Blog Archives

Dishing Out the Blues, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

28/2/2021

FOOD

“Oh no!” screamed Carolyn. “One left?”

She scooted around the kitchen. Couldn’t find more among paper doilies, or with placemats in the china cabinet.

The doorbell rang. Gunter returned from the train station with his mother.

It was the elderly woman’s first visit to the newlyweds apartment. Carolyn had hoped all would go well. Now this.

Dinner was served in the dining room. The guest lifted her portion of a torn napkin. Waved it for all to see.

Gunter could have apologized in the language his mother knew best, German. How his wife overlooked. Had no time to shop. Could’ve shopped if the stores had not closed before she made the discovery.

He placed the matching half onto his lap without saying a word.

Dishes were passed around. Servings taken. When the vegetable bowl arrived, their guest declined.

Sensing Carolyn’s disappointment, Gunter scooped up a double portion. Took one forkful. Made a face. Had no more.

“What’s wrong?” Carolyn whispered, leaning towards him.

“Tastes, well, uh... like...”

“Tastes like what?”

“Blah.”

Carolyn didn’t understand. She had spent time rounding up recipes she was told her mother-in-law would enjoy. Recipes with good reviews. Did Gunter advise incorrectly?

The guest said something in German to Gunter who translated it to Carolyn, who in turn replied in English to Gunter, who translated it into German for his mother. The cycle repeated itself until an understanding was met between them.

The guest rose, taking the bowl with vegetables to the kitchen. Carolyn and Gunter followed.

Vinegar was removed from the lazy Susan. Sugar and salt selected from the seasonings cupboard. An apple was picked from the assorted fruits bowl.

Carolyn and Gunter watched the experienced cook do her magic.

Back at the table, the vegetable bowl made its encore appearance. Everyone dipped in. Generous portions were taken.

The blues had lifted, thanks to the appetizing red sheen of cabbage.

I, the Matcha Ice Cream, by Elisa Kho

28/2/2021

FOOD

I am a shunned, easily forgettable ice cream flavor shoved in the depths of the department freezer. I try to mingle with others such as chocolate or vanilla, but my flavor of Matcha (green tea) usually sparks disgust. How can a repugnant shade of light green complement other, delightful appearances like Neopolitan?

But only my color gives the feeling of nausea. At rare moments, people approach my flavor. Why? Maybe they are attracted to the intrigue that cannot be described in western words. I am comprised of odd and unusual ingredients. The first bite might be bitter like the matcha powder from chanoyu (Japanese tea ceremony), but the slight sweetness of my flavor stays in your mouth a little longer.

You will see the mildly sweet charming side of me. Because of the bitterness, the sweet is more pronounced. Though my surface does not compare well with other ice creams, the inside offers the TRUTH ~ that I am a special, acquired taste that a worthy few shall LOVE.

The City of Lights, The City of Love, by James A. Tweedie

28/2/2021

FOOD, TRAVEL

It was the honeymoon of a thousand lifetimes.

First, three days in London and now our first night in Paris.

We checked into our Left Bank hotel in the late afternoon and when we came back outside the sun was setting. Traffic had suddenly disappeared on all but the larger avenues.

Patrons of restaurants, cafes and bistros were spilling out onto the sidewalks and sometimes even into the streets as the sound of music, laughter and love began creeping through the alleys and boulevards on little cat feet.

We walked uphill to a plaza next to the Pantheon and picked out an empty table that was half on the sidewalk and half in the street.
Mona’s French came in handy as she looked over the menu and ordered for both of us.

“What did you order?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” she said. “I just looked at the menu, pointed to one line that said boeuf and one that said poulet and let the dice roll.”

The meal came with a small, unlabeled bottle of wine. Whatever it was that we ate was wonderful.
As the darkness fell and the lights of the city began to shine and twinkle, the phrase “love is in the air” became as real as the air we breathed.

Hand in hand, we walked four blocks down to the Seine.

Notre Dame was to our left, lit up like the lead actress in a play.

The lights were reflected in the water, doubling their effect and creating the illusion the entire world had turned into sky, with stars gleaming from every direction.

Our hands separated and wrapped themselves around our waists drawing us as close to one another as possible as we walked.
We joined the parade of lovers down the Quai de la Tournelle before crossing to the Il Saint-Louis on the Pont de Sully.

There we saw jugglers and men selling flowers on the sidewalks. Musicians were playing simply for the sheer beauty of it without any thought of receiving a donation—their instrument cases lying closed at their feet.

The lights became hypnotic, drawing us into a dream of our own creation.

As we turned to face one another, our hands moved yet again, drawing us even closer in embrace. Our lips touched. We breathed warmth and passion into each other’s hearts and our souls joined the music of the night in a song of love.

Such is Paris after dark. The City of Lights. The City of Love.

In London we had practiced.

In Paris we performed.

The Last Train, by Mary Wallace

27/2/2021

TRAVEL

Standing behind the long lines of people waiting with their belongings, I watch each train leave. I love trains, I have a toy one that Uncle Karl gave me for my 5th birthday.

I'm hiding from the men in uniforms; I'm supposed to be at the park and I will get into trouble if the nurse tells my father that I ran away. My father wears a uniform too; his uniform has lots of gold buttons and four gold bars.

At first there is too much noise. Noise from the trains and from the people yelling to each other. I hide behind a post with my hands covering my ears. Nobody notices me.

It's quieter as the last train arrives. The people begin getting on board and I turn to go back home. A uniform man sees me and starts pulling me towards the train. I tell him I need to go but he pushes me on board. He calls me a dirty name. Wait until I tell Father. Father is an important person; I know because he told me.

None of the people on the train want to know that my name is Stefan, or that my dad is an important person, they don't see to care.

One boy does talk to me, he says the train is going to a place called Auschwitz. I hope my dad knows where that is

Literary Prohibition, by Alex Andy Phuong

27/2/2021

FOOD

During The Roaring Twenties, people defied the laws of prohibition. There might have been a law against drinking alcohol, but some people have also been denied the ability to read. That is a very unfortunate truth in the real world because there have been times in history in which women faced discrimination because of their gender. Therefore, it is a blessing to know that literary works have the ability to enrich the mind and enlighten the soul, for knowledge is like food for the brain. This story is about summoning the courage to defy convention, and advocating the right to literacy…
Violet was much more than a dainty flower. She was a beautiful woman who loved to read. She also had two friends named Daisy and Rose, and they would oftentimes gather together to read secretly. They had to do this because of how patriarchy and white supremacy went against the notion of women having the right to vote and think like their male counterparts. Violet knew that she wanted to be a schoolteacher ever since she taught herself to read at a precociously young age. Violet also enjoyed her name because the color purple was a mixture of calming blue with the fiery passion of red flames.
The color red foreshadowed her demise, though. While walking around New York, Violet had flowers in one hand and a (supposedly) empty bag in the other. A homeless man was begging for food, money. and forgiveness while lying around on the street one morning in August. Violet was generous enough to give the man a dime, but the aging man grabbed the bag to see if there was food inside. Instead, he found a book that belonged to Rose. Because of the law against reading, the homeless man started shouting with pain, agony, and pure anger. Police assembled swiftly and violently…
Violet struggled to escape the grasp of the policeman who wanted to confiscate her book.
“Does it matter if I am a woman?!”
“I’m sorry miss…but the law is the law.”
Daisy and Rose were part of the crowd that accompanied the large and disturbing scene. Since they both loved Violet so much, they started beating the policeman in an attempt to set Violet free. Chaos then broke out about all because of an inedible object that composed of merely ink and paper.
A year had passed since that horrific incident took place. Violet’s husband, named Daniel, was mourning the loss of his one true love on another hot and sticky morning in August exactly one year after the unfortunate occurrence. Daniel still honored the legacy of Violet, and planted several violet flowers on the grave at the local cemetery. Rose’s grave had roses growing in front of her gravestone, and Daisy had nothing in front of hers simply because no one in the town really loved her. In spite of that empty and bare spot, Daniel placed some bread upon the ground as an attempt to fill that void.

An Australian In Memphis, by Doug Jacquier

27/2/2021

TRAVEL

I drive in under the portico of the Heartbreak Hotel, which is indeed at the end of Lonely Street. I step out of the car and Elvis is blasting from outside speakers. Inside the hotel the lobby is laid out like a 50’s American living room, complete with TV playing black and white Elvis movies on a loop. In my room there is a giant portrait of Elvis over my bed but thankfully no piped music. Later I go down to the bar and there are colour Elvis movies in a loop on the TV. I’d made the booking here on a whim, thinking it might make an amusing story back home. I change hotels the next day and I never did visit Graceland.
For that the Gods of Memphis punish me by killing my phone. In search of a phone repair shop I’ve found in the directory, I overshoot my target and have to do a U-turn. I’ve mastered the driving in one direction part but the Escher-like machinations of this maneuver is a new challenge.
However I complete it safely and pull into a parking spot out the front. A police patrol car pulls in right next to me and an African-American female cop of approximately my own dimensions emerges and tells me that was a very dangerous place to do a U-turn. I look back at the flat road with no restriction signs and light traffic but I’m not about to argue. I apologise, promise to be more careful in future and stupidly tell her I’m not from around here. ‘You don’t say’ she says and gets back in the car and drives off. Only later do I realise that she never even asked to see my licence. I figure she was filling in time until the end of her shift.
I enter the large, busy shop and approach the counter. A young African-American man greets me with ‘You lost, sir?’ I look around the shop and notice I’m the only white guy in there, including all, the staff. I tell him I don’t think so and ask for his advice on whether my phone can be fixed. He looks at it briefly and says he doesn’t think so but calls over his manager for a second opinion. He also greets me with ‘Are you lost, sir?’ and conducts the rest of the conversation with his assistant. It is concluded that I am not lost but there is no hope for the phone. On leaving the shop I notice that all of the pedestrians are African-American and all the nearby stores appear to be run by African-Americans. No, I’m not lost, technically, but I have a definite sense of being in the wrong place and that my early departure would be appreciated. Perhaps that’s what the lady cop was trying to tell me. And I am sad about that.

Banana Kanu, by Andrew Carter

27/2/2021

FOOD

Fishers are highly respected in the Tanigawa community. Their profession requires courage and tenacity to work in constantly changing conditions and the sea can be both a kind, and cruel, employer. It’s an interesting life if you love the dynamics of the ocean and the thrill of the catch. Every day brings something new.

Many myths have been conceived from a fisher’s experience. For instance, if you are a skipper, you should never go to sea on a Friday or you put both yourself, and your crew, in grave danger. And, you should never shake your fists at God when the fish are quiet. History declares that vessels are apt to sink from such foolish errors of judgement.

It’s also common knowledge amongst fishers that taking bananas to sea brings bad luck. It is this same outlandish myth which this story explores where it is proven false by the innocent action of a new recruit.

***

In all his years at sea, Takai had never seen anyone foolish enough to take the yellow-skinned fruit out on a fishing trip, let alone to imbibe in eating it on such an important expedition.
Now, right in front of him, a wet-behind-the-ears greenhorn breaks with tradition before his wrinkled own eyes, in the bow of the kanu. Contrasting the soft expression on his innocent face, the greenhorn’s lips slowly part into the shape of a letter ‘o’ before swallowing the evil yellow fruit.

Takai’s eyes widen. He is about to throttle the smiling greenhorn for this arrogant act. He had warned him about taking bananas to sea, along with other myths like holding your tongue the wrong way, which is also known to bring ill-fortune.

“What are you doing?” Takai spits. “Throw it overboard or you’ll have us killed.”

The new recruit scratches his cheek then rubs his chin in confusion.

“The banana, you idiot. Chuck it overboard.” Takai commands.

The newcomer, frightened by Takai’s tone, gulps down one last bite.

“NOW.” Takai’s face reddens.

The wannabe fisher throws the slippery skin. It slips through his fingers before sliding under Takai’s foot at the stern. Takai steps on the deadly aberration. His eyes gleam with murderous rage and his hands flail as he lands backwards into the ocean with a scream. He treads water for a moment, before swimming back towards the canoe, and the frightened recruit.

Once back onboard, Takai blasts the careless greenie with a deathly spray.

The greenhorn seafarer does something most unusual. He looks straight past the advancing old sea dog. Takai turns and his jaws drop. A wave as large as Mt Fuji looms in the distance. He mouths a potent word with dread.

“Tsunami.”

The two are doomed with the rest of the fleet as the massive, banana-shaped wave rises above them, and swallows them up.

The greenhorn is the only survivor. He dispels the myth swearing he was given the energy to hold fast to the kanu by eating that forbidden, potassium-rich banana.

Who's For Dinner, by Sue Clayton

27/2/2021

FOOD

“Mama, why aren’t you using all the red velvet seats?” I asked, curious as to why a number of white plastic chairs had been placed around the walnut dining table, each positioned next to a plush red velvet one.

Castle Radovsky was famous for its lavish entertaining and I couldn’t understand why Mama would so demean her dining setting for tonight’s guests.

“I don’t want to ruin them, Drusilla.”

Elegant in a black dress, she put the finishing touches to the exquisitely laid table, red hair pulled into a loose bun showing off drop pearl earrings, a present from Papa for her 300th birthday.

Moonlight flooded through the castle’s mullioned windows reflecting off gleaming wine glasses guarding the serviette draped cream plates…more for show than practicality. Pendant lights hung above the table festooned with silver cutlery and candle holders…uncommon for our genus. A green plant thrived in a corner of the room; I wondered why it hadn’t blackened and withered.

Papa, handsome in his tuxedo, escorted Lord and Lady Spyridon over the threshold, five wax-pale daughters in tow—Transylvania’s answer to Pride and Prejudice.

“We smell food.” Nostrils quivering more guests entered having just flown in from New Orleans and Russia.

Papa served cocktails, velvet-smooth liquid that glowed blood-red, until Mama announced dinner was ready to be served.

Glamoured into acceptance of their fate the humans sat on the white plastic chairs chattering to their chosen dinner companions, ignorant of the emergence of drooling fangs.

“Go to your room now, Drusilla,” Mama ordered before the feasting began.

I was too young yet to partake in the Radovsky family’s vamp fest.

The Andrew Siderius Writing Contest (end of week 2)

27/2/2021

Twilight Sky, by Michael Roberts

26/2/2021

FOOD, TRAVEL

Nathan was tucked into the shadow of the pool shed, getting ready to light a joint when Staci, the ‘concierge’ of the motel he was staying in, came around the back of the building.
He was about to put it away when she said, “ Don’t me stop you.”
He lit it and took a toke, hesitated, then handed it to her.
She looked around, then took it and inhaled, paused for a second, took a second toke, then handed it back.
“Thanks,” she said, exhaling.
“Nice night,” Nathan said, looking up at the dark sky.
“Yeah,” Staci agreed.
She pointed up at a bright spot near the moon.
“That’s Venus annnd that is..” Her fingers moved “ Jupiter…”
She looked back at him.
“What?” she said, “ A girl from the sticks can’t know her astronomy?”
“Just impressive, “ Nathan said, “ that’s all. More than I know.”
“So,” Staci said, taking the joint back, “Almost done your sales trip?”
“Almost…How’d you know”
“Only reason most guys come out this way.,” she said, “ What you sell?”
“Kitchen supplies.”
“Industrial?”
“Yeah…Hotels, restaurants, motels like this…”
“My Dad worked in a kitchen.This one actually….Back when they had a restaurant still.”
She looked over at him.
“No offence,” she said, “ But this is kind of the ass end of any territory for sales and I’d of assumed that they’d have given this route to someone a bit….”
“Younger? Newer?” Nathan said, “ Yeah, you’d be right. I just started with this company. Been in sales a while though.”
“What you’d used to sell?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“God,” she said, “ Now I’m intrigued.”
“Encyclopedias.”
“Jesus,” she said, laughing, “Now THERE’S a dead industry.”
“Told you you’d laugh.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, holding a hand over her mouth, “ but you gotta admit…”
“Yeah, like you said…Twenty five years with Colliers and Clark. Salesman of the Year eleven times. Now there’s condos where the offices were. Dead as the Dodos”
“Bummer.”
“Mmm hmmm,” Nathan said, “ even this gig will be gone in a couple years; you’ll be able to order online completely. Msybe I can get a job at Walmart. Be one of those pathetic elderly greeters at the door.”
“I know how you feel,” Staci said, “The old man keeps talking about selling this place. Probably get bought out by Travel Lodge or Motel 8. Doubt THEY’D want to hire some dumb twenty year old with half a high school education.”
“Bummer,” Nathan said.
“Yup.”
They both took another toke, Nathan popped off the ember and handed the roach to Staci.
“If you want some more later.”
She looked at him.
“Bar’s closed but you want something?”
“What you got?”
“Not as much as we used to, obviously, but I can probably find Bourbon or Rum and some coke.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”

Staci poured two long pours of Maker’s Mark into the glasses, then filled them with bar mix cola.
“We need to drink to something,” Nathan said.
“To….to the calm before the storm.”

Breakfast With Aliens, by Miles Beckner

26/2/2021

FOOD

Pounding hooves, panicked whinnies, and the clash of steel horseshoes against stall doors awakened the young boy out of a deep sleep. It was still dark, but dawn was creeping up from the East. He didn’t know why the horses were so agitated, but he could sense an ominous presence in the air.
The boy got up and walked down the hall toward his parents’ room, dressed only in his boxers, socks and a tee shirt. The door was ajar, and he peeked in; they were deep asleep. Not wanting to wake them, he continued through the kitchen to the mud room. There he threw on a pair of overalls that were hanging on a hook, slipped into his muddy boots, and headed out to the barn to investigate.
Once outside the boy noticed a strange glow in the sky. This was odd because dawn had not yet broken. He smelled the air; in it was the scent of ozone, like after a big rainstorm. He ran into the barn, opened all the stalls, and the horses bolted out into the pasture.
There was an eerie silence. Then an orange glow. The sky lit up as a bright orange disk descended from the clouds. Hovering a few hundred feet above him, it was about the size of his school’s football field and emitted a slight hum. He stared at it in awe.
Suddenly, six smaller orange disks shot out from the large object and darted around the pasture and barn. One came within ten feet of him and stopped at eye level. The little one stared at him as if it were a sentient being.
The boy should have been terrified. Instead he was filled with a calm and sense of well-being. Whatever they were, they weren’t hostile.
The little one whisked away and joined the others. They continued to dart around the sky as if playing a game of tag. Then the hum from the large disk changed to a musical tone. All of the little disks congregated, shot up and disappeared into the larger disk. It slowly began to rise, then was gone. Silence.
The horses were calm now, grazing in the pasture. The strange glow gave way to the lightening dawn.The boy smiled, giddy, then turned and headed back to the house.
He kicked off his muddy boots and went into the kitchen; pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard and poured a large bowl. As he was getting milk from the fridge he heard his mother coming down the hall. She was surprised to see him up.
“Honey, what are you doing?”
“Having a bowl of cereal,” he replied.
“I heard the horses. Is everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“What was it?”
“Just UFOs”
“Oh,” she shrugged, “them again?”
She started to put on the coffee.

The Scent of the Pink Teddy Bear, by Padmini Krishnan

25/2/2021

TRAVEL

I spotted the pink teddy bear in the middle of my parents’ old storeroom. My five-year-old stared at the stuffed toy as I dusted it. “Isn’t it pretty? I used to play with it when I was your age.”

She looked at me and turned to the teddy bear, apparently thinking. “Yes, it is beautiful. But, it is no longer pink and smells of the storeroom.”

It did indeed smell of so many things: damp storerooms, the rainy streets of my hometown, Chennai, the sands of Marina Beach, the rickety staircase of the library I frequented, and even the crowded airport in which we landed yesterday.

The streets were even more crowded than I remembered. Autos sped past erratically as usual and responsible family men in two-wheelers drove slowly, obeying each traffic rule. We went to the plaza where we had bought the pink teddy bear more than two decades ago. The salesman looked almost hostile as my mom asked him to show some stainless steel plates stacked in the bottom. It was as if he did not care if he made a sale. I wondered what happened to the smiling, bantering salespeople in the plaza. I leaned over to take a look at the unsold dolls, which were probably stacked there for many months and wondered if any tiny hand would hold them.

Our next stop was a clothing store in which my daughter shook a child mannequin’s hand and tried to talk to him. My mom limped behind her as they played hide and seek. My mom’s energetic countenance decades ago was replaced by the slow pace of old age. However, there were pride, patience, and happiness on her face. Perhaps it was the joy of having relinquished responsibility.

After my companions had gone home, I walked through the narrow lanes towards the old library, taking in the aroma of spicy samosas, cheesy pizzas, and hot ginger tea in a small food stall.

The librarian looked at me, adjusting his glasses. “Yes, ma’am?”

This was the same man who used to call me, “Hey, kid.” I asked him if I could take the stairs to check out the books on the first floor.

“I am sorry, ma’am. We no longer own the place above. It has been taken over by a photo studio.”

Disappointed, I held the handrails to my lost dream world as I looked around at the new buildings, malls, and movie theatres.

I boarded the flight back to my adopted country the following night, holding the pink teddy bear as my daughter looked at me weirdly. She was wrapped in the only blanket I had brought while I shivered in my seat. As the stewardess did not have spare blankets, I hugged my teddy bear for comfort. Despite the cold, I slept a couple of hours. After all, I was enveloped in the warmth of my childhood.

The Healthy Diet, by John M. Carlson

25/2/2021

FOOD

“You have high cholesterol,” Dr. Wilson said. “It’s much higher since I last saw you.”

Oh, great, Joel thought. Although it wasn’t terribly surprising. He was getting older. And there were people with heart disease in his family—although he’d tried to reassure himself that everyone has someone in the family with heart disease.

“I suppose I’ll have to take drugs,” Joel said.

“Not necessarily. I prefer to start with lifestyle changes. Like a healthy, low fat diet.”

“Low fat diet? Don’t you mean a ‘no taste’ diet?”

“I’ve seen patients adapt. If you’d rather, we could put you on statins immediately. Or you could just prepare to die. If it happens after a big steak dinner, I hope you’ll feel the steak was worth—”

“OK! OK! Point taken!” Joel threw his hands up.

Joel went home and gathered up all the unhealthy food, which he gave to a neighbor. (He tried not to cry at the thought of giving away the imported butter he loved.) Then, he went grocery shopping. He needed to. He had almost nothing left to eat once the unhealthy food was gone.

The new diet was a challenge. Particularly the first week or two. He could cook a steak, but had no idea how to cook lentils. He had no idea how he could cook oatmeal so it wasn’t repulsive mush. And he wondered if weird things in the supermarket produce section were actual vegetables to eat, or if they were decorative, like autumn gourds.

But...he slowly got used to it. And he saw benefits. He lost weight. He had more energy. His cholesterol level dropped.

He discovered he enjoyed many healthy foods, like locally grown apples, heirloom tomatoes, and a rustic whole grain bread from a local bakery. (Although he knew he’d love the bread even more if he could slather it with the butter he’d loved so much. But...butter wasn’t worth drugs with possible harsh side effects. It certainly wasn’t worth a heart attack.)

“Your lab results look really good,” Dr. Wilson said a few months later.

“Good! The diet must be working well,” Joel said. “I was so worried when I heard I had high cholesterol!”

“Yes.” Dr. Wilson sighed. “I meant to mention something I realized today. We had a problem a while back with some lab results. It was a mess that should never have happened. Long story short: you got inaccurate test results a while back. You never had high cholesterol.”

“I never had high cholesterol? You mean I didn’t need to go on such a restrictive diet?”

“Yes. Although, of course, I’d urge you to continue eating healthfully most of the time! But I don’t see why you can’t have an occasional ‘cheat.’”

On his way home, Joel couldn’t resist stopping by the store to get some of the butter he’d missed.

But he also got some kale, which—despite his years of making kale jokes—he’d recently discovered he actually liked.

The Greatest Gift, by Sandra James

24/2/2021

FOOD

‘It looks great!’

The man in the Santa t-shirt grins and raises his palm for a high five, then continues. ‘You must be an artist; it looks as good as any table in a posh restaurant. They won’t say much but they’ll appreciate it, and it’ll make them feel special.’

‘Thanks,’ I mumble, flushing as red as his t-shirt. I don’t remember anyone ever telling me I’d done a great job.

‘Wanna help me peel spuds?’ he asks.

I nod and follow him to the kitchen. He hands me a peeler and we sit on opposite sides of a huge hessian sack of brushed potatoes. ‘Cheaper than washed ones,’ he shrugs apologetically.

‘It’s okay,’ I tell him. ‘The dirt’ll wash off.’

We peel in silence, matching grubby potato for grubby potato in our respective piles on the bench. Finally, the last two and I shave my last strip a millisecond ahead of him.

‘You missed a bit,’ he laughs, pretending to inspect my pile before sweeping them into the sink and turning the tap on.

An older woman with jangling bangles almost up to her elbow arrives and he enfolds her in a hug. ‘This is Rose,’ he says. ‘She makes the best gravy… ever!’

Rose laughs and crushes me in a bear hug. ‘Lovely to meet you, sweetie. It’s so good of you to give up your Christmas to help here.’

I open my mouth to speak but the door opens again and three more arrivals are embraced with gusto.

The kitchen is filled with myriad aromas. Turkey, chicken, lamb and pork. Plum puddings bubble on the stove top. I follow one of the later arrivals into the store room and we bring out stacks of mis-matched dinner plates and bowls.

Rose stirs her famous gravy. Red Santa t-shirt begins carving. One man opens the dining room doors and hesitant faces appear, then smile and make their way to seats at the long tables. I add crisp roast potatoes to plates, the man beside me spoons minted peas and we all take tray loads out to grateful recipients.

Last plate delivered, we prepare thick slices of pudding and top them with custard and cream.

To the accompaniment of clinking spoons, someone croons Silent Night. I see tears trickling down weary cheeks and realise my own are damp.

After the last person leaves, Red Santa t-shirt fills the sink with steaming water and the rest of us pick up tea towels.

Finally, we sit at the end of one of the long tables and feast on leftovers. I’ve never tasted anything so good.

‘I didn’t volunteer,’ I blurt, hanging my head. ‘I got community service.’ The whole saga of my dysfunctional life and family tumbles out.

‘Welcome to the club,’ says Red Santa t-shirt. ‘Got mine twenty years ago. Judge gave me the best gift I ever received.’

Rose pulls one of her shiny bangles from her arm and slips it over my hand.

‘Merry Christmas, love.’

Froot Loop Intervention, by Peggy Gerber

24/2/2021

FOOD

Rachel frowned when she saw how long the line was at the the vaccination center, but it moved swiftly and before she knew it she was being shuffled into the waiting room for her fifteen minutes of observation. As she sat down and pulled out her phone, she noticed the woman sitting next to her was shaking and turning green. Rachel tapped her and said, “Hey, are you okay? Do you need help?

Sara answered, “No, I think I am okay, I am pretty sure I am just having one of my panic attacks. This vaccine is just so new and scary, and I keep hearing about people having bad allergic reactions. I’m just feeling anxious right now. My breathing exercises usually help but they’re just not working today.”

Rachel said, “I get it. Would you like to hear how I calm myself down when I am feeling agitated?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well, when I’m home, I make myself a nice soothing cup of green tea and relax on the couch. But when I can’t do that, I pop a few Froot Loops in my mouth. I always carry a small box in my purse. I tell people it is for my grandchildren, but it’s really for myself.”

Sara furrowed her brows, “Froot Loops. Why Froot Loops?”

Rachel chucked, “Well, here’s a fun fact. Studies at the University Bordeaux in France have discovered that when you feed rats Froot Loops it increases the amount of dopamine in their brains as much as if you gave them cocaine. Since dopamine is a feel good chemical, those rats felt pretty darn happy after gobbling down that cereal.” Rachel reached in her purse and pulled out a mini box of Froot Loops and gave it to Sara.

Sara poured a bunch of the little fruity nuggets into her hand and raised her mask to pop them in her mouth. She chewed them carefully and popped in a bunch more. “Yum” she said. “I haven’t had these in years.” When she was done she tried to hand the unused portion back to Rachel.

“No backsies in a pandemic. Please keep them and enjoy.”

Sara looked down at her watch and her eyes opened wide: her fifteen minutes were up. She smiled at Rachel and said, “I don’t know if it was the Froot Loops or your kindness, but I am feeling so much better now. Thank you.”

The two women walked out together and went their separate ways. As Sara climbed into her car, she popped a few more Fruit Loops in her mouth and grinned. This wasn’t so bad after all.

One Good Deed, by Pamela Kennedy

24/2/2021

FOOD

The work week was over and it was time to go home. "Oh, good," thought Lisa Wilson, "two days of respite from this raw, biting frigid weather." Exiting the building, Lisa noticed that the poster across the street seemed a tad out of season. The season of generosity, the end of November through the end of December, had passed. The images of the frail widow, disabled vet, single mom with her children, and the despondent young man had all been replaced around the area by posters displaying different symbols of love - hearts, flowers, jewelry, and candy.

The not-so-short walk to the Port Authority felt even longer in this arctic-style climate. Like lemmings, the tired commuters migrated their way there. The Port Authority was never on anyone's "must-see" list of famous New York tourist attractions, though, at times, it could provide some visual entertainment. But not tonight, for tonight it was more crowded than usual. The shelters were filled to capacity and the homeless needed to be brought inside to any enclosed area from the sub-zero weather.

The lines for the buses were long. At the base of the platform where Lisa caught her bus stood an emaciated woman desperately begging for food. "Please help me, I'm very hungry. Please, please." Almost everyone averted their eyes. "She looks like a warehouse full of infectious diseases," snarled one young man to his friend. "Yeah, and I don't want to catch her cooties...let's keep well away from her," the other fellow responded.

This desperate soul reminded Lisa of the woman in the poster, a victim of poverty. Lisa felt her heart skip a beat with fear and thought, "I could be her someday...I must help her." Getting off the line, Lisa headed toward the general pharmaceutical store. Food, it must be something easy to eat, and no refrigeration required. Into the cart went two vinyl shopping bags, protein bars, granola bars, peanut butter, crackers, trail mix, individual boxes of corn flakes, small boxes of milk, chewy vitamins, water, plus disposable spoons, and knives. As an afterthought, she purchased alcohol wipes, some mouthwash, and a fuzzy blanket.

About an hour had passed and Lisa hoped that the woman was still there...if not, someone else would need these items.

Still standing where she had been before, the woman was now quietly speaking to herself as if saving any energy left in her for another day.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but I think you could use these...at least, I hope you can. It's a small amount of food, enough to get you by for a day or two until the shelters open up again." The woman looked at her in disbelief, but in a very soft voice, she said to Lisa, “When I was hungry, you gave me to eat".

Lisa arrived home to a cold apartment and sat down to a grilled cheese sandwich. That night going to bed, she had a very warm satisfied feeling inside of her.

Number 4 Highslate Drive, by Michael Talledes

24/2/2021

TRAVEL

The suburban cul-de-sac accommodation was a quaint 4-star bed and breakfast. Furnishings were hand-picked from a variety of antique stores in Belfast. A floral botanical rose wallpaper graced the first and second floor with two guest bedrooms painted a soft raindrop white. During my single night stay, the house was horrendously cold and filled with faint echoes of the violin from the first floor. Sneaking a peek down the stairs and into the narrow hallway, I was frightened at the sight of our host appearing to glide to and from the front door, holding a lit candle in front of her stomach. Very disturbing indeed, however, I did not seek to complain about the slight discomforts. Otherwise, Number 4 Highslate Drive offered a cozy English-style feel that was not as common in the few hotels the other tourists were staying in that evening. Mrs. Thorpe, the 73-year-old widow roaming through the night, did not speak the following morning as she prepared an early breakfast. A fresh plate of haggis, fruit, fluffy scrambled eggs and a pot of hot coffee for myself and the American newlyweds—also touring through Northern Ireland.

Breakfast was unfortunately cut short as I received multiple missed calls from our driver, later finding him disoriented at the bottom of the hill near our bus.

“Derek!” The American husband shouted, gaining his attention.

“Ah! Here you are,” Derek waved from the folding door of the bus, “I had been knocking for ten minutes, where did you all come from?”

Confused by his question, I elected to respond, “Where you directed us yesterday—Number 4 Highslate Drive.”

“Mate, my drop-off sheet says Number 14 Highslate Drive.”

Caught in a moment of doubt, we looked at one another, flooded with thoughts that our minds could not find a formidable way of organizing into a single question.

“Here, let’s have a look. I have my drop-off sheet from yesterday, look—oh, oh…”

“What? What is it?” The American wife looked concerned.

“For some reason, the 1 was faded,” said Derek, “How could I have missed this?”

The Americans were eager to ask the questions, which was fine, as I had one very troubling thought in my mind that could not be true.

“How did you manage to get into the house?”

“I have a more pressing question, who the hell did we stay with last night?” The husband asked.

“Nobody, I would hope. The home is, sorry—was owned by a Mrs. Ruth Thorpe. She passed away nearly three weeks ago. The house was also a bed and breakfast. Not too sure what the children are planning to do with it now.”

“Guys…,” I looked at the newlyweds who were ghastly pale and seemed as if they had aged 10 years into their marriage.

“Wait, how old was Mrs. Thorpe?” The husband asked.

“Mid-seventies, I believe. Is everything alright? It looks like the lot of you saw a ghost.”

We did.

Selfies or Not, by Sankar Chatterjee

23/2/2021

TRAVEL

Millennial Brad Smith and girlfriend Amy Nunn with trail-guide Beth Hobo were hiking on a shorter (10km) Inca Trail to arrive at the Machu Picchu ruins. They started early morning hoping to cover the distance in a reasonable time, take a bus to the nearby town for the night, and then return next morning to explore the ruins. But, their habit of taking selfies and posting instantly on social media took over, costing valuable time. In mid-afternoon, Beth informed them that at their current rate of hiking speed, they would miss the last bus to the town. As a result, it would cost them $300 to hail a cab from the town to transport them there.

Wandering llamas and alpacas suddenly realized two human beings were flying forward in supersonic speed, with a third one in toe. The kind bus-driver waited a few extra minutes. Lately this phenomenon had been happening quite often.

This Is No Shangri-la, by Marjan Sierhuis

23/2/2021

TRAVEL

He stops dead in his tracks. Walking for miles and exhausted, he craves something wet to satisfy his thirst. Head down, hands on his knees, he gulps mouthfuls of air. But bile rises from the back of his throat, and like an unwelcome visitor, it produces a sour taste in his mouth.

The blazing sun reigns down on his head and sweat pours off his back by the bucket-load while his tie-dye shirt and bell-bottom jeans cling to his body, like that of a long-forgotten lover.

Groggy and with no sense of direction, Hawke continues to inch forward on the uneven terrain. Not an easy task in platform shoes which still need to be broken- in.

He stumbles and almost loses his balance, then blinks a few times to try and clear his vision. Barren landscape interspersed with stunted vegetation stretches as far as the eye can see.

He mutters and raises his arms in the air. “This doesn’t look like Shangri-la.”

The time-traveler realizes he must have entered the wrong coordinates once again.

“Back to the drawing board,” he says.

The Traveller, by Neha Varadharajan

23/2/2021

TRAVEL

The little woman, a traveler with no aim and no gain, trudged along the weary sands, as a red, flashy car came up to her, almost making her jump in fright.

"No panic, lady," the young man in the car said after rolling down his windows. There was an American flag keychain dangling down the dashboard and pleasant, warm music flowing through the musty speakers.

"Where are you headed to?"

"I'm lost, sir. I'll have to make a phone call to the friend I'm visiting."

"There is a phone booth next to the manure store," the now-apparent farmer said, eyes twinkling. "I was headed there- today is your lucky day. Hop on, I'll take you there."

The woman traveler showed obvious hesitation. After seconds of constant fumbling and thinking, the farmer flashed the most charming smile imaginable.

"Don't worry. I'm just a farmer wanting to help a poor woman traveler who's lost her way. I'm not hurting you."

It did the trick, The woman climbed into the front seat of the car and they went off to the manure store.

It took the farmer six hours to dig several feet of earth to bury his offering.

He patted the ground down in satisfaction. Looking at his field which really needed the manure he provided and much more, he took his crimson-patted shovel and set off to look for more travelers.

The woman traveler was looking for her place in this world, only time would tell if it bore fruit.

Crunch Time, by Bob Ellis

23/2/2021

FOOD, TRAVEL

Any house you want, you can’t afford, and any house you can afford, you don’t want.

That paradox summarized house-hunting on the northern tip of the Big Island of Hawaii. We wanted a house near Hawi, the picturesque little town across the strait from Maui.

Out of desperation, Adele and I purchased a twelve-acre macadamia-nut farm just outside town with an oblique view of the bright blue sea. The property had a dilapidated, yellow A-frame, an overgrown Japanese garden, and a gasoline-powered nut sheller inside a red-painted, corrugated-metal lean-to. The macadamia-nut orchard was encircled by a ramshackle fence composed of rusty sheets of corrugated metal and sections of industrial metal grating. Our plan was that the nut harvest would generate funds toward our huge mortgage.

July to March, nuts dropped day and night. Every day, we would sweep them up and run them through the de-sheller, increasing our selling price from seven dollars a pound to over fifteen.

It had taken us months to get used to the nightly rain of nuts hitting the buildings. “What was that?” Adele whispered around two one morning, bolting upright on our futon.

“I don’t hear anything,” I replied. Outside, the usual plink of nuts, with the far-off susurrus of the sea.

Then, I heard “crunch, crunch, crunch.” Followed by “snuffle, crunch, crunch, snuffle.” I grabbed the flashlight and ran outside.

Underneath the trees was a gigantic pig hoovering up nuts with his snout, his every crunch worth at least ten dollars to the Bank of Hawaii.

I yelled and ran toward him, waving the flashlight. “Shoo, pig, shoo.”

The boar lazily lifted his head, assessed my size and lack of tusks, then returned to vacuuming our crop into his maw. I grabbed a nut rake and ran at him. “Get out.” I whacked his hindquarters as he ambled from under the trees and through the flattened space in the fence.

I repaired the fence the next day but the following night he was back, flattening another section.

The Hawi Postmaster suggested hiring a native Hawaiian as they are the only people legally allowed to kill island pigs. Kai Kapule came out that afternoon with Keahe, a mutt about eighteen inches tall, and a large knife he called his “pig-sticker.”

Kai told us pigs may only be removed in the traditional manner. That night, we waited with Kai and his quiet dog until we heard the snuffling. Suddenly, Keahe gave a solitary bark and ran toward the pig. Kai was close behind, followed by me, with Adele bringing up the rear.

Keahe jumped onto the pig’s back and latched onto a porcine ear. The dog hauled back on the ear, hard, exposing the pig’s throat just in time for Kai to slice it open with his knife.

After all the squealing and thrashing, during which the dog stayed astride, the pig finally settled in the dust.

Only native Hawaiians may cook the wild pigs. Adele and I received an invite to the luau.

The Normal Run of Things, by Cheryl Markosky

22/2/2021

SPORT

Week 1
Gwendolyn has cramp in her calf. She plods behind Kayla’s bubble-gum pink windproof and flashing lime-green trainers. No fear of being lost in the dark then. Gwendolyn wishes Kayla hadn’t chosen Sarah Millican as the running app voice. She prefers someone less Northern.

Week 3
No talk of funding this lockdown, but Kayla believes she can live on her savings. Gwendolyn’s not sure how far that will get her, but the girl’s a grafter. Roger’s proud of Gwendolyn. ‘The better half’s doing Couch to 5k. I do Couch to Couch.’ Actually, he just does Couch, as he can’t be bothered to cross the room.

Week 5
‘Are you okay?’ Kayla asks gasping Gwendolyn. What a 25-year age gap reveals. They agree the first five minutes of the run is the worst. Kayla’s going vegan to lose weight and is making nut roast for tea. Gwendolyn recommends an Ottolenghi courgette and preserved lemon recipe. Sarah Millican suggests a banana and nice cuppa after their jog. They’re thinking more along the lines of Hobnobs.

Week 7
Kayla pushes Gwendolyn to Little Finchington. 3.5k there and back. Gwendolyn, who loathes running, is secretly pleased Kayla’s got them this far. Kayla says she’s not stretching enough. ‘You must stretch or you’ll get an injury,’ Gwendolyn remarks. She doesn’t stretch either and her knee’s starting to twinge. Kayla feels less lonely running with her neighbour. Eddie’s a key worker and is gone all day.

Week 9
‘Thelma and Louise’, Gwendolyn’s nickname for the duo, clock up 6.1 k. Kayla’s chuffed when Gwendolyn says her thighs and buttocks look more toned. ‘We could keep doing this’, declares endorphin-high Kayla. Gwendolyn wishes she could hug Kayla. Kayla decides to buy Gwendolyn tulips from Morrisons. Gwendolyn treats them to takeaway socially-distanced cappuccinos from Staverton’s Tea Rooms.

Mulligan, by Doug Bartlett

22/2/2021

SPORT

John’s twelve year old son, Tommy, was terribly excited. Two weeks ago John had promised Tommy that he would take him golfing. This was Tommy’s first time and John was explaining the rules, terms, principles and etiquette of the game. Tommy was loving every minute of it.

John told his son, “ Now pay close attention. Some of the lessons you learn today at golf can be carried over into life.”

It was a beautiful day. The sun was out with a gentle, cool breeze blowing. You could hear the birds singing over the sound of the waterfall and even see some deer in the distance. They both were enjoying the lush surroundings of the golf course as well as each other’s company.

Upon leaving the thirteenth green John got his driver out of the bag and eed up his golf ball on the fourteenth tee box. He took his stance, addressed the ball and smacked it with all his might. The ball flew off in an unintended trajectory and made a terrific splash as it entered the nearby creek.

John said, “I’ll take a mulligan,” as he placed another ball on the tee and this one landed in the middle of the fairway.

“A mulligan,” Tommy asked, “What is that?”

“It’s like a do-over. The first one doesn’t count, it’s like it never happened.”
After pondering this for several minutes Tommy asked, “Hey Dad, wouldn’t it be great if you could have mulligans in life?”
“Sometimes you can,” his Dad responded, “It’s called forgiveness.”

In Their Shadow, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

22/2/2021

TRAVEL

Wind arrived overnight. Breathing down the barren slopes of Hand Hills, Alberta. Shaking Little Fish Lake Provincial Park, where we camped.

“We’re leaving now!” yelled Trevor. “Breakfast on the road.”

No longer were there Mallards twirling circles on the lake’s surface. Shoreline grasses swayed in a frantic dance. Trevor looked around our site, taking stock of what had to be packed. I gathered the dishes I had placed on the picnic table.

Centuries ago buffalo lived here. Met death through the spears of hunters. Legend tells of their spirits. How they have never left.

“What’s that noise?” I shivered.

“Wind moving objects around,” Trevor answered. He proceeded to remove the pegs anchoring our tent.

I heard it again. In the direction of the lake. Voices. Not wind. Human voices. Of men pulling in fishing nets. Women tending open fires by rows of racks with fish hanging to dry amid rising smoke. Jovial children drawing pictures in the sand with wooden sticks, while dogs slept.

Vivid as the scene from my history textbook, until... A louder voice entered. Near me. Trevor’s.

“Hold it. Don’t let go!” He pointed to the side still anchored. “I’ll get the other side.”

Our tent ballooned to the rhythm of wind gusts. Its fabric flapping uncontrollably.

“I’m losing grip,” I screamed. Fine sand sprayed my face.

The cold numbed our balance. Made footing give way. We could not hang on.

“It’s a goner,” Trevor cried out.

We watched our travel home tumble towards the lake.

“Maybe someone can help us,” I yelled back.

No one seen. We were possibly the last campers left.

The tent twisted as it rolled well ahead of us. A flutter of raindrops had now turned to a steady downpour. I fell.

“You hurt?” Trevor asked, helping me up.

I rose. Shook off pellets of grassy mud from my jacket.

“How lucky is that?” Trevor said, looking ahead. “It stopped.”

The tent rested in a thick clump of rough fescue, preventing it from entering the lake.

“We’re ready to leave,” announced Trevor. He placed the messy runaway into the car.

Our road trip continued towards the town of Drumheller.

The spirits of dinosaurs were waiting.

The Skeptic: A Cautionary Tale, by Eddie Yaroch

21/2/2021

FOOD

I want to believe. I have always wanted to believe. Whether it's UFOs, ghosts or strange creatures of the forest known as cryptids, I am forever fascinated with them. Others, however, are non-believers, scoffers, skeptics.

It was thus, a few weeks ago, that I attended a BBQ and found myself by the grill talking to a skeptic.

ME: I looked up into the night sky and saw this amazing...

SKEPTIC: No you didn't.

ME: The lights! They were...

SKEPTIC: Nope.

ME: Then out of the woods came this...

SKEPTIC: Rare? You like your steak rare?

ME: I can't describe how weird it...

SKEPTIC: Life's weird. You're weird. Medium-rare?

ME: The growling. It...It...

SKEPTIC: The only thing growling is my stomach. Medium-well then?

ME: I'm telling you there are things...

SKEPTIC: ...that are complete and utter bull...

Just then, a bright spotlight shone on him from above, a Bigfoot howled and a Dogman leapt out and dragged him into the woods.

Stunned (and feeling more than a little vindicated), I simply lifted my steak from the grill and exclaimed, "Well done."

<<Previous

Dishing Out the Blues, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

I, the Matcha Ice Cream, by Elisa Kho

The City of Lights, The City of Love, by James A. Tweedie

The Last Train, by Mary Wallace

Literary Prohibition, by Alex Andy Phuong

An Australian In Memphis, by Doug Jacquier

Banana Kanu, by Andrew Carter

Who's For Dinner, by Sue Clayton

The Andrew Siderius Writing Contest (end of week 2)

Twilight Sky, by Michael Roberts

Breakfast With Aliens, by Miles Beckner

The Scent of the Pink Teddy Bear, by Padmini Krishnan

The Healthy Diet, by John M. Carlson

The Greatest Gift, by Sandra James

Froot Loop Intervention, by Peggy Gerber

One Good Deed, by Pamela Kennedy

Number 4 Highslate Drive, by Michael Talledes

Selfies or Not, by Sankar Chatterjee

This Is No Shangri-la, by Marjan Sierhuis

The Traveller, by Neha Varadharajan

Crunch Time, by Bob Ellis

The Normal Run of Things, by Cheryl Markosky

Mulligan, by Doug Bartlett

In Their Shadow, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

The Skeptic: A Cautionary Tale, by Eddie Yaroch

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