit. He continues on the faculty of the New Orleans-Birmingham Psychoanalytic Center, where he also serves as librarian,. He is a member of  Inklings, a critique group that meets weekly at the local public library to read its members’ imaginative writings. Burstein has published flash fiction and autobiographical fragments in e-zines; The Owl, his first novelette is available at Amazon. He is a committed Francophile, unsurprisingly a lover of fine cheese and wine, and an unrepentant cruciverbalist.

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Technical Knockout in Testosterone Hell

by Marc Shapiro

She walked into the Mexican bar. Ample chest straining the thin, silky cloth of her top. Hips doing the jump shake.

The woman wore way too much foundation and peroxide. She was not real easy on the eyes and she had been around the block a few times. She knew the score. Any man with a smile, a line and the price of a drink could have her any night of the week. Except this one. Because this night was fight night.

And the men fresh off their dead end jobs, dead end pay and just plain rotten lives were directing their testosterone toward television screens that glowered down on them with the images of two middleweights.

They threw punches. They drew blood. The men sat at hypnotic attention, beers gripped tightly in deeply tanned hands as ribs were broken and nose cartilage cracked.

The woman sighed. She knew this night she could not give it away. She downed the last of the drink she had bought herself, shook her ass one more time at the disinterested crowd and wandered out into the night.

Alone. Untouched.

As the men cheered a fifth round TKO.

◊ ◊ ◊

Marc Shapiro

Marc Shapiro actually makes a living doing this. Don’t tell the authorities.

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