The small round tent with it’s stippled canvas sat under the spread of an oak tree on the edge of the showground. All around rural folk talked rural patter about lambing and brewing, the price of rape by the acre and the eroding of environmental subsidies.
I didn’t feel as though I could bear another hail-fellow-well-met conversation with another farmer, which would begin with a friendly smile and end with a polite one, painted on just as they beat a rapid retreat back to the beer tent or the show ring.
The conversations followed an unavoidable and inevitable pattern.
“So what you going to do with those acres up on Claw Moor now you’ve bought them? Farm sheep?”
“Farm wind.”
A moment of confusion which would change to a quickly hidden hostility.
“The Moor is a beauty spot you know.”
“So is the world.”
A puzzled frown.
“I don’t see -”
“No. Very few do. I quite understand.”
Then the choice between rancour and retreat. Retreat winning most often, to my relief.
So the fortune teller’s tent seemed to me as much a place of temporary respite from all that as a possible entertainment for a few minutes. Besides, I could do with the promise of a tall, dark stranger – especially one who didn’t run away as soon as I started talking about my farm.
Inside it was cool and dim, the scent of verdigris and sandalwood gentling the air. The fortune teller was young, not the wise old woman I had expected. She said nothing, nodding regally to the chair opposite her and then lifting a crystal ball from the table between us and holding it in her hands. Silence spread into the sounds outside and absorbed them as my gaze became fixed on the young woman’s dark eyes.
Was it vision or speech? I will never now know, but for a moment reality was banished to the sidelines and something happened. I saw a barren earth devoured by her children, embraced beneath the sleeping flood of rising oceans and the moon riding the skies as sole witness to the coming of a time that did not know humanity.
Then I was standing under the oak tree in the shade that cast me apart from the sun-soaked showground, the jollity of ice cream vans and warm real ale, with the announcer telling us the winner of the Waggiest Tail contest…

E.M. Swift-Hook

A what-if story of symbiosis, and more by Jane Jago is being presented by Tall Tale TV

The Mole groaned and farted and belched noxious fumes as its diamond edged teeth ground their way slowly through the sandy subsoil. As it dug, a series of precisely placed nozzles sprayed a sticky mixture of polymers and ground rock onto the walls of the freshly-made tunnel stabilising it an inch at a time. As the monster inched its way forward, a rattling, clanging conveyer belt shot surplus material into a closely following fleet of lorries. 

Up high, in what would have been the head if the Mole was a living animal, a strangely-conformed man plied the controls with the virtuosity of a maestro. He was thick necked and heavy chested, with almost unnaturally long, muscular arms. His legs, on the other hand, were thin and twisted and would certainly not support his weight should he need to walk anywhere. But he never walked. He never left the Mole. He was Driver, symbiotically linked to the great metal digging machine and as incapable of living outside the confines of the behemoth as it was incapable of functioning without him. 

They were the most successful of the dozen experiments in symbiosis that had been carried out a decade previously, and were the only partnership left in existence. If that partnership caused ethical worries in some quarters, those voices were soon hushed by those who appreciated the profitability of the gigantic earth mover.

Want more? Listen in to www.talltaletv.com

CHAPTER EIGHT

Almost before Sam and Anna had time to collect their thoughts it was the day before their wedding. Danny and Paul turned up in the afternoon looking hugely pleased with themselves.
“We are going to buy us a camper,” Danny announced. “It has been brill.”

They were all busy for the rest of the day and by the time they sat down to shepherd’s pie and vegetables, the house was ready for Sunday’s onslaught. Danny grinned down at his heaped plate.
“My favourite. If she cooks for you every day you really are going to get fat” he said to Sam.
“Not with the hours he puts in in the gym,” Anna grinned.
“Aha. A fitness bastard?”
“Afraid so. I just don’t want to be another one of those healthcare professionals who sits on his arse watching his belly grow. And you look pretty fit yourself.”
“I am. But mine’s the result of honest toil. When I get fed up
I build a wall, or dig a hole, or…”
Sam laughed. “Ever work with wood?”
“No, but my respect for chippies knows no bounds.”
“Sam built this kitchen,” Anna said proudly.
“Did he indeed? Got good hands then.”
“In more ways than one,” Anna murmured wickedly.
Paul sniggered and raised an eyebrow.

“Not so much with the eyebrows,” Anna said severely. “He also built the table you have been covetously eyeing and stroking.”
“Well fuck me. What’s the wood?”
“Elm. From an old tree that had to be felled because it was leaning on the house.”
After that Anna sat back and just listened as the three men talked wood and finishes and techniques. She felt blissfully content and understood that it was because some of her favourite people in the world had found so much common ground.

When the meal was finished, she shooed them away.
“Just this once I’ll clear up. You three go caress some wood in Sam’s workshop.”
They went with Bonnie at Sam’s heels and Anna sung tunelessly to herself as she loaded the dishwasher and tidied the kitchen. She found herself stroking the satiny smooth wood of the kitchen table lovingly and had a quiet chuckle as she remembered the use she and Sam had put it to on a few occasions.
“Good job there’s no splinters” she chuckled.

Sam, Danny and Paul walked to the end of the garden and turned to look at the rear elevation of the house.
“It is a very nice old house,” Paul said appreciatively.
“It is, but it was a shite heap when I bought it. Poorly maintained, and running to seed. The last three occupants were real holy Joes who didn’t seem to mind living in squalor. That’s how I got it so cheap, but I put in some hours.”
“I’ll bet. Did you hand finish all the wood yourself?”
“Yup. And did a lot of labouring for the three-man building firm who were doing the heavy renovations.”
“Worth it though.”
“Yes. Though I wasn’t sure until Anna came into my life. I was about halfway ready to sell the old girl and look for another project.”
He turned and unlocked the workshop door. Danny raised his eyebrows at the lock.
“I’ve got some expensive equipment in here. Don’t want it nicked.”
He switched on the overhead lights and Danny and Paul looked about them with growing appreciation.
“You have got some good stuff. A lathe as well. Are you any good with that?”
“Yeah. It was my dad’s and he taught me to use it. Along with everything else I know about carpentry.”
“Was your dad a professional?”
“God. No. He was a psychiatrist. Reckoned everyone should have a hobby though. Thought sitting in front of a screen was the root of a lot of society’s problems.”
“Shrewd man.”

Paul sat on Sam’s work chair, while Danny strolled around the tidy workshop, then went and smoothed the planks and blocks of seasoned wood stored in the rear half of the building on metal racks.
“You have some lovely stuff here. Any plans for it?”
“Not really. Most came out of the house, salvaged from the restoration. A lot of it was just chucked in heaps in one of the bedrooms. I dunno why it was there, but I hung onto it. My builder wanted to buy it, but I said no. Let him have a lot of very ugly marble and several rusty cast iron baths though. Made quite a hole in the bill.”
As Sam was talking, he was nervously fingering a piece of white cloth covering something at the end of one of the two benches.
“So what’s under there?” Paul asked.
“I made this thing for Anna. Wedding present. Now I’m scared to give it to her in case she hates it. Made a thing for wife number one and she threw it on a skip. Wasn’t shiny.”
“You know Anna’s not like that. Why don’t you show Danny and me what you’ve done? We know her pretty well.”
“You do. So.”
Sam gently drew off the cloth to disclose a beautifully crafted wooden box about a foot wide, by eighteen inches long, by nine high. Paul got up and stood with his mouth open.
“Can I touch it?”
“Yeah.”
Paul smoothed the wood, feeling its perfect surface with his long, rather knobbly fingers.
“What wood is this?”
“Olive. And it’s a real fucker to work.”
Paul opened the lid to find a lift-out tray and under that a sectioned area.
“What’s at the bottom?”
Sam grinned and slid the front wall of the box upwards to disclose two drawers.
“It’s fucking marvellous. You can’t have done all this in the time Anna has been living here.”
“No. Though it has always been for her. I started it after about our third date. She was so much on my mind, and making something for her seemed to bring her close when I was feeling lonely.”
Paul found a strange lump in his throat and spoke around it  with difficulty. “Right. Now I know you really love her. Which is good. And she’ll love this. Probably cry. When you going to give it to her?”
“I dunno. I thought tomorrow. But.”
“If I was you I’d wrap it up and sneak it indoors tonight. Give it to her early in the morning. Give her time to get over it before the ceremony.”
“Good thinking. I’ve got paper, but I wish I was better at wrapping.”
“Gimme the wrapping stuff. That box deserves a proper parcel.”
Sam handed over paper and sticky tape and ribbon and watched in something like awe as Paul made an elegant job of the wrapping and tied the ribbon in a beautiful bow.
“Okay,” Paul stood back to admire his handiwork, “that’s good. Now me Bonnie, and Danny will go distract Anna while you sneak it indoors.”

Jane Jago

There came a challenge writ in verse 
So framed to prove her rhyme perverse
But stood she tall with wounded pride
And called her army to her side 
Armoured she in fine haiku
Her steed a gentle Clerihew
A shield of perfect rhyming sonnet
Had runic verse writ large upon it
For greaves she took iambic pentameter 
Vambraces also in that parameter
And rhyming quatrain bright and clear
Provided sword and shining spear
Her tercet bow and arrows bright
Sent singing couplets to the night
While all about her they complained
Nurse, she’s out of bed again!

©️ jane jago 2018

From Haruspex 3: A Walking Shadow - by E.M. Swift-Hook.

The big man, with his little dog trotting at his heels, walked out of the Tavern quietly and without waking anyone. Which was probably just as well, Archanbor decided, as Ritter wasn’t in a good mood. He didn’t like being locked up. Outside the streets of Keran were mostly deserted and Archanbor moved with silent speed avoiding those few who were up and around.
“No point startling folks is there Ritter?” Archanbor observed as he opened up the low shed beside the workshops attached to the space port. The small dog seemed to agree and watched as his master rolled the heavy felt cloth back over the body of a PTV.
“Well, if he’d not locked us up I’d have offered him a fair hire price – but he doesn’t bloody deserve it now – that was so not a nice thing to do.”
“What isn’t nice, Drum?”
Archanbor spun on his heel and would have fired if Ritter hadn’t barked a sharp warning and run over to sniff at the figure standing in the door, his tail wagging happily.
“Pan? You look as beautiful as ever,” Archanbor opened his arms to offer her a hug. She didn’t move from the doorway, just stood there arms crossed all disapproving.
“You borrowing Gernie’s PTV then Drum?”
Archanbor lowered his arms sheepishly and tucked the energy snub away out of sight. He nodded.
“Oh aye. I was planning on it. Me and Ritts we need to get to Tabruth and it’s a bloody parlous long walk and swim if not.”
Pan nodded agreement.
“It would be. Not at all safe,” she agreed. “So what business do you and Ritter have in Tabruth? I hear that’s where the Overlord has his capital – you got trade with him, Drum?”
Archanbor rubbed his nose a few times and glanced down at Ritter for inspiration.
“Of a sort,” he said eventually.
Pan looked almost stern.
“You mean – your old trade? The one you promised Ritter you’d give up?”
That was so not fair. Even Ritter growled.
“What’s it bloody matter to you?” Archanbor demanded.
“To me? Not much. But to you it could matter. I know for a fact the Overlord has visitors right now and they are a bit out of your league for nowadays, Drum. I just wouldn’t want to see – see Ritter get hurt.”
Which showed what little she knew.
“If I don’t go Ritter will get hurt. And it’s not like I’m going to drop anyone. Just borrow – like I’m borrowing Tavi’s PTV. It’ll all be fine in the end.”
Pan was shaking her head.
“You go borrowing people you could wind up breaking them, Drum. You don’t want that. We’re all getting too old for it. Why don’t you come have a cup of tea with me before you go, at the least? I got a biscuit for Ritter too.”
He looked at the little dog who was standing head on one side.
“He’s not been eating biscuits recently. I think he’s off them,” Archanbor shot a worried look at Pan. “You think he might be not so well?”
She looked anywhere but at the dog, her face considering.
“He might be. If he is, taking him off out to Tabruth won’t help him get any better. Why not come have that tea and let him curl up by my fire for a few, Drum? Maybe that’ll help him some.”
Ritter barked and showed what he thought of that idea. Archanbor laughed. He wouldn’t be sorry to have some tea, it might help settle out his hangover.
“Alright, lass – and thank you.”
Pan’s domain was always a mix of the domestic and the workaday. She scooped a mug of tea for each of them from the pot and then stirred the embers of the fire to life and put a small log on to burn, before joining him and allowing a space for Ritter on the small rug before the hearth.
“A fine brew this, Pan,” Archanbor told her.”You know if you had not up and bloody married I’d be making you a proposal myself.”
“You’d be in the queue then Drum,” she said, her tone good natured. “But you know, you could always settle down here – find someone nice who’s local. You know you have a lot of friends here, people who’d be glad to see you stay. And Gernie would appreciate the help you could give – he could probably even get you on the official payroll. It would be steady for you – and Ritter, of course.”
She meant well. She always did. Heart of gold – like Gernie. He shook his head.
“Bit late for that now.”
Pan shot him a strange look, like he’d said something rude.
“It’s never too late, Drum. You just stop running, sit down, put your feet up and root in. It’s what I did. And how many other places have you got good friends? People who will look out for you?”
“I have Ritter,” Archanbor told her, smiling slightly at the little dog.
“Of course you do – and you’ll always have him. But maybe he’d like it if you settled down? No more running all over the galaxy.”
Archanbor thought about it and looked enquiringly at the little dog. Honestly, sometimes it was as if Ritter could read his thoughts.
“What you think Ritts? Should we take Auntie Pan’s advice? She’s bloody right you know.”
The small dog yawned and stretched then stood up and put his head on one side.
“What does Ritter think then?” Pan was asking, looking towards the fire.
“I’d say that looks more like he thinks we ought to be getting going,” Archanbor said, feeling just a touch regretful. It would be good to be able to sit here, drink the tea and then maybe spend the day working on mending or building something. He’d enjoyed that in the past. “Maybe when we get back. Maybe then. What you think to that Ritts?”
The wagging tail said it all.
“It might be a bit late then,” Pan said quietly. Archanbor laughed.
“Make your bloody mind up, lass. First, you’re telling me it’s never too late and then you’re saying it will be.”

E.M. Swift-Hook – Haruspex 3: A Walking Shadow

Sing a song of summer
Braising in the sun
Barbecues and double gins
Having lots of fun
When it is the weekend
Heading for the sea
Playing beachy volleyball
And having chips for tea

Mother’s in the shopping centre
Spending lots of money
Daddy’s had a load of booze
And thinks he’s really funny
The kids are in the paddling pool
Dabbling their toes
And nanny’s in the garden
Sniffing something up her nose

©️jj 2018

Out Today! From the macabre to the deeply disturbing, Lac Du Mort and Other Stories by Joanne Van Leerdam delivers eight chilling tales that will please lovers of horror and dark fiction.

The title means ‘lake of death’, which is also the title of the first story in this collection of original and evocative stories. The stories often draw on typically Australian settings that add an extra layer of originality and interest, and there is actually a town not far from where I live named ‘Mortlake’, which means the same thing. I wonder how many locals have thought about that!  However, I don’t want to be held responsible for a decrease in tourism or business in the area, so Lac Du Mort was probably a better choice.

From ‘Garrawi Lake’.

Lou dumped the totes and towels on the grass, then swung the camera bag off her shoulder and placed it on the blanket that Kelly had spread out. “It is! This was a great idea. Staying indoors in the air conditioning was starting to get on my nerves.”
“Hopefully when the sun goes down it will cool off, too.”
“We could stay here all night.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be nice?” Kelly sighed. “I love this lake. I’m so glad you brought me here. I’d happily never leave.”
Sunlight glinted on the water, sparks of white fire dancing upon deep blue silk. A flock of white birds flashed past and swooped out over the lake, then out of sight again over the far shore.
“Wow! That had to be at least a hundred cockies!” Kelly exclaimed.
“Yeah. They’re always here. The lake is named after them.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Garrawi is the local Indigenous people’s word for cockatoo.”
“I thought ‘cockatoo’ was an Aboriginal word.”
“It might be.  I suppose there might be different words for the same thing in any language.” Lou shrugged and smiled simultaneously. “I want to see if I can get some photos of them. And I want to take some photos of the lake, too.”
“Okay. I might stay in the shade, though. You—” Kelly interrupted her own sentence by placing a soft kiss on Lou’s shoulder. “You may take your beautiful cocoa skin out into the sunshine, and I shall lie here and watch you.”
“I’ll be back soon, Kel.”
“Take your time. I’ll be fine here with this ridiculously beautiful heroine and her equally magnificent vampire lover.”
Lou rolled her eyes dramatically. “One day, I’ll convert you to reading brilliant science fiction.”
Kelly laughed. “That will never happen.”
Lou stood, took the camera out of the bag, and fiddled with the settings before walking down toward the lake. Kelly watched her hold her camera up to take some shots, then walk further toward the shore and change her angle to capture the play of the light on the water in a different way.
In a flurry of feathers and squawks, the cockies flew back over the lake, brilliant white against the azure sky. Kelly shot a rapid fire succession of photos, and then flicked her camera to the video setting so that she could capture the sweeping flight of the flock across the lake, still filming them as they dashed over her head toward the tree under which Kelly was reading.
“Magnificent!” she whispered as the birds chattered and shrieked on their way past, their piercing calls of “talons and beaks, talons and beaks” shattering the stillness of the lake in the broad afternoon sunlight.

A Bite Of... Joanne Van Leerdam

Q1: Have you ever written somebody you dislike into a book, just so you could make them suffer?

Heck yes. I write horror and macabre fiction with a very strong sense of poetic justice, so Curious Things and a number of the stories in Lac Du Mort are full of that.  A Poet’s Curse is poetry about evil people who fully deserve what’s coming to them.
Honestly, if anyone is tired of waiting for karma to do its job, I totally identify with that.  When they read my work, they’ll know they are not alone.

Q2: How much of your writing is autobiographical?

A great deal of my poetry is autobiographical. I have often said that there is a part of my soul on every page.  Some of my poems are about other people and fictional things, but there’s always an underlying element of something I’ve experienced or something I’ve observed in someone else’s life or actions that have prompted me to write.
In all honesty, writing some of those poems has been the best therapy I’ve ever had. I’ve confronted a number of demons, and slain a few of them, too.

Q3: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

I like to write characters who could be anybody. I believe that people are people, regardless of belief, sexual orientation, or skin colour, so I don’t often mention those things. Another factor is that in writing short fiction, there isn’t always a lot of room for back story or detailed character development, so those things are more implied than overt.
The upshot of that is that someone reading one of my stories can imagine the character to have any colour skin, be of any orientation, or part of any group they wish.
Some might say that is “chickening out”, but I don’t think so. I think it’s giving the reader freedom to interpret my characters any way they like.
Having said that, one of the stories in ‘Lac Du Mort’ features a same-sex couple, one of whom has brown skin. Those things are subtly included because they are not the focus of the story, but they’re there.

Joanne Van Leerdam is a poet, blogger, writer, thinker, puzzler, teacher, traveller, photographer and generally nice person. Despite having lived all her life in Australia, she has, thus, far, avoided being killed or consumed by any of the deadly wildlife, which is probably a good thing.

Other than Australia, Canada is her favourite place in the world.

In addition to writing powerful, thought-provoking poetry and short-but-incredibly meaningful stories, she keeps teens enthralled in her senior high school English, History and Drama/Performance classes. She is an active member and performer in her local theatre company and has directed high school musicals for the past eleven years.

Her poetry is contemporary, sensual, moody and easy to read – and it will get you in the feelings. Her horror fiction is deliciously creepy and macabre, and deeply satisfying.

Lac Du Mort and Other Stories is out today! You can find Joanne Van Leerdam on Facebook,  Twitter,  Instagram,  Pinterest,  Google+,  Goodreads and her Website.

A Dai and Julia flash fiction.

Dai Llewellyn was all but home when a gigantic figure loomed out of the darkness.
“Edbert, you spado, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“No. I’m trying to save your life.”
“Come again?”
Edbert’s laughter rumbled deep in his massive barrel of a chest.
“Julia has been in the kitchen. All day.”
“Julia? In the kitchen?”
“Yes. She has decided she should learn to cook.”
Dai digested that one, and braced himself just in time not to buckle at the knees when Edbert clapped him on the shoulder.

Julia met him at the door with Canis and Lupo at her heels. He bent to kiss her and she dimpled demurely.
“Good day, love?” he asked with careful mildness.
She lifted a shoulder. “Same old. Same old.”
He grinned down into her face, noticing signs of frustration at the back of her bitter chocolate eyes but deeming it safest to say nothing.
“Go and wash your hands, supper is ready.”
Dai ambled off, and he could swear he felt his wife’s eyes boring into his back. This, he thought, could be about to get sticky.
He returned to the winter sitting room, to find the table set and have his nostrils assailed by a savoury aroma.
“Something smells good.”
She showed him her small, white teeth and he gave her his best grin in return.
“Sit,” she said firmly, before serving him with a bowl of thick soup and a hunk of buttered bread.
She brought her own smaller portion and sat opposite him watching as he dipped his spoon into the bowl. He tasted with some trepidation but the soup was fine. It wasn’t as delicately flavoured by any means as Cookie’s handiwork but it was hot and meaty and filling and he had no complaints. He ate his bowlful and cleaned out the bowl with the end of his bread. Julia eyed him narrowly, and he smiled into her eyes.
“What’s up love?”
“Nothing. Why do you think there is something the matter?”
She got up with what was perilously close to a flounce and whisked away his bowl and side plate.
“Cheesecake?” she asked.
“Yes please.”
Julia brought a glass stand to the table, on which rested a cake decorated with raspberry sauce.
“That looks nice.”
She frowned at him and put a knife into the confection, which promptly collapsed with its undercooked centre dripping over the edges of the serving dish. 
Dai knew he had to act quickly to avert a potential meltdown, so he stuck his finger in the gooey mess and licked it.
“Yum, yum,” he said before taking another dollop of goo and spreading it on his wife’s face. 
She opened her mouth to protest and he forestalled her by pulling her across the table and licking her face, to which treatment she responded with some enthusiasm. 
A considerable time later she lay in his arms and he grinned down at her. 
“You can cook any time you like….”

The Dai and Julia Mysteries by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook are a series of alternate history books set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire never left...

Duty is not a popular concept nowadays. It is usually viewed much as the albatross around the neck of the Ancient Mariner, a heavy burden which must be fulfilled if one is not to be crushed by guilt. That is certainly true for oneself when contemplating the growing pile of books my students and others have sent me, asking me to cast my eyes upon pages of pallid prose and turgid tropes so as to bestow even the merest flutter of words in a review.

If you are one such, awaiting my good offices, be sure I have not forgotten you, whoever you are and your book will be quite safe for years to come in my keeping.

However, there is one duty read I find myself unable to escape. A mercifully thin book produced by the cohabiting creativity of the two dreadful females whose blog I so kindly support by allowing them to host my words free of charge. I was poorly repaid for this act of generosity by being presented, around this time last year, with a copy of their (then just released) novella, with the unspoken expectation that I should review it. 

Review of Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

What an appalling fiasco!

To begin, we have a setting which is in the modern day (indeed, with tantalising hints of futuristic devices and transport), but then we are also assaulted by  inaccurate Latin, as the rather ridiculous premise of the tale is that Merry England is not English – it is a mere province of the still existing Roman Empire. As if!

I was so shocked and appalled by the idea that anyone could cast aside the entire glorious history of my nation and substitute instead a shallow national grave on the ebbing tide of civilisation, that the story itself seemed barely to matter. Something about athletes being murdered and fish sauce…

Avoid at all costs.

Duty called, I have answered.

One star for a clever-sounding title.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group

This, Carla realised, was what was meant by ‘tea and sympathy’. Only, in this case, it was coffee and sympathy – well latte to be exact – and some comfort-eating chocolate cake.
“So it’s over this time?” Her cup, broad and deep, clicked back on its saucer. “Really? Truly?”
Emmy gave a sad smile. Over the last hour and the chocolate cake, she had burdened Carla’s soul with a gory, forensic dissection of the breakdown of her relationship. Cut by painful cut, from the first misconstrued comment to the final brutal insult.
“Oh it’s over. Dead. Buried. Jake knows it, I know it.”
“You’re sure? Last time – ”
“Last time I was still half in love.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not.”
“So what about Chris?”
Emmy’s blue eyes blinked once, stating clearly that the name was not relevant in her love life and never would be. “I heard from Miranda the other day. Sienna is starting school. Isn’t that incredible? It only seems like last week the three of us were sitting in these very chairs discussing baby names.”
“Emmy – you can’t pretend forever.”
The blue eyes clouded. Emmy grabbed her coffee cup from its brightly coloured saucer and hid behind it. The words ‘I Love Cappuccino’ danced around the rim in bold, red letters.
“Chris won’t just go away,” Carla spoke to the cup.
Emmy lowered the coffee, her face tightly resentful.
“Chris is not involved with this.” Then, suddenly appealing: “Let’s not go there today, Carla hun, please.”
Not for the first time, Carla felt herself being torn between loyalties. Emmy’s baby-blue eyes, pleading, and Chris – dependable Chris – bleeding from a dozen wounds he had never known were being inflicted. Carla shook her head slowly, as the waters of the Rubicon flowed away beneath her feet.
“He’s your husband, not a meal ticket. You have to – ”
Instantly Emmy was by the door, the cup still in her hand.
“I don’t ‘have to’ anything! Don’t you understand? I don’t care!”
The coffee cup arced across the room heading for shattering impact and landed at the moment the door slammed. It bounced on the carpet, with a little spray of coffee and rolled, until it stopped on its handle by Carla’s feet, still safe and in one piece.
Carla bent to pick it up, the words facing her read: ‘I Love…’.
For a moment she clutched it close, then she placed it with extra care on its own saucer, where it belonged.

E.M. Swift-Hook