by Darcia Helle
I considered my options and decided to hand in my notice at work. The Romanian gypsies were onto something. This was an infinitely more pleasant way to earn a living; out in the sun, enjoying nature, instead of stuck behind a desk in an office growing paler in colour as well as in heart.
When I ventured out with my coffee cup in hand that September morning I could never have known what fate was to befall me.
The day started out quite well; the handsome stranger, whom I had not seen since my first day as the fake Michaela, appeared on the scene, almost a month to the day I had first set eyes on him. And, he seemed to recognise me. My heart leapt. He looked deep into my eyes when he approached me. ‘Still here?’ he asked sadly.
I nodded, pouting, trying to look attractive, although painfully aware that I was anything but. I imagined myself as Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Maybe this is my Richard Gere, come to save me from a life of poverty. Maybe he is a lonely, rich businessman. Maybe he feels sorry for me and wants to save me. The fantasy thoughts whizzed around my head as he pulled a ten pound note out of his wallet and handed it to me.
I smiled, trying to look as solemn as I could.
He walked away and I desperately wanted to tear off my wig and run after him, explain that this was just a game.
That evening, I sat by the entrance to the Tube station as the newspaper vendors gave away the Evening Standard free and the market stalls began shutting down for the day. I counted my “earnings”. I’d taken to wearing a concealed money-belt because the amount I was making in a day wouldn’t fit in the paper cup. One hundred pounds and twenty pence. Not bad, I must be getting better at this, I thought; then I frowned as I saw that one of the ten pence pieces was actually foreign currency.
I stood up and headed home on the Tube, gathering another twenty pounds on the way from unsuspecting commuters who were too weary after a long day at work to care about whether I was real or a fraud. As I looked around at the worn-out faces, some of the rush hour passengers falling asleep, I remembered the dead-end life I’d left behind, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for them. If only more people knew my secret to instant wealth, I thought.
When I stepped out of the Tube station at the end of my street, I saw the handsome stranger who had been at Russell Square earlier. Had he followed me home? A smile came to my face, but then a panic set in: what if he’d somehow found out he had been duped into parting with his cash? Was that why he was here now? As much as it pained me to do so (as I really wanted to look into those deep, green eyes once again) I lowered my head and covered my face with the scarf I had taken to wearing to make me look more like a Romanian gypsy (I’d perfected the look, in my opinion, after a month or so on the “job”.)
The man seemed to be following me. I kept walking up my street and eventually arrived at my door. When I got there I turned around and, sure enough, he was about twenty paces behind me. I decided to sit on the floor outside the house, to make it look like I was going to sit there and beg.
He soon arrived at where I was seated and he reached into his jacket pocket. I thought he was going to take out his wallet again. Providence appeared to have had a hand in making us meet up again, and I assumed he wanted to give me more money. But instead of a wallet, he flashed an ID card.
‘Melody Barnes?’ he said.
My mouth fell open. ‘How?’ was all I could utter. I must have been in shock.
‘Melody Barnes. Would you accompany me to the police station? I have a few questions for you.’
###
About the Author:
Maria Savva writes stories inspired by life and the world around her, so make sure you are on your best behaviour if you ever meet her, because you might end up in one of her novels or short stories…
She lives in London with a cat who thinks he is a dog, and she tries to make sense of the world through her stories.
Find out more about Maria and her books, on her official website: https://www.mariasavva.com
Pinkberry Squirrels
by Magnolia Belle
Copyright © 2007
You ever hear tell of a pinkberry? Now, I know most folks heard of blackberries or blueberries. But, pinkberry? Probably not. And that don’t surprise me none. Not really. First time I ever heard of ‘em was about sixty years ago. My best friend, Lurlene Hopsfelder, had just gotten paid for cleaning old man Johnson’s chicken coop. Nasty, smelly job in the Texas summertime heat, with the added bonus of being pecked at whilst working. Anyway, Lurlene was into money. All of fifty cents! Don’t sound like much now, but back then, to two ten year old girls… well, she was rich.
“Let’s go to the gas station for a soda,” Lurlene proposed as she threw her skinny legs over the side of the hammock and sat up.
“Cain’t. Got no money.” I lazily swatted at flies buzzing around my head.
“C’mon,” she pleaded. “My mouth’s hankering for a grape Nehi. I’ll treat.”
I opened one eye and rolled it in her direction. “Your treat? For real?” When she nodded, my other eye popped open. I picked myself up from the porch, dusted the seat of my white shorts with the yellow daisies, and waited for her to untangle herself from the twisting hammock.
The gas station was about three blocks south of her pa’s house. The distance warn’t too far, but, walking barefoot made it difficult. There were two choices: the black tar road, so hot it almost bubbled, or the grass on the side, filled with burrs, stones, broken glass, and whatnot. I s‘pose Lurlene and I coulda put on shoes, but the thought never entered our heads.
Anyhow, after hotfootin’ it to the gas station, we stood in front of that old red-and-white Coca-Cola cooler and studied our options.
“Hey, girls,” Mr. Garza looked up from the checker game he was playing with Mr. Bradford. An old black and rusted fan swiveled from side to side, pushing hot air and dust across the room. Flies buzzed against the large rectangular window that had motor-oil decals peeling off. A country song warbled out of a small radio perched on the counter by the cash register.
Whilst we was busy looking into the cooler (I couldn’t decide between orange Nehi and a Dr Pepper), we didn’t see Mr. Bradford wink at Mr. Garza.
“Say, you ever had a pinkberry pie?” Mr. Bradford asked. Lurlene and I looked at each other and then turned to face him.
“No, sir,” Lurlene answered, real polite like her mama taught her.
“Have you?” he pointed his chin at me.
“No. I don’t even know what a pinkberry is.”
“Hmmm.” Mr. Bradford frowned as he thought about our answers. “I don’t reckon anyone has for many a year,” he finally allowed. “Your mama probably wasn’t even born by the time they disappeared.”
“What happened?” I finally pulled out a Dr Pepper in exchange for one of Lurlene’s nickels. “They don’t grow ‘round here no more?”
“Oh, they grow all over the place. You’ll just never see one.”
Lurlene and I took a few steps closer, the fan’s air pushing Lurlene’s stringy blonde hair away from her face.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Well, girls, it’s all cuz of the Pinkberry Squirrels.”
“The what?” Lurlene pulled down her grape soda from her now-purple lips.
“Pinkberry Squirrels,” Mr. Bradford repeated.
“There’s no such a thing,” I scoffed, slapping a hand in the air.
Mr. Bradford drew his balding head back. “You say I’m lying?”
“Um… er… no, sir,” I stammered. I didn’t mean to make him mad.
“What’s a Pinkberry Squirrel?” Lurlene asked, taking the heat off of me.
Mr. Bradford pushed back from the rickety card table that held the warped checkerboard. He rested a hand on each knee and leaned forward, a gleam in his eye. Clearing his throat once, he began in his best storytelling voice.
“Back when this country was first settled, folks brought all kinds of things to grow. Seeds
and seedlings, flower bulbs, cuttings and such like. Some family from Norway… or maybe it was Italy, I cain’t remember,” he stopped to scratch his pate and squint his eyes. “Anyway, they’s the ones what brought pinkberry seeds to Texas. Planted them in spring and, by summer, those pinkberry bushes took off like a house on fire. Big beautiful green leaves — bushes growed taller than you girls.” He raised his hand to show how high the bushes had gotten. “Then, in a few weeks, those bushes was loaded — loaded, I tell you, with the most beautiful, sweetest, juiciest pinkberries anyone had ever seen. Put all the other berries to outright shame.”
Mr. Bradford looked over at Mr. Garza, who just rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“You ever eat one?” I asked, almost able to taste one of those berries myself.
“Well, now, I’m coming to that.” Mr. Bradford scooted his chair forward a couple of scoots. “Everyone really liked eatin’ them pinkberries. So, next year they could hardly wait for the crop to come in. Just like the first time, those bushes were loaded with blossoms. People’s mouths was watering just thinking about all the pies and jams and jellies they’d make. But, when the berries got ripe, only ‘bout half of ‘em was there. No one could figure out what happened. Next year, the same thing, ‘cept this time there was only a handful of berries left to pick.
“Now, this didn’t sit well with the folks. Didn’t sit well a’tall. They even had a meeting about what to do. The next year, when the berries began to ripen, menfolk took turns guarding them bushes. And what do you think they saw?”
Lurlene and I mutely shook our heads, our eyes wide in wonder.
“Just after dark, when people was going to bed and things got quiet, the men heard a skritchering noise some distance away. It kept getting louder… and closer… and closer… and louder.” He stopped and sent a doom-filled glare our way. “The men held their shotguns close and tried not to act scared in front of each other. But the skritchering kept getting closer. All of a sudden, one man let out a screech, dropped his gun and ran off screaming, ‘They’re eating me alive!’ Another shed his lantern light to the bushes and what do you think he saw?”
Lurlene gulped hard and I could only stare, waiting, not breathing.
“Squirrels. Hundreds of squirrels. All of ‘em rushing toward the pinkberry bushes, eating as many as they could stuff into their mouths. Little paws grabbing and twisting the berries. For a moment, in the dark, it looked like the bushes was nothing but squirrel tails a’ wiggling and a’ waggling. Even the berries what fell to the ground was eaten.”
Squirrels? Lurlene and I looked at each other with disbelief.
“Squirrels?” I asked Mr. Bradford.
“Yep. But not just any old squirrel. This is a particular breed with sharp little fang teeth.” He poked at his own to show us, “and needlely claws.” His pinching fingers showed what he meant. “And fast? Whoo! They’s fast.”
Lurlene and I stood a little closer. Those claws didn’t sound too appealing.
“They wait until just the right moment — don’t know how they know — but they’ll pounce on a pinkberry bush all of an evening and strip it bare.” Mr. Bradford pounced at us with his imaginary sharp claws, making us jump back. I even sloshed some soda out of the bottle.
“That’s why you won’t never eat a pinkberry pie or have pinkberry jam on your toast. It’s all cuz of the Pinkberry Squirrel. It’s just about this time of year, too.” He looked over his shoulder, past the flies on the window, and shook his head at the great outdoors. “You listen at night, and you can hear the skritchering get louder and louder as them varmints hurry from bush to bush. Don’t go outside when you do. They might trample you.”
“You’re making that up!” Lurlene found her voice.
Mr. Bradford sat back, looking hurt. “Why, girls! Would I lie to such sweetness as yourselves?”
Lurlene and I figured as how we were sweetness and we were girls, he wouldn’t be lying.
“Hmmm,” was all I said as Lurlene and I stepped outside. Neither of us admitted it, but we carefully eyed each bush for almost-pink berries on our way back to her house.
And, that night I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I could swear I heard skritcher… skritcher… skritcher.
###
About the Author:
Magnolia Belle lives in Texas and started her own company, Black Wolf Books, to publish her novels in 2006. She has two series out, "T'on Ma" and "Black Wolf", along with a stand-alone western, "Tascosa".
Learn more at: https://www.blackwolfbooks.com
The Ghost of the Dresser
by Susan Helene Gottfried
Copyright © 2012
The ghost of the dresser lingered. For months, she walked around the spot where it had been, avoiding the depressions in the carpet, the bruise.
It had sat there for years, that dresser. Tall, imposing, in the way. When she got out of the shower in the morning, it had provided a nice bit of privacy, blocking the view down the hall. He hadn’t seen a need for closed doors; she’d flashed the hallway daily.
That new, open view had been hard to adjust to when he took the dresser. The space. The clarity. It felt good. So did the sight of the back of the door.
But the ghost of the dresser remained. Each time she walked in the room, she skirted the area where it had sat, telling herself that walking through that spot was a violation of some sort. An acknowledgment that he wasn't coming back.
He wasn't. She knew that. She was glad. The end had been so awful, so drawn-out. His leaving had been a relief. She'd spent the first two months gleefully throwing things out. "Out with the old! In with the new!" she'd laughed. When the juice glasses they'd picked out for their wedding registry fell, en masse, and shattered on the floor, she'd cackled in delight. Pictures had been hung, budgets drawn up for new carpet, new paint, everything she'd always wanted that he'd said no to.
She still detoured around that spot in the carpet.
Until the night. The one when he'd picked up the kids, literally throwing the little one over his shoulder to get her out of the house and ignoring the pleas for help from the older one who had too much to carry.
"It'll be fine," she'd told the younger one, while trying to smile and hide the darts she wanted her eyes to throw. "Make another trip," she told the older one when he looked to her for help.
The man who'd taken the dresser grumbled as he carried the younger one to his car. Yowls ensued. His voice, raised, yelling, carried through the winter air.
The older one swallowed as hard as a pre-teen can swallow. He carried his armful to the car. She could hear as the doors opened and closed; the cries of the younger one ebbed and flowed.
As the older one came back for his second load, the car flared to life. The lights flipped on. The engine gunned.
The older one swallowed hard again. He gave his mother that look, the one begging her to shelter him, to save him. The man who'd taken the dresser wouldn't get violent. He'd just yell. They both knew it.
There was no safety for a child from a father who yelled, who would blame the oldest for the behavior of the youngest, even though the father's yells would only make the youngest scream louder and louder until the glass in the car windows threatened to shatter.
That night, she closed the door behind her children. She locked it behind them.
And she went into her bedroom and stood where the ghost of the dresser was. And after all the years of their struggle, after the months of their separation, and with the divorce about to happen, she finally let the tears flow.
###
About the Author:
A tone-deaf rocker-at-heart, Susan Helene Gottfried walked away from a career in the music business. Today, her focus is all things books: editing, reviewing and, of course writing -- all accompanied by a throbbing rock and roll soundtrack. You can join the West of Mars fun at:
https://WestofMars.com
WESTWOOD
by Jam
es Sophi
Copyright © 2012
Dark skies, Sarah mused. What a cliché.
The Westwood Media complex spanned almost seventy floors into lead-grey cloud. It was capped with twin curving conductors that looked like horns. A shiny, block-headed propaganda demon with anger issues. What the hell am I doing here? She entered the building through its main entrance.
Above the reception desk was a big blue logo of the earth, and under it were the words In Truth We Trust. After stating her business, she was told to wait over by the lifts.
Sarah took a seat on what she assumed was a stool. The cushion crinkled like a potato chip packet. Cheap post-modern crap. Twelve minutes passed before Amber Westwood appeared. She was tall and thin, with a smooth face, despite her five decades. Surgery, obviously.
“Mrs Westwood,” said Sarah, “can you spare a moment? Sarah Long, from the Medina Advocate. We spoke yesterday.”
“Oh, yes, Sarah. Nice to meet you,” Amber said. “You sounded older on the phone.”
“I get that a lot.” Sarah smiled. “I know your time's valuable, Mrs Westwood, so I'll make this quick. As I mentioned yesterday, the article's a light piece on your successes and struggles so far, based on reader requests. So, if I could just shoot you a few questions, I'll be on my way. Is there some place we can talk?”
“If we head to my office, our chat will be short-lived. They pick my bones like vultures up there.” Amber laughed. “Here'll be fine, so long as we keep our voices down.”
“Fair enough.” They took seats on the chip-packet stools. “We'll get started then.” Sarah took out a voice recorder and turned it on. “I'd like to start by asking how long you and Mr Westwood have been married.”
“Twelve years,” said Amber. “Though it feels like two.”
“What's it like to be married to one of the most admired men in the country? How do you cope with the spotlight? Do you find it overwhelming at times?” How many other women does he sleep with, she wanted to ask.
“I find it...” Amber took a moment. “I would say it's all very balanced. It gets a bit much when we're photographed doing mundane things, but then... Lawrence is a great man, and loved by many. People want to know him, want to be part of his life. They want to see that he's ordinary. And I suppose they want to know me, too. So I can respect that and, in a way, appreciate the spotlight. It all goes hand in hand with doing great things for humanity, you know?”