A World of Possibility

by ASMSG Authors

A WORLD OF POSSIBILITY

  A COLLECTION OF

  SHORT STORIES

  by

  ASMSG Authors

  Visit ASMSG

  (Authors’ Social Media Support Group)

  At:

  www.asmsg.weebly.com

  Cover Art by Kyra Dune

  Visit Kyra’s Cover Design Site at:

  https://shadowportalproductions.weebly.com/premade-cover-art.html

  This anthology is a collection of fiction short stories. All works herein are included by the express permission of each author. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

  Copyright © 2013 by: ASMSG Collections

  Written by: ASMSG Authors

  Produced by: Christopher Shields, Co-Administrator, ASMSG

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of the publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Authors except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Contact ASMSG at www.asmsg.weebly.com

  Cover Art © 2013 by ASMSG

  Cover Art by Kyra Dune

  Editors: ASMSG Authors

  Table of Contents:

  THE JUMPER, by Alan Hardy

  LEAVING SARAH, by Annmarie Miles

  THE BALANCE, by Bob Atkinson

  THE GUN, by Brian Y. Rogers

  MOONCUSSERS, by Carol Carroll

  GHOST INN, by Cynthia Collins

  VACATION INTERRUPTED, by Debra Parmley

  THE PAINTING, by Diane Adams Taylor

  ONCE MORE BACK, by Gay Ingram

  LALA SALAAMA, by Iain Parke

  CUFFED, by James J. Murray

  UNDERGROUND, by Kenneth Puddicombe

  THE FAMILY TRADITION, by Kirstin Pulioff

  FLASHBACK, by Linda Covella

  THE WAYWARD PARCEL, by Mary Meddlemore

  THE BOX, by Michelle Browne

  LEGACY, by Mike O’Donnell

  BABY, by Olga Núñez Miret

  REVENGE, by Peter Watson Jenkins

  THE SEA TURTLE, by PJ Perryman

  A DATE TO DIE FOR, by Rosary McQuestion

  A STEP IN TIME, by Susan Hawthorne

  A COTTAGE AT MANITOU CROSSING, by Tannis Laidlaw

  LITTLE BOY BLUE, by Tina Traverse

  RUTH, by Tom Ryan

  THE UNEDITED INTERVIEW WITH BRENFORD STEVENS, by Yelle Hughes

  THE JUMPER

  by Alan Hardy

  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6549307.Alan_Hardy/blog

  Amelda was roused from her slumber by John's loud closing of the door. And the irritating sound of his steps. And his exasperating little cough, his effeminate clearing of his throat.

  She had been having a lie-down on the sofa, with her long brown coat pulled up over her, while John had been outside, sweeping up the leaves.

  He was now wearing his dark-blue jumper, the one with light-blue-and-red diamond shapes on the front. The jumper he had said he had thrown away. Two years ago.

  She didn't say anything. Kept on lying there, eyes open. She and John ignored each other. He soon left the room again.

  When he came back, he was no longer wearing the jumper.

  So, two years ago, when he had said he was going to throw it away, he had lied. He had put it somewhere secret, in the shed or attic or basement. Every now and then, when he did the gardening, or some other job, he would put it on. He had come into the room with it still on and, realizing his mistake, and hoping she hadn't noticed, had slipped out again and taken it off.

  But she didn't say anything about it.

  She and John never really spoke much now, even though, with the children grown up and off to uni, they were nearly always together. Latterly John had started working a lot from home. They'd even got into the habit of going out together on quite menial tasks like buying the chops and accompanying veg, just for the sake of getting out of the house.

  One day he said he was going out to mend the fence. She nodded as she lay on the sofa. When he was out of the room, she got up and positioned herself by the corner of the window so she could look out without being easily observed. She eventually caught a glimpse of him over at the far end of the garden, wearing the dark-blue jumper. She went back to the sofa to lie down. She kept her ears open.

  When she heard him making his usual sounds, slamming doors and smashing into furniture, and always that ridiculous irritating little cough, like someone trying politely to gain someone else's attention, she sprang up, rushed to the door and carefully opened it. She heard sounds coming from the steps leading down to the cellar at the other end of the corridor; she glimpsed something navy wending its way down them. She tip-toed along the corridor and down the steps and looked into the cellar. She could see the door of the little white cupboard that stood by the far wall was ajar. John, who was fiddling with something in the cupboard, was obscured by its open door, except for his booted feet and the very top of his greying hair. She could see a key inserted in the lock of that door.

  So, that was where the stupid man kept the jumper. She crept back up the steps and along the corridor into the living-room again. She looked carefully into the little white dish by the television which held the household keys. She memorized them all, even the couple she didn't recognize, probably old keys for no-longer-existing doors or changed locks that her poor hubby couldn't bear to discard.

  After John had returned, fiddled about, and then left the room, she wandered over to the little dish. There were two more keys there, one which she recognized as the cellar-door key, and a small one which, obviously, would open the white cupboard.

  When John said the next day that it was time to go shopping, Amelda complained of a headache and told him to go alone.

  "Anything troubling you, my dear?" he asked.

  "No. Why do you ask?"

  "You look a bit excited, breathless. Have you tried your temperature?"

  "It's just a headache. I'll survive. And don't buy that tinned veg any more. Get the real stuff."

  He took ages to get ready. Putting on his jacket, combing his thinning, lifeless-looking hair, going twice to the loo to squeeze out every last drop of pee, and have a fart or two, rummaging around looking for the car-keys before finally finding them. In the dish, where he always put them.

  "Can't you hurry up?" she blurted out.

  "What's the matter with you?"

  "Bye-bye."

  "Stupid cow," she heard him muttering as he moved off.

  As soon as she heard the car spluttering into life, she picked out the two keys from the white dish, and held them to her chest, standing quite still. She felt tense. She ran down to the cellar. She knew she wouldn't have long. He would be back in a quarter of an hour.

  It took her ages to unlock the cellar-door and, once inside, in the stuffy atmosphere, she found it difficult to breathe. She was excited, but a little scared, as if she might find something disgraceful. A body or two. The unknown. Secrets.

  She opened the cupboard easily. There was a whiff of musty maleness. A hot male breath that hit her body. On the shelves there were electrical bits and pieces. Plumbing bits and pieces. The detritus of one man's refusal ever to discard anything. Probably all broken or not working. She saw the jumper rumpled-up on a shelf. She pulled it out nervously, and something heavier came with it. She gave a start. It was an old, thick belt. Curling like a snake. She saw something else further back on the shelf. She touched it tentatively.
The fabric was thick and rough. It was an old pair of John's jeans which, like the belt, he had taken to the dump a year or two ago. Or, rather, said he had. She looked at all the shelves; the only other thing she found was an old white shirt which years ago had been John's best shirt. She had always liked him in it.

  She fingered it tenderly, brought it close up to her and smelt it. She ruffled her face in it. She felt scared. She quickly put everything back, and locked the cupboard. She rushed out, closed the cellar-door and, by the time she got back to the living-room, realized she hadn't needed to panic. John didn't come back for another ten minutes.

  That was John for you, she thought. He never wanted to discard anything. He grew attached to possessions, even old clothes. Even though he had special clothes for his gardening or DIY jobs, he had kept those old rags to put on in secret. He was a waste of space. He probably believed the jumper and belt and the rest were sentient beings who didn't want to be thrown on the rubbish-heap just yet. It was an act of charity. Even love. There was something womanish about the man. Like his nervous cough. He wouldn't even throw away theatre-ticket-stubs. Just like a giddy girl. But she didn't say anything when he came back.

  In fact she couldn't wait to return to the cellar. Her opportunity came when he had to go into the office one morning. She opened up the cellar-door easily this time, and hesitated for a moment before turning the key in the lock of the white cupboard. She tongued her palate and twisted on her legs like a little girl. That male smell made her feel dizzy again. She arranged all of John's bits and pieces into one heap on one shelf.

  She fingered them, their differing texture, as if she were in a clothes-shop. One by one, she took them out to smell them. Then, without having really thought of it before, she started to take off her clothes. Her hands and fingers trembled and fumbled, little gasps coming from her lips as they touched haphazardly, in her nervous undressing, parts of her flesh. She flung her clothes in the cupboard. She took out the jumper and ran it across her breasts, midriff and thighs. She did the same with the smooth white shirt, and then the rougher jeans, fingering their dry itchiness. She tried putting on the shirt, but quickly took it off. That didn't do her anything. She put the belt around her waist, squeezing it tight; she then did the same around her hips. She tied the jumper around her waist and caressed her body, becoming more and more, ever so gently, excited.

  She fondled her fanny with the rough jeans and pressed her flesh with her other hand everywhere she could reach, squeezing the fat skin of her stomach and caressing the skin of her thighs. She moved the jumper to her fanny and pressed it close, working her hand around; she held the white shirt to her face and mouthed kisses as it delicately smothered her.

  When she had finished, she hastily put everything back and got dressed, giggling in between her laboured breathing. She couldn't remember the last time she had had an orgasm which had been in any way related to John. She felt mischievous, naughty, and satisfied. Fulfilled.

  It was still a few hours before John came back with his silly clearing of his throat and sense of self-importance as he stood there speaking of his day at the office as if it had been a day out hunting gigantic blood-curdling carnivores.

  "What about you, dear?" he asked. "Have you had a good day?"

  Now he wanted to make conversation. He thought he was the adventurer returned. She had a funny feeling the silly twat would be getting frisky tonight. She didn't answer him.

  As he stood there Amelda could see he had literally no arse. She could remember his pert little bum of years ago, but now it was so sunken in as to be a negative-bum, some sort of black hole, a minus-entity. She doubted he had one at all.

  That night, as she lay in bed on her side, turned away from her big lump of a hubby, smiling as she thought of her next visit to the cellar pencilled in for tomorrow, as John had told her he had to go to the office again, he did suddenly start making irritating little jabs on her bum with his willie.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  "Amelda, darling, I was just wondering--"

  "Don't be ridiculous. Please turn the other way, and keep your thingy to yourself."

  "But, Amelda, we don't do anything any more. How's a chap--"

  "Good night."

  The next day she didn't overdress. She did, though, put on the little kinky red knickers that she hadn't worn for years, a leftover from the time when she was youthful and sexy, and that she couldn't bear to throw away, even though they were a bit past it, with one or two tiny holes in the crotch-area. Slipping them on, working them along her thighs, had made her shiver, as if she had an itch in the small of her back.

  She got undressed in the cellar again, putting her clothes on a shelf. She wrapped each of John's garments around herself in turn, and caressed her body with them, slowly, sensuously. She tied the dark blue jumper around her waist and toyed with the belt around her crotch, even slightly jabbing herself with its buckle. She covered her face with the clinging softness of the white shirt. Penetrating through her gasps of excitement, she heard doors closing and a series of little coughs. She came out of her dream, stood stock still, distinctly heard the noises again, and frantically flung away John's bits and pieces, grabbing her own and feverishly, all fingers and thumbs, putting on her tee-shirt and jeans. She could hear his steps and effeminate grunts coming down to the cellar. She ruffled her hair, wiped her face with her hand, and tried to assume a normal expression. She probably looked hot and sweaty. She was breathing too heavily. She turned to face the door.

  "Hullo, Amelda. What's up?"

  He stood framed in the door. Her natural contempt for the great stupid lump took over.

  "And what are you doing back here? I thought you were spending the morning in the office."

  "I forgot some papers," he blurted out. "What's up?"

  He came towards her. She felt guilt written all over her face. Could he guess what she had been up to? Could he see it in her face, her awry clothes? He looked beyond her at, and into, the cupboard. A look of uncertainty came over him.

  "And what have you been up to?" she asked roughly. "All these old clothes in here. Why have you been hoarding them?"

  "What do you mean?" he said uselessly, like a guilty child. "Anyway, why have you taken your slippers off?"

  Amelda looked down at her slippers lying by her bare feet, where she had discarded them. She ignored his question.

  "I saw you wearing your old jumper. I knew you were keeping it somewhere secret. And I've found out where. And all the rest of these things. You're such an idiot. Why did you make out you'd thrown them all away? Why are you hoarding them?"

  "It...it just seems a waste to chuck them out...I use them for gardening and such..."

  He looked sheepish, blushing childishly. He shifted his feet.

  "You are a pain, John. You've got special working clothes. You don't need these. I'll get rid of them."

  "Do you have to? It's nice to hang on to things...they're not so old-looking...it's like a memory, you know...like, keeping things as they were...time passes so quickly..."

  "You are such an arsehole, John."

  She turned round, sweeping up his clothes off the shelf into her arms. She closed and locked the cupboard-door. She tentatively, hesitatingly extended the key towards John. After all, it wasn't hers. He took it. He looked churlish. And embarrassed. Found out. And put in his place. Again. She slid her slippers on. She walked out of the cellar, leaving John there.

  Once he had gone off with his papers, she hid his clothes in her wardrobe, way back in its recesses where John would never find them. She had no intention of taking them to the dump. She would pretend one day that she had done it, or was about to. She would keep them for herself. For her own pleasure.

  She had been wandering happily around the house for a few minutes, revelling in how she had turned the tables on the silly man, when it dawned on her that she hadn't slipped her old red knickers back on. She rushed over to the little white dish. For a momen
t she couldn't find the key for the white cupboard. She thought he had hidden it somewhere. Then she saw it.

  Down in the cellar she opened the door of the little white cupboard. She looked on each shelf and in the bottom of the cupboard. Her red knickers were not there. She frantically looked around the cellar floor. No sign of them. Then she ran off to her own wardrobe, assuming they had been swept up in John's clothes as she grabbed them. But, to her intense disappointment, they weren't there either. She looked all around the house, every bit of floor-space, but they had not been dropped anywhere. She went back to the cellar and white cupboard. Back to her wardrobe. Nothing. There was only one possible answer. John had them. He had opened the cupboard when she had left him there. To see what she had done with his possessions, not just the clothes, but the electrical and plumbing bits and bobs he hoarded there. He had found the old red knickers she had inadvertently left there in her panic. They were probably now in his brief-case. She should never have given him back the key there and then in the cellar.

  Why hadn't he said something? He was no doubt waiting until he returned for lunch. He probably suspected she had been up to something sexual, he had seen that on her face, her general disarray. The knickers would have proved it. Maybe he had even seen her while she was playing with herself, while she was in her ecstatic seventh heaven, and had then crept away and come back down the steps more noisily, with a cough or two, as if for the first time. Not very likely...but, then, what was he up to? He might keep his knowledge of her little secret, her little world of sexual abandon, as a sort of threat hanging over her, a means by which he could blackmail her. With a little shudder, she wondered whether he would try it on again tonight, and whether she would have to let him have his nauseating little grope-and-fiddle-about with his thingy, and his pathetic moan of an orgasm. It didn't bear thinking about.

  But she soon realized there was no need for panic or guilt. The explanation she would give him was obvious. She would say she had been getting together a pile of old clothes to be thrown away. Anything she found of John's, plus her old red knickers, plus maybe a few other things of her own. She fished out an old pair or two of tights and a jumper she no longer wore and laid them on her dressing-table. She would say she had had the knickers in her hand when she was looking for John's hidden clothes, and, in the confusion following his return, she had left them in the cupboard. She had no need to worry.

  Her pride kicked in. There was no way she was going to feel embarrassed or guilty in front of that lump of manure. She could handle him. As she always had.

  In fact, when John returned, he didn't mention the matter at all. He never alluded to the episode of the morning, let alone the missing red knickers. And nor did she. They didn't speak about it in the evening, nor over the next few days. The only thing that happened was that the tights and jumper she had left on the dressing-table also went missing. She had realized it the same evening. What was he up to? Was it simple revenge? Nicking her old stuff because she had taken his? She knew instinctively that if she kept quiet about it, so would he. That was understood. Or had he suffered a mid-life sexual crisis? Was he, on the odd occasions she would go out alone or he said he didn't feel like coming shopping with her, putting on her tights and red knickers and parading about the house? She pictured him, maybe after having smeared some of her red lipstick all over his thin-lipped gob, getting a perverted thrill out of staring at his grotesque reflection in the mirror. She did check over the next few days whether anybody had been using any of her make-up, but it didn't look like it. There again, he could have his own supply.

  She did once have a peremptory, half-hearted look around to see if she could discover where he was keeping her clothes. She shouldn't really have tried. She promised herself not to do it again. Otherwise, he would have the right to do the same to her, and her fantasies. Attempt to break in on them.

  Maybe he was doing what she was still doing, every few days, when she would take John's clothes with her down to the cellar. Where she would open the door of the little white cupboard. Where there was that musty maleness, that whiff of male smell that tingled her body. Maybe he was doing the same. Running her clothes along his body, caressing his skin and face with her smell and touch. His memory of her.

  Probably she would never find out. And, to be honest, she didn't really want to. Whether he was doing it to annoy her, or because he had turned into a ghastly filthy transvestite, or because he was still madly in love with the Amelda that used to wear those sexy red knickers, whichever one it was, it wouldn't send her into ecstasy, or break her heart. It just wasn't important.

  He had had another little go at her that night. He had crawled up close to her, breathing all over her with his stale breath, and nervously coughing that cough of his.

  "Amelda, do you think we could..."

  "John, I'm not really in the mood. Be a good boy."

  He had turned away grudgingly. The little baby. She had just for a moment felt a pang of regret, that, maybe, she had been too harsh with him. Perhaps it was because she feared he might say something about the red knickers. But she had felt like adding a couple of words so that it didn't sound so final, something like "Maybe later" or "Another time", or, failing that, giving him an affectionate pat or nudge on his back.

  She had hesitated, and then thought better of it.

  THE END

  LEAVING SARAH

  by Annmarie Miles

  https://auntyamo.com/