Perri’s Prince
by Joyce H. Ackley

“Tea set, food, costumes, linens, flowers.” Perri ticked the items off her checklist. Satisfied everything was in order, she gathered the full skirt of her blue taffeta gown and slid behind the wheel of her minivan. A peek into the rearview mirror confirmed that her tiara rested securely atop her dark curls. Her pink lipstick gleamed. Ready! Off to work she went.

This afternoon, Perri would hostess a tea party for 7-year-old Chloe Cannon and six of her little friends. She had started The Princess and the Tea a year ago, after her divorce. Thrift stores and rummage sale finds provided her initial inventory of dress-up clothing, tea sets and serving pieces, as well as a few modest bridesmaid dresses for her own costumes. Launched on a shoestring budget, her business had taken off, and to her delight, continued to succeed. Last month she hired a part-time assistant, Marge Holley, to help with bookings and records.

At the Cannon home, an adorable little blonde in a party dress answered the door.

“You must be Chloe! I’m Miss Perri. Is your mommy home?”

Chloe danced with excitement. “Daddy! Daddy! She’s here! The princess lady is here!”

A tall, sandy-haired man stepped into the foyer. “Hello. I’m Brett Cannon.”

He flashed a friendly smile and they shook hands. Would Chloe’s mother be at home for her tea party? Perri wondered. She couldn’t recall details. Marge had booked the party.

“Perri Davis. If you’ll just show me where to set up, I’ll go ahead and get started.”

“Of course. May I help bring anything in?”

Perri nodded. “Please. That would be so nice.”

Perri rolled out her suitcase containing jewelry, purses, scarves, and hats for dress-up play. A hamper filled with tea sandwiches, cupcakes, and sweets came next. Brett transported her porcelain tea set and two bags of party goods.

“Thank you.” Perri smiled. “I appreciate the help.”

“You’re welcome. Chloe’s going to love this.”

The girls played dress-up while Perri worked her magic on the tea table. As she put the finishing touches on the centerpiece of daisies and roses, an attractive young woman swept into the room.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Liz Cannon. Everything looks so pretty! And the girls are having a ball!”

“Good! I’m almost ready for them.” Perri set out a plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries and stepped back to make a final inspection.

A few minutes later, the guests settled ‘round the table, and Perri poured caffeine-free peach tea.

“Come on, Daddy!” Chloe patted the chair beside her. "Sit by me."

Brett bowed and sat down. He unfolded his lavender napkin. “Am I supposed to hold out my pinkie finger?”

Perri laughed. “Only when you’re having tea with the Queen.” She admired Brett for being such a good sport. He played right along, requesting “one sugar lump, please,” to a chorus of giggles. Chloe draped a blue paisley scarf around his shoulders. “It’s not pink, Daddy, so it’s okay,” she explained, and he grinned, amused. Brett’s gentle spirit and camaraderie with the children warmed Perri’s heart.

When Brett devoured a tiny sandwich in one bite, Liz shook her head and chuckled. “Chloe and I need to teach you how to take high tea,” she said. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Perri’s throat tightened. She stifled a sigh. Why were all the good men taken?

When the tea ended, seven happy girls received pastel gift bags containing lip gloss, glittery tiaras, little pearl bracelets, and other treasures. Perri cleared the table and began packing her items.

“I’ll load up,” Brett said, “and write your check.”

At her car, he said, “The dress is perfect, but the shoes aren’t right.”

“Excuse me?” She glanced down at her low-heeled white pumps.

“You’re wearing a princess gown,” he said. “But where are the glass slippers?”

Perri blushed. “These are my work shoes. I’m a working woman in princess disguise.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” he said. “Is there a Prince Charming waiting at the castle?”

Perri bristled. “I need to go. You really should get back to your wife and daughter, Mr. Cannon.”

Brett’s dark eyes widened. “No..no,” he stammered. "You don’t understand. Liz is my sister. I’m divorced.” He gazed down at her. “ I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t properly introduced.”

“It was a little confusing.” Perri smiled and added, “You’re both very good with Chloe.”

“I’m grateful to Liz for helping out with Chloe. I’ve got custody. My ex-wife travels quite a bit with her job, and it’s been hard on my little girl. I try to help her cope, like with this party she wanted. By the way, thanks for making it special.”

“My pleasure.”

He took a deep breath. “Well,” he began, “now that we’ve got that straight, I’ll just come right out and ask. Are you available, and if so, would you like to go out for coffee, or maybe lunch, sometime?”

“Yes, and yes,” Perri replied, returning his smile .

“But no little bitty tea cups,” Brett said. “Big coffee mugs.” He measured off a good height. "And no tea sandwiches. Maybe a double cheeseburger?”

“With French fries! Just what a working woman, er, princess would like!” Perri’s eyes matched her twinkling tiara.

-end-

Joyce H. Ackley is a retired school teacher. She lives in central Florida with her three spoiled cats, who graciously allow her to share their home. They encourage her writing endeavors in hopes that she will make enough money to keep them in tuna fish treats and support their catnip habit. Joyce’s work has appeared in Long and Short Reviews, The Dollar Stretcher, Working Writer, The Writer Within, Good Old Days magazine, and The Lakeland Ledger. When not writing, Joyce enjoys spending time with her three wonderful grandchildren.

Low-Fat Whipped Cream is Not Sexy

By: Sherri Collins

 
Jason will be home at seven o’clock, so I quickly make preparations. It has been twenty-two days since we last made love. It was my fault at first, I suppose. I had a drippy and unattractive cold that lingered for over a week, and of course, with his busy schedule, he couldn’t afford to get sick. Then, Rose and Madeline took turns keeping us up most nights, one with a fear of noises in her closet, the other with a chronic ear pain, then a stomach pain, then a mysterious pain that changed locations each time she spoke of it. Then, Jason worked late nearly every evening last week and came home so exhausted, I could barely tempt him with dinner, much less any other savory delights. The weekends have been full of family and household obligations: ball practice, laundry, a visit from his sister, lawn mowing, the usual.
 
Tonight is the night, though. The kids and all their phantoms and phantom ailments are spending the night next door. We are blessed with good health and a normal schedule. Nothing is standing in my way.
 
I am eager to see the shocked but pleased look on his face when he walks into the house, expecting nothing beyond the usual drama created by a household of three females, and instead, finding his wife alone, standing in the kitchen, smiling seductively, her body bare and her most sensual places covered by whipped cream. It will surely call to mind our wilder beginning, back when our passion for one another consumed rational thought, and led us to risky liaisons---in the bathroom of his boss’s house during the company Christmas party, on the side of the road halfway through a long road trip, in the woods next to the park where others were oohing and ahhing at the Fourth of July fireworks. We couldn’t get enough of each other back then, and I want some of that, even a little slice of that, now. I need to see that lust-crazed look in his eyes.
 
I have music playing low in the living room. Lilac-scented candles burn with a relaxed flicker throughout the house. I am standing, naked and exposed, in the kitchen, the whipped cream bottle in my hand. I even chose the low-fat kind, because I know he is watching his weight. I don’t want any pedestrian concerns to pinprick our night of bliss.
 
When I hear his car pull up in the drive, my heart begins to pound, my cheeks flush. With a grin, I give the container one more shake and then point it toward my breasts and press the nozzle. A perfect dollop squirts out, and I quickly repeat on the other breast and the triangle below. Even before I have finished the job, though, I feel the first dollop slowly sliding downward. I check and see that now both dollops, rather than forming a sexy white bikini, are refusing to adhere to my skin. The puffy white cream slips lower, drips on my stomach. I grab a dish towel, glancing fervently at the door. I swipe it across my breasts, remove the liquefying goo, and then quickly squirt two more dollops onto my chest. Now the triangle between my legs has become a deformed abomination of geometry. I use the dish towel to save the shape, ignoring its thinning viscosity. If it will just hold on for ten more goddamned seconds….
 
*********
Jason walks in the door, instantly alerted by the darkened house, the low music, and the scent of candles. His frazzled mood dissipates as he drops his briefcase in the entry hall and, with quizzical anticipation, steps around the corner to the source of whispered cursing. He finds his wife alone, standing in the kitchen, her face a mixture of shame and frustration, her body bare and covered in a mucousy substance. The cat is at her feet, licking up something from the floor.
 
As he stares at her in confusion, she stares back at him, and then he sees her lower lip begin to tremble. He goes to her and takes her in his arms, inexplicable sticky substance and all. Because he loves her. Then he stands back and appraises the woman before him and emits a muttered growl of desire. Because she is still the sexiest damn thing he has ever seen.
 

Author's Personal Information/Bio:
On occasion, Sherri Collins takes a break from her daily routine and spins a tale or two. The results of these diversions can be found in Bartleby Snopes, The Big Jewel, and Flashes in the Dark, among others.

Karma Shmarma

by: Susan Franceschina

The pink sunset mocked me as I rushed towards Winston Café, five hours late for work. It had been one of those days, a day with a flooded basement floor and a dead battery in my Volkswagen. Ella had encouraged me to take the night off, but I knew the café would be busy since a folk singer was performing later.

“It’s about time,” said Ella, her voice dripping with sarcasm as I slipped behind the counter.

I rolled my eyes, fixing an indigo apron over my summer dress. “The universe is against me for some reason.”

She snorted, and then began to steam a canister of skim. “Maybe it’s karma,” she said. “Maybe you did something real bad and this is what you get.”

“Karma shmarma. What time does the singer get here?” I finished her mocha au lait and handed it to a waiting customer.

“One hour,” she replied, relaxing against the counter.

Winston Café slowly filled up, and darkness chased the taunting pink sunset away. Ella’s younger brother arrived to wash dishes in the back. Nearly every table was occupied by the time the folk singer arrived.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s not polite to stare?” Ella asked, coming up behind me.

I blushed and turned around, my heart pounding. “I wasn’t staring!” Truthfully, I hadn’t expected the singer to be so . . . tall and handsome. He had that rugged country look, complete with faded jeans and a cowboy hat. His black guitar case was strapped to his back, and he held a large bag in one hand.

I gave Ella a death glare before heading towards the cowboy, who tipped his hat when I approached.

“Good evening,” I said. “I’m Sara. Welcome to . . . Winston Café.” I felt silly and awkward, lost in his glistening hazel eyes.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Phillip Winters. Where should I set up?”

“Over there,” I said, motioning towards a stool against the back corner. “Performers usually like it there.”

He tipped his hat once more, and I soon found myself behind the counter, discreetly watching the cowboy set up his mike and speakers.

“He ain’t got no weddin’ band,” Ella pointed out.

I arranged a platter of fresh cookies under the display case, ignoring the jabs of my best friend. Far too often, she tried setting me up with guys she met at college in Shepherdstown. I attended college in the south though, near Roanoke, so most of my love interests faded during the summers. My last boyfriend had seemingly dropped off the face of Earth after a vacation to Cancun.

Knowing full well it would only provide Ella with more fodder, I brought Phillip an iced tea. “Let me know if you need anything,” I said, smiling.

The cowboy took the stage and tapped the mike, and the whole café hushed in anticipation. Without even introducing himself, Phillip dove into the first song. I’d expected it to be a cover of some other folk singer’s song, but it seemed to be an original. His voice was like boiled leather and velvet, his soul on display like some kind of sacrifice. I was entranced.

The night continued like a fluid dance I never wanted to end. Phillip sang about love and pain, joy and unusual experiences. Each time he took a sip of my iced tea, I melted. But when his performance ended, my heart broke. It was almost midnight. The café would be closing. Phillip Winters would leave with his guitar. I would return to my flooded basement, praying my Volkswagen didn’t break down along the way.

“Ask him for his number,” Ella urged as he made for the front door, sifting through the dotting customers with small talk.

“Na,” I said, and brought a tub of dirty dishes to Ricky, all the while ignoring Ella’s mutterings that I was crazy.

The customers left. The dishes got washed. The tables got wiped, and the floor got mopped. I urged Ella and Ricky to leave a few minutes before I did, while I finished cleaning the espresso machine. It was 12:45 a.m. when I finally exited the café. The sultry summer air embraced me, and heat lightening flashed in the distance.

I crunched through the gravel lot, appreciating the quiet, save from the stringing of nighttime insects all around. Winston Café was situated along a country road, a twenty minute drive from real civilization, but it was better than waitressing or working in a bar.

“This music puts mine to shame,” a deep voice said, from the darkness, from nowhere.

I shrieked, and felt incredibly silly when Phillips Winters stalked towards me with his guitar strapped on his back. “You scared me!” I said.

“Sorry about that . . . Sara.”

I stood awkwardly next to my Volkswagen, wondering why the cowboy was hanging around. There was an old pickup parked a few feet away. I hadn’t noticed it until my eyes adjusted to the darkness. “It’s okay,” I said. “And, for the record, I prefer your music to the insects.”

He drew closer, and my heart pounded. “Why’s that?”

“Well, the insects are here all summer, the same thing every night.”

He laughed. “I hope you don’t think I’m a stalker, but I heard your friend tell you to ask for my number.”

The insects seemed to string louder. “I . . . I . . .” Had it been daylight, I would’ve probably looked like a bright red blubbering mess.

“So here’s my number,” he finished, winking and placing a piece of paper into my palm.

After a few minutes of nervous chatter, I climbed into my Volkswagen. When the engine didn’t turn over, the outline of a cowboy approaching on foot drew closer in the rear view. And as Phillip drove me home, I found myself examining the nuances of so-called karma.

Author Bio:

Aside from a three month stint in West Virginia, Susan Franceschina has spent her entire life in Western Maryland. She enjoys writing science fiction and fantasy, and occaisonally she writes romance. To learn more about Susan, find her on Facebook, Twitter, or visit her blog.

Author's Web Site: http://www.amazon.com/Susan-Franceschina/e/B0052T8QFU/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Author's Blog: http://writersburn.blogspot.com

Endless Love

By: Larry Strattner

He stands and waits, surrounded by the perfect day. Explosive blues and greens dotted with other colors from flowers or clothing bloom, splash, and undulate before him.

Out of this fantasia, along the path from the buildings across the park, a beautiful young woman appears, walking toward him. She crosses a small arched footbridge over a brook edged with cattails and draws near smiling and slightly out of breath.

“Sorry, I’m a bit late,” she says, “a project I’m working on spilled over a little into my lunch break.”

He is astounded by her. He knows it is only the way he sees her. Some might call it love. They are quite ordinary people, but ever since he first smiled at her on the footbridge and she smiled in return he has been smitten. Who knows why this happens? No matter the reason, he knows it is right.

“I was making some sauce last night. A recipe my mother gave me. Why don’t you come over and we’ll have dinner together?”

His heart leaps. It doesn’t matter what she says, his heart always leaps. He’s read about this kind of thing but always considered it hogwash, this total intoxication, a feeling of weightlessness. She must have made the sauce after he called her last night. He calls every night since he met her three months ago. She laughs at his attentiveness but he can tell she is pleased. She works hard and loves her work. He is grateful for the time he is given. He feels like a silky featherlike floating seed loosed from a fluffy dandelion to sail on the wind without care. He feels foolish, but happy-foolish, not foolish-foolish.

“I’ll be there,” he says.

They both reach out their hands and take each other by the fingers. There is the familiar shock. They made love for the first time a month ago and felt this shock times ten, or twenty. Who knew? It was a first for both. It might have been times one hundred. Like a person pulled off a live wire, when they turned each other loose both collapsed, shivering, laughing, seeing colors. Little more is said between them. Little needs saying.

They hold hands a bit longer and then releasing him she turns and walks back toward work, her hips swaying. He catches his breath. Last night, using a small needle-nose plier, he pried the diamond from the ring Uncle Joe had willed him. He put the clear, blue-tinged stone in a beautiful setting he had found in an antique shop and bent the prongs to hold it. A jeweler could straighten and tighten the prongs later. He was no jeweler but he was a certifiable romantic. He had been debating when to give her the ring.

Tonight felt like the night.

When she faded into the colors from which she had emerged he also turned to go back to work. After finishing up a few files he would go home and prepare. He felt explosive with elation.

The Doctor in his white coat and his visitor in a navy blue suit, walk behind the old man on their way across the intersecting hallways.

The visitor, momentarily startled at the gorgeous scene the old man was looking at on the wall before him, stopped in mid-stride.

The Doctor laughed brusquely. “Kind of shocking up north here in mid-February isn’t it? All our ground-level double doors have scenes painted on them. They look like windows. It makes it less likely our dementia patients will wander out.”

The old man in the bathrobe turns and walks up the hall toward them, a happy and purposeful expression on his face.

“Let’s go,” says the Doctor to his visitor. “We’ll be late for our meeting.”

    


Author's Personal Information/Bio:
Larry Strattner lives in the Redwood Forest of the Northern California Coast. He has written Science Fiction, Noir, Horror and a number of articles for various magazines and several unpublished novels.

Author's Web Site: Familial Ramblers

Love and Baseball
By: H.L. Reber

Rookie year was hard for everyone. Jackson wasn’t trying to be a pussy, but he certainly felt like one. Sure making it to the majors was great, but lonely.

Life as a professional athlete was akin to rock stardom, there’s always someone waiting on the sidelines to warm your bed. Six months in and Jackson was dying for something more than the superficial “friends with benefits” encounter. Though he struggled with his desire for companionship, he knew his career was too young to withstand public scrutiny. The one thing he didn’t figure in the equation was what his heart would choose.

 Winning streak rituals varied from player to player, some didn’t shave for weeks, while others didn’t change their lucky socks; Jackson, however, worked his swing for exactly seventy-seven minutes. The rationale was irrelevant; it’s just what he did.

Regular practice wrapped twenty minutes ago. One by one, his freshly showered teammates filed out.

Stealing a glance, he watched from his peripheral as Kyle and two of his teammates escorted some groupies to the parking lot. Blood rushed to the apex of his thighs at the memory of the team’s most recent road trip. It was an away game where

Jackson shared more than just fast ball pointers with Kyle. The throaty moans and barely discernable words they lustfully exchanged echoed in his mind.

Jackson winced as Kyle pointedly steered one of the blondes by the small of her back right passed him. Kyle shot a dibs wink at Adams and Jones. There was never a shortage of top-heavy tail waiting behind the dugout, which never bothered Jackson until now. Watching Kyle deal his retribution felt like a slap in the face.
Jackson hadn’t realized his stolen glance had become a full-on jaw dropping gawk until Jones waved.

“Jacks, if you’re lookin’ for a real work out…” Jones smiled pointing to the girls. A couple of them giggled trying to wave him off the field.

“Looks like you guys got it covered,” Jackson grumbled. As if on cue, the girls threaded their arms around Jones’ waist.

Most guys would have jumped at the chance to hook-up with one of them. Not Jackson, they weren’t his type. His eyes were fixed on Kyle “cold shouldering” him right out of the park.

Jackson sulked, kicking dirt off the plate. The morning after their night of ecstasy cast a different light on the situation. His mind panicked at the idea of lost endorsements, paparazzi, and tabloids outing him. He thanked Kyle, but told him it was a onetime thing that would never happen again, in an attempt to hide his true intentions. Telling Kyle not to let the door hit’em in the ass on the way out after the intimacy they shared, shamed him.

Hindsight being twenty/twenty, Jackson realized that the best night of his life was quickly followed by his biggest mistake. He immediately regretted his actions. He did want something with Kyle, but had no idea how to right the wrong.

Ultimately, Kyle’s diss only solidified the need for discretion. He needed to remind himself that this is what he asked for, but understanding the motive didn’t make being so pointedly replaced hurt any less.

The field was empty as Jackson dumped balls into the pitching machine. His mind wandered, imagining Kyle’s hand on his back, instead of that blonde’s. Then, leading him into a dark corner where they would discover each other all over again.

The pitching machine shouted keening tones signifying its countdown to fire. Unable to clear his mind of Kyle, muscle memory directed his body into motion.

Swing. Crack. Pop fly.

Swing. Crack. He remembered Kyle’s sweat breathe against his lips.

Swing. Crack. Kyle’s splayed hands sweeping across his bare chest.

Swing. Crack. The way the tendon’s in Kyle’s neck stood out in relief during their fevered moments of passion.

Longing bloomed in his stomach, in an almost painful way.

Swing . pfft, the net caught the ball as Jackson completely missed the pitch. Kyle was exactly what he wanted, but he pushed him away. If he could only take it back.

Given another chance he would’ve done it differently, even welcoming him into his life.

The pitching machine continued to fire as Jackson turned away stretching the bat over his back. Jackson stared at the sky in frustration.

“Hey, you got time to talk?” A familiar voice whispered.

Jackson spun on his heels.

“Kyle?” Jackson’s voice caught. “Yes.” His heart stuttering at the chance for redemption.

About the author:

Heather is a PSU grad, who lives on the east coast with her husband and cat. If she’s not glued to her computer writing, she can be found reading her Kindle.

Outside Cafe Encore

By: Ray O'Brien

Jeff pulled the collar of his coat up, James Dean-like, and smiled at the waitress who brought out the coffee. He reached into a pocket and took out the Dostoevsky, flicked through it, then nonchalantly tossed the dog-eared novel onto the table.

He looked across the street towards the bus stop. She’d be here any minute, probably. He’d noticed her for the last three Saturdays. Each time she arrived at 11am, alone, and took a table near the outdoor heater by the big window. This time he’d speak to her. Definitely.

Thinking about it, Jeff unconsciously cleared his throat. What would he say? Something about how cold it’s been lately? God no, how lame. Maybe casually mention Crime and Punishment, hold it up and say, you read this one? Oh really, your favourite? What, at university? And you studied English Lit too? Wow, what a coincidence. Where did you go? I’m Jeff by the way. And you? Nice to meet you Rachel – lovely name for a pretty girl. Hey Rachel, do you mind if I join you?

Yes, that’s how it would work. Strangers initiate conversations about nineteenth century Russian novelists all the time, don’t they? Jeff smiled and removed the book from the table and placed it on the empty chair next to him. Maybe not.

He glanced across the street again. There she was at the pedestrian crossing: tall, slim, long dark hair. She wore high boots over jeans, a cream-coloured sweater, and an unbuttoned long coat that flapped behind her when she strode across the road.

When she stood on the pavement outside the café and scanned the tables Jeff realised there were none free. He took a quick drink of coffee, looked up, and was mesmerized by a pair of brilliant green eyes that were now directed towards him. This was his moment.

“Hi, would you like to-“

“Oh, are you leaving?” she said. “Thanks.” She wove her way through the other tables and sat down next to him.

“Actually, I-”

He heard her phone ring from inside her bag and she lifted a finger in that just-a-sec way and answered it.

Jeff smiled. Yes, he could do this. Just let her finish the call and take it from there. He reached for his coffee.


The female ability to talk endlessly on the phone sometimes amused Jeff, but not this time. After five minutes she was still talking. At first he’d been determined to wait. Now the doubt crept in. What if she didn’t want to talk and wanted him to leave? What if the person at the other end had already hung up?

With a sigh Jeff got up and placed a couple of coins on the table. He smiled at the girl and she glanced up at him with a puzzled look and gave him a small wave and continued her conversation.

“Okay, see you,” Jeff said.

On the short walk back to his apartment Jeff cursed his bad luck. What if she hadn’t been waiting for him to leave? Was that a look of disappointment on her face as he left? When he got home he kicked the door as he put the key in. “God, I’m an idiot!”

He walked into the lounge, slumped on the sofa and flicked on the TV. It was only when he glanced at the bookshelf next to it that he remembered the book.
 

Author's Personal Information/Bio:
Ray O'Brien grew up in Ireland, has also lived in England, and now resides in Sydney, Australia. When not working as an IT Analyst or playing drums with Sydney rockers The Clue, he dreams of literary success. In the meantime he writes flash, which has appeared in Flashquake and AntipodeanSF. A longer Sci-Fi story will appear in a future edition of Abandoned Towers Magazine.

Safe and Secure
By: Nick Allen

There’s something magical about working nights when the rest of the world is sleeping, although mine’s a strange job were the only real requirement is to stay awake. It’s at a large out-of-town supermarket that has alarms, crash barriers and steel grills. Nevertheless, some one somewhere, deemed it necessary to have two people watch over this impenetrable fortress from when the store closes in the evening until it opens again the next day. And that’s where I come in, well for nine shifts a fortnight anyway. I’ve been doing it since the store opened and am the only ‘original’ left, most of the others having gone on to better things.

It’s not a great job, but it pays the rent, is easy work and allows me to study. I’m doing a correspondence course in biology which I want to teach when I finish, although I’ve quite a way to go.

Tonight I’m on shift with Julie, Jules, who’s my only female colleague and the person I look forward to working with the most – she has a kindness about her you don’t often see. We start the shift as usual with a sweep of the building, checking locks, alarms, potential hidey-hole’s and such like. As usual there’s nothing to worry about and by eleven we’re in the ob’s room, me with the kettle on while Jules checks the CCTV equipment is recording. I’m always amazed that, having this leviathan of a building to ourselves, we stow ourselves away in our tiny office, but we do. It’s our routine. And it’s routine that gets us through the long, bleak, uneventful hours of the night which can sometimes last for ever.

Over the tea we have a catch-up. Jules will ask me about Max my Labrador or how my studies are going or something and I’ll ask her about her mother or any auditions she has in the pipe-line. She went to drama school but hasn’t really managed to get any proper acting since and that’s why she’s ended up on security - she tries to keep her days free for auditions and any jobs that crop up. Tonight she tells me about a job she’s got touring primary schools acting out ‘stranger danger’ scenarios to Year Three’s. It’s minimum wage but she’s pleased.

We kind of know, even without saying, when its time to move to the next phase of the night. Perhaps its body language, perhaps something else, but without any obvious cues I go into my hold-all for my biology stuff while she checks the cameras again and gets out the old scripts she likes to look at. By one-thirty or so, our eyes will hurt and concentration will have gone. Jules signals this but checking the screens and will sometimes breaks the quiet with a comment. Usually someone is using the car park, an overnight trucker, a courting couple or the police having a crafty kip, and she’ll point them out to me. Tonight a woman seems to be practicing parallel parking in a Mini, but making a real hash of it. We have a laugh at her expense then Jules fishes out a battered old Scrabble board from our locker.

What I should say is that these evenings with Jules are special. She’s easy company and we laugh a lot together and unlike my others, she’s both interesting and interested. I could tell her anything, share any problem, and be sure it would go no further, be sure she’d never laugh. In years to come, I’ve no doubt that Jules will be gracing the red carpets at film premiers and I’ll be settled in a comfortable teaching post, but I think I’ll always treasure the memories of our long nights together.

Her next word, worth thirty points, has me scurrying for the dictionary but it’s in. I’ve won more games, but she’s a clever girl and is snapping at my heals. While I’m pondering a rack of five vowels and a Q she puts the kettle on and produces a huge blueberry muffin. She puts my drink next to me, asks what I’ve brought. I produce a Snickers from my pocket. She laughs and insists I have a bite of her muffin, holding it to my mouth. She offers the side she’s already eaten from. I bite and crumbs cascade everywhere and she laughs, gently punching my shoulder at the same time. She’s been doing that a lot recently, touching me, the odd ruffle of my hair, or a pat on the hand if I’m moaning about things. It makes me wonder if I should reciprocate. I never have and I’m fairly sure I never will, because I know that, despite my hopes, it could be just friendly way and I don’t want to spoil what we have.

‘Come on silly’, she says as I dawdle, ‘what have you got?’ ‘Bugger all!’ is my morose reply. ‘Let’s have a look,’ she says and moves to my side of the board. We sometimes do this when we get stuck and she starts shuffling my tiles around. As she does so, her leg presses against mine. I feel it and know that she can too. She needn’t have it there but doesn’t move and neither do I.

My mind races and all I can think is what it would do to our friendship if I was wrong. I know things would change for ever. But she still has her leg against mine and I’m so sure I know what it means but I feel uncomfortable and don’t know what to do. Then I see a seven letter word that I can put down. ‘Sequoia,’ I say, with relief, ‘a bloody big tree!’
‘Clever clogs’, she says giving me a congratulatory kiss on the cheek before returning to her chair. She’s never done that before, and I know I should be brave and say something, but I don’t. Some things are too precious to risk.

Perhaps tomorrow night.

Author's Personal Information/Bio:
Nick is a Nurse from England. He has been writing flash fiction since 2007. In his spare time he enjoys walking, photography, travel and the theatre.

 Author's Blog: www.thetinybadger.com

Acceptable Suitors
By: Georgina Kamsika

The faint sound of battle was dying away behind us as we approached the safety of Redfern village. Women and children struggled up the hill behind my horse as our single guard scouted ahead to the valley below.

“Heading straight to the chapel, milady?”  Polly asked from my right.  Covered in mud from our midnight flight, no-one would have recognised her as a noble lady’s maid. Or me as a noble lady, for that matter.

“My father told me that Lord Bannon has created a refuge here.  We need to get these people to shelter before it rains again, some are sick,” I replied.

Polly pressed her lips together in worry and hurried to keep up with me.

The village we entered was devastated – buildings damaged, fences burning and blood, everywhere, blood. An old man greeted us, waving his hands at the crowd following me.

“Polly, could you work with him please? Help get everyone settled. I'll go inside and meet this Bannon fellow.”

Polly nodded, taking our scant medical supplies with her.

I pushed open the chapel doors and peered into the gloom.  At the far end of the stone room stood a tall, handsome man trying to organise the chaos. As I watched, I was impressed at how he spoke to the people, his kindness in helping frightened children, his patience with a frail old lady. Eventually he turned to me, surprise on his face at my obviously expensive and yet filthy clothing.

“Good day, my lady.  My name is Bannon, Lord of Redferns.”  He bowed his head, blue eyes never leaving my face.

Blushing at his scrutiny, I raised my chin and responded.  “Greetings Sir, I am Lady Moira Stewart of Highbury.”

Lord Bannon relaxed, letting out a breath I hadn't realised he was holding. “My lady, I am so relieved to hear that you are well. We’d heard rumours of the fighting reaching Eastern Highbury, but had no idea if you’d managed to hold.”

“My family are winning against the invaders, thank you, sir, but I offered to evacuate the women and children for safety.”

“That is good news indeed.  And it is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Stewart. Your father kept you from us at court.”

I curtsied, hiding my flushed cheeks.  “The pleasure is mine, sir.  My family did indeed wish me to attend court, but, ah, it was not meant to be.”

I thought back on my mother's disapproval of my treatment of the suitors she had chosen. Lord Tucker, no chin. Sir Watson, blessed with over five of them.

I tried to turn the conversation from myself. “Your man outside led me to believe that you could provide us with food and shelter?”

Lord Bannon placed his large hand over mine, smiling.  “Of course, you are all welcome here.”

He indicated that I follow him with a smile and an outstretched hand. I fell into step, my arm cradled against his, warmth seeping through his tunic into my frozen bones.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, where are my manners?  You must have been on the road for some time.  Would you like to freshen up? Some food perhaps?”

My traitorous stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and Bannon laughed.  “Come, it appears I have some work to do.  I would appreciate your help.”

On the way to the kitchens, he called out to a servant, asking him to heat some water and I was selfish enough not to turn down the thought of a steaming bath.

Bannon shocked me as he started to prepare the food himself – normally a man of his status would never do anything as demeaning as kitchen-work.

We sliced vegetables to fill an enormous stew pot whilst discussing strategies for defending against the invaders. As he spoke, his care and concern over his people warmed my heart, making me realise that this was exactly the kind of man my father would have chosen for me, not the snivelling toadies my mother favoured.

“Such domestic bliss, my lady, who’d have thought it from Lord Stewart’s youngest and wildest,” a familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Polly!  Really!”  I stammered.  “We were simply preparing food.”

I was flattered to note that Lord Bannon was blushing as much as I was, but Polly’s grin widened.

“So sorry, milady,” she smirked, clearly not sorry at all. “Just wanted to let you know everyone was settled and Mrs Godstone’s sick baby was naught more than colic, like I said.”

“Thank you Polly, that is good to hear.”

“Do you have a moment spare?”  Her eyes flicked to the man beside me.  “The healer could do with your advice.”

“Of course.” I laid down the knife and curtsied to Lord Bannon.  “Please excuse me, sir.  It seems my skills, such as they are, are needed elsewhere.”

“Do not forget, my lady.  I promised you a hot bath, and I shall insist that you have it.” Bannon pressed a kiss to my hand in farewell.

I felt Polly’s stare and wondered how innocent that promise, followed by a kiss, sounded to her.  I raced into the shadowy hallway, Polly only a step or two behind.

“Polly, I need you to send a message urgently,” I whispered.  “Remember my father asked me to stay here and tend to the wounded, but I insisted I was going to return to help at home?”

“Yes, milady, he said you were quite mad.”  She rolled her eyes at me, making it clear she agreed with him.

Ignoring her cheek, I continued.  “Well, please send a message that I intend to listen to his advice and stay here at Redferns.”

“Could never guess why,” Polly giggled, looking back at the brightly lit kitchen doorway.  “Lord Handsome in there, perchance?”

“Just send the message,” I laughed, swiping at her skirts as she skipped off.  I turned back to the kitchen, patting my muddy hair.  “I shall be pleased to provide support to our people and Lord Bannon however I can.”

CAN  YOU  HEAR  ME  NOW?

By: Rekha Ambardar

“Mom, do you mind if Rodney borrowed Dad’s fishing gear?” Audrey’s voice came over the phone.

“Rodney? The guy you clean house for?” Hilary said cautiously.

“Yes. He works from home and he wants to take a break and go fishing,” her daughter explained.

Hilary’s husband, Jim, had passed away two years ago, and the equipment had been stored away. She thought it might as well be used. “When do you want to pick it up?”

“I can’t. I have another cleaning job at five. Can you drop it off if I give you the address?” Audrey sounded hurried.

Hilary glanced at the clock in the kitchen. Four-thirty. “Okay. What’s the address?” She wrote down the information. “I have to be near the phone to take orders. But I need get something from the supermarket, too. I’ll make the stop then.” Hilary worked for an online shopping channel.

Hilary found the fishing gear in the cupboard in the basement and then got into her car, the address in her hand.

She spotted the house. It was a low, ranch-style one with a small yard. She parked, got out and rang the doorbell.

The door opened and a man said. “Hello. Can I help you?” He was about her age, tall and muscled.

“Hi, I’m Audrey’s mother, Hilary Niles. She asked if I could drop off the fishing gear at your place.”

A broad smile lit up his face and she noticed that he was handsome. “Come on in. I’m Rodney Durocher.”

She walked into a living room with brown leather armchairs and a comfortable-looking sofa set.  She held out the fishing gear.

“It was nice of Audrey to offer to loan me this. I had just mentioned I wanted to take a day off from sitting at the computer and go fishing.” He picked up the scattered newspapers on the coffee table. “Please, won’t you sit down? Do you have time for a glass of iced tea?”

Hilary hesitated. “I’m chained to the computer and phone. I got out to do some grocery shopping…”

“Then you need a break, too,” he said with a disarming smile, which she couldn’t resist. She stared at him for a moment, then dropped her gaze.

“Well, maybe for a few minutes. And I’d like that iced tea.” She took a seat on the sofa.

Rodney produced two tall glasses, handed her one and then sat on the armchair.

“This is a treat for me. I usually work straight through the day without a break.”

“What do you do?” Hilary took a sip of her drink. It refreshed her. The welcome break from being on the phone and on the computer was good for her, too.

“I do web design for companies, and it’s easy to closet yourself and not see a soul,” he said. “It’s a good thing that Audrey comes to clean. But then I don’t see her either. I’m usually in the den working.”

Hilary thought about her job, talking to customers all day long from home. It was something that gave her extra money while she painted landscapes for special clients. “My job is like yours, except I take phone orders for the shopping channel.”

“Do you mind it?”

“Actually, no. It’s a change from painting, and it gets me talking to people.”

“You’re an artist?” he said, sounding amazed.

Hilary nodded with a grin. “I love to paint.”  She glanced at the painting of a lighthouse on the wall. “That’s a lovely painting.”

“My daughter did that,” Rodney said. “She’s married and gone now. That was a little after my wife died, three years ago.”

“My husband, Jim, passed away two years ago,” Hilary said, noting that they had a lot in common.

“You have a lovely, caring daughter. She talks about you a lot,” Rodney said.

“So who’s the artist in the family besides your daughter?”

“My wife was a great gardener,” Rodney replied. “I did water colors, until I got bitten by the computer bug.” He made a wry face and she laughed.

“I have to get going. Thanks for the iced tea,” Hilary said.

“Wait. Since we have so much in common, do you like fishing, too?” he said, looking hopeful.

“Not fishing, but I do like fish.” Hilary chuckled.

“How about going fishing one day next week?”

“I’d like that,” Hilary said. “I know a coworker I could give my phone hours to.”  

 She had Audrey to thank for bringing Rodney into her life. She’d have to invite Audrey over for dinner even if they didn’t catch a single fish.
 

About the author: Rekha Ambardar has published over ninety short genre and literary stories and articles in both print and electronic magazines. She is also the author of two contemporary romance novels and is currently working on a third.
Visit Rekha's Web site at http://rekha.mmebj.com.
HIS HARBOR GIRL available from Amazon.com.
MAID TO ORDER available from Amazon.com, www.echelonpress.com, and
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Satisfied

by: Love Tucker

Reluctantly walking back into the darkened lobby of the building, Georgia sighed as she wanted a continuation of the day.  After pressing the button, she looked up and admired her boyfriend, Robert. She could still feel the surge of sex running through her.  She dreaded taking the elevator up to her office. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the next eight hours sitting at her cubicle; answering calls from horny men that couldn’t get a real date. Grabbing a hold of his arm, she pressed her breast into his immense bicep.

Robert’s lips grazed her forehead and a fever flushed through her. Glancing at the elevator index along the top of the elevator she didn’t see one coming soon. She was quickly losing the fight against calling out of work and going back to the hotel with Robert. They ‘d had a splendid day of play after fueling up at a diner nearby. The hot tub, the shower, the bed, even the balcony to satisfy her voyeuristic tendencies. Now the lobby’s stillness seemed to invite more tawdry behavior.

Georgia noticed the dark shadows, to the left of the elevators. She was a little apprehensive, but nothing bad can happen when you have a six-six hulk nearby that bench pressed four hundred pounds daily. A staircase beckoned, and Georgia smiled mischievously. Her thought was a quickie draped on the carpeted steps.

“Robert!” She waved him over, he smiled and shook his head even though he promptly obeyed.

“What?” he looked up the staircase as Georgia tip toed up a few steps, “Here?”

“Yes!!!!” She went up a little further and saw that they had made their way up to the second floor.

Georgia looked down the long hallway and saw a bank of closed  doors which faced each other.  Normal business hours had long since ended that day. They were the only occupants on the floor. Directly ahead of her was an open door. Hearing Robert whispering her name from behind, she continued to creep forward. Georgia turned the light on seeing that it was an adequately sized bathroom. A perfect spot to close the door and have one last tryst before going off to work. Gleefully, she waved Robert in.

Wasting no time Georgia got undressed, and waited while Robert simply lowered his pants. She grabbed onto the bar over the  booth door. Pulling herself up, and lowering herself down onto Robert. This was the best part of the day! He held his balance as she rocked back and forth on him. Legs getting weaker with the intensity of her swings; Robert braced himself with a hand on the tile. Holding her up with his other hand, he leaned forward giving her all that she needed.

They laughed as they stepped back a few steps, still attached ; lowering to the lidded bowl. Her body rolled into a sensuous wave in his lap. His hands roving her back, and waist. His tongue began trailing the beads of sweat sliding along her neck. Growing more frantic in her ride as his tongue explored lower. His arms holding her into an arched position, so that he could suckle on her breasts one at a time.  Georgia lifted her legs, and braced them against the wall , and grabbed his neck. After a few minutes in that position Robert stood, holding Georgia in the air. He began  thrusting , holding her securely; demonstrating his power to her.

Precariously opening the booth door, Georgia was placed on the edge of the sink. Leaning forward they laughed, as they found themselves in a more relaxed position. Georgia’s  legs again found footing on the wall and she began pushing back onto him. Knocking  lotion onto the floor, they switched  again.

Georgia turned and bent over  the sink. Robert securely behind , entering her for the final time. They climaxed quickly after a few minutes of heavy powerful thrusts knocking everything else onto the tiled floor. Glad that they were in a bathroom, she quickly threw water on herself, delighted that the soap was scented nicely. But even that and the lotion could not hide the lingering scent of sex on her.

Two hours and ten minutes late Georgia finally was at her office. As she stood punching in her time card her supervisor, strolled over and was about to question her. But, the perfumes of her performance accosted him instead. He promptly shut his mouth into a grin and shook his head softly. Georgia simply smiled, and winked at him before walking away. That much more satisfied.        

Love Tucker will be releasing her debut novel  'My, Myself, and I don't know'  later this year. Love is currently featuring articles at www.ProduceHersInk.com , as well as performing spoken work in her native New York City. Love  may be reached via Facebook as Love Tucker, and Twitter at @poetrysmotion.