David Allen: A Short Story

"You're driving tonight, Allen. It'll be hilarious," said a mumbled voice that sneaked out from the smokers crowded around Seth Raines' Explorer.

David Allen knew nothing about speakers or 'systems', nor would it have mattered if he did. Seth had recently had a new stereo installed, and Alice in Chains "Down in a Hole" blared from the open tailgate.

"I've been guilty of kicking myself in the teeth," David honed in on Layne Staley's admission, until Becca, a classmate of his since elementary school, shouldered him as she chased Seth around the school parking lot. Becca was getting a head start on her perpetual weekend dramatics.

"That's my CD and you know it, asshole!"

A pack of Merits fell from the front pocket of Becca's uniform blouse. Most of the seniors in David's class were eighteen by this time of year, including Becca. Judging by the brand, it appeared she still chose to steal the cigarettes from her housekeepers purse instead of buying them herself.

"Sounds good," said David. "Let me know."

He recognized most of these relationships as temporary, and knew that, for him, they would end the day after graduation.

David drove a 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass. Over the past three years, it had become a virtual mascot at Episcopal. Upon arrival each morning, a smoke cloud would escape from under the hood with a desperate force, like someone gasping for air after being held underwater. The smoke would rise so high, David often thought it could serve as a signal to his first period teacher that he would soon be in attendance. Occasionally when he would get ready to head home, a handful of onlookers would applaud if the ignition turned over on the first try.

It was Friday, and Episcopal was in the second round of the high school football playoffs. There was plenty of excitement among his friends, and David felt it as well.

The cool November air agreed with David's car. The air conditioner had bailed long ago, and there wasn't much interest from he or his parents in getting it repaired. The once mighty Olds must have been a pioneer in power windows and locks technology, a feature that was surprisingly reliable. It was humbled, though, by a factory-installed eight track, three blown speakers, and a torn out headliner that David had hastily removed before picking up a date junior year. The once sagging felt was now replaced with profanity written in the underlying foam by his jackass friends.

David lived several miles across town. Most of his prep school friends lived in an upscale neighborhood near Episcopal that David passed to and from school each day. When he was in eighth grade, David's parents applied for and received a scholarship that provided him the opportunity to attend Episcopal.

Town South was the local public high school David would have attended under normal circumstances. TSH had ten times the enrollment of Episcopal, which lead to a daily traffic jam in front of the school. David looked forward to being held up at the signal just beyond the campus. He would see some of his old friends from his public school days, which always gave him a comfortable feeling. There was no way to predict, unfortunately, how uncomfortable things were soon to become.

The sound produced by the horn of a '79 Cutlass is like nothing else ever manufactured. David always hesitated to honk because anything within a two mile radius might feel it the recipient. So when the wretched Cutlass inexplicably wailed like a World War II air strike warning, David instantly regretted his decision to chance the after school gridlock, and soon felt suffocated himself.

The incident may not have been so embarrassing had he not waved in the Honda Civic carrying five cheerleaders attempting to exit the lot. David recognized a couple of them from a party at the Russell's lake house over the summer. They politely waived as David scrambled to find confidence. All was lost as soon as the horn awoke. They must have briefly thought he was just trying to get their attention, but after thirty-seconds of solid blowing, it became uncomfortable for everyone involved.

He watched in agony as the traffic light at the south end of the campus changed for a third time before he was able to break free. David considered shutting down the engine, but that could have potentially lead to a situation far more humiliating. For now, staying mobile was all that mattered.

David Allen took pride in his self-control, but as he approached the light at Highland Avenue, he brought with him language that would make a frat guy blush.

He made a sudden decision to cut through Park Heights, a quiet area usually immune to such a commotion. As the Cutlass serenaded the historic district, David's anxiety went elsewhere. The red brick homes with stately white columns reminded him of the sacrifices his parents made. He remembered life before high school to be less complicated. He could not remember ever doubting himself then. Maybe it was because he never sensed the slightest bit of shame from his parents. So where had this sudden shame in himself come from?

Southern Drive was the main street that lead to David's modest subdivision. His house was about a mile and a half from the intersection of Southern and Porter. As he continued on, he sensed empathy from some of the familiar strangers he passed along the way. He noticed a Caprice Classic in his rear view mirror transporting a plastic swimming pool. Instead of tying it down, each of the four passengers had one arm out of their respective windows holding the pool to the roof. David felt immediate community with them. Several cars joined in on the honking as the Cutlass neared the turn at Pilot, David's street. He noticed Edmond, his next door neighbor, laughing uncontrollably while getting gas at the station on the corner of Pilot and Southern. David was laughing, because he knew Edmond had never surrendered more than five dollars into that gas tank.

The honking finally stopped when he put the car in park. His mom was already home, and David drug himself inside, exhausted and numb from what had just happened.

"Was that you honking?" his mom asked when he opened the door from the garage. He knew she wasn't worried, only curious.

"It did that the whole way home."

"Were you embarrassed?"

"It was pretty embarrassing."

David could not have been more at ease at this point.

"Did it start in the parking lot?" she laughed.

"No, it spared me until the log jam in front of Town South."

The lessons from these adolescent wounds were what kept David's mom from feeling sad. Of course she wished they could offer him more, but she recognized that even as a high school senior, he responded to her reactions. As long as she maintained the humility that was missing from so many, so could he.

She paused, then said, "Oh well, these things are temporary. You have to find ways to celebrate them."

"At least it's Friday," David yawned. He dropped his backpack on a kitchen chair and started for his room.

"Are you going to the game?"

"I told some of the guys I would go."

"Seth and them?"

"Yes, ma'am. We'll probably take my car."

Her eyes closed and her hand went to her mouth as she kept a laugh from escaping.

Written by Paul McCallister author of http://www.nojerseysat30.com/ Mistakes We Make: Social, Professional, Spiritual, Style

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Short Story - Eduard DeVere Bullington

Eduard deVere Bullington studied the printed flyer which had just been handed to him by Mycroft, his salesperson. "Awful!" he exclaimed. "Just so...tacky." He walked over to the massive front window of his store and looked out and across the street. "Yes, flyer printing like this is something I might expect from a dreadful place like 'Bob and Linda's Furniture Discounter'. All they emphasize is their 'good deals' and their 'fifty percents off' and their 'lowest prices in town'. It's so incredibly vulgar. You'll never see me distributing something as utterly banal as that." He handed the flyer to Mycroft, pinching it on the corner as though her were holding a dead rat by the tail.

"No, Mr. Bullington," said Mycroft. "This is a classy place you're opening. The finest antiques and high-end furniture in the state."

"When do they open, Mycroft?"

"Today, Mr. Bullington," said Mycroft. "Same as us. By the way, what is our marketing plan? I certainly would like to have some customers in here real soon, since I'm on commission."

Bullington smiled. "Follow me." He led Mycroft out to the front of his new store, reached for a rope, and pulled the long covering off his sign.

The sign read simply, BULLINGTON'S.

Mycroft stared at it. "That's your marketing plan?"

"My name, Mycroft, is my marketing plan. Do you know what that name means? The Bullingtons are a pillar of the community. My great-grandfather was a well-known businessman and my grandfather was the county judge for many years. This sign says 'prestige' and 'respectability.'"

Mycroft nodded as he balled up the flyer and stuffed it in his pocket. "We don't need no stinkin' flyer printing!."

"Don't be vulgar, Mycroft," said his boss. "Well, we're officially open for business. We'll see who's left standing at the end of the day - the tacky, flyer-printing Bob and Linda or the symbol of good taste and respectability, Bullington's."

The first customer came through the door twenty minutes later. Mycroft greeted him. "May I help you, sir?"

"I'd like to speak to the owner."

"I'll handle this one, Mycroft. Just watch...and learn." He offered his hand. "I'm Eduard Bullington."

"Fantastic," said the man. "I'm Bill Tandy, from the Volunteer Firefighters' Association. We always ask for a donation from new businesses to support the local firehouse." He looked around. "Look at all this old wood. What a fire hazard! If this ever goes up, you'll want us, no doubt about it. Now I'm sure a Bullington can afford to stroke a mighty generous check." He stood and waited.

Bullington forced a smile as he went into his office. When he returned, he handed it to Tandy. "I'm sure you'll be getting a visit from the Police Officers' Benevolent Society later today as well," said the firefighter.

Mycroft showed him out the door and looked across the street. "Wow. Look at all the cars at Bob and Linda's."

"Fear not, Mycroft. The most discerning of them will spend a little time there and will realize that what they need cannot be found there. Ah, you see. There's a charming couple coming in here right now."

A moment later the well-dressed couple entered the showroom. "How may I be of service?" asked Mycroft.

"Are you the owner?"

"Uh, no. That would be Mr. Bullington."

"Eduard Bullington. How may I help you?"

"Hi there. I'm Bob and this is my wife Linda. We own the store across the street. Listen, I was wondering whether you would allow us to borrow some of your parking spaces for any overflow customers. We're expecting a big opening day today -"

"We put out over ten thousand printed flyers," exclaimed Linda with evident pride.

"We'll be happy to pay you," added Bob, pulling his checkbook out of his pocket. "How about ten dollars per space per day? It would be well worth it to me. I certainly don't want to send any customers away because they can't find a place to park. Now when do you plan to open?"

"Very soon," said Bullington with pursed lips as he accepted the check which covered thirty spaces - just enough to offset the payment to the firefighters.

An hour later all of the rented spaces were filled, and customers were parking illegally on the side of the road just to get into Bob and Linda's. Bullington and Mycroft stood for long periods of time, staring at their otherwise empty parking lot. Just before noon, a crowd of people left Bob and Linda's and crossed the street en masse.

"Finally," said Bullington. "People are starting to hear about the high-end alternative. It always takes time, Mycroft."

Two minutes later a crowd of women stood in the showroom. "We're terribly sorry, sir," said one. "But apparently they're having plumbing problems at Bob and Linda's. May we use your restroom? Bob said you were so nice and he told me to tell you he'll send over another check at the end of the day for all your help."

By the end of the day there had been no sales; there was one expression of interest in having some restoration work done. Bullington and Mycroft sat silently, watching pick-up truck after pick-up truck carry goods away from Bob and Linda's.

Towards the end of the day, an old, beaten-down, bearded man came in the door. He shuffled into the showroom.

"Would you like to see the owner?" asked Mycroft.

"What's wrong with you? Can't you sell?"

Mycroft perked up. "Why, I'd be delighted."

The man tapped a French Empire sofa with his hand, and studied it. At that moment a woman walked in. She was dressed almost as shabbily as her husband.

"What do you think, Elmira?" he asked. "You think this will fit in the double-wide?"

Bullington interjected himself into the sale. "Sir, I'm not sure you saw the price tag. This piece costs fifteen thousand dollars."

The old man looked at the price tag. "So it does."

"In fact, I don't think there's a sofa in here that costs less than five thousand, if that's what you're looking for."

"Well, me and Elmira, we was actually looking for two sofas and a dining room table and some cabinets and a few other things."

"I hate to send customers away, but you may want to try Bob and Linda's," said Bullington. "They may be more in your price range."

The old man looked at him. "Bullington. Yeah, I remember your grandfather, the judge. I got hauled into court once and I didn't even have time to tell my side of the story. He just looked at me and said, 'Well, from the looks of you, you're probably guilty'. I got thirty days."

"How unfortunate."

"And you're probably looking at me and going, that man is way too poor to afford my fine furniture. But what you don't know, Mr. Bullington, is that I won the multi-state lottery last night. I can buy everything in your store two hundred times over. At full price. And not even make a dent."

Bullington stood stone still as his mistake sank in.

"But you know what, Mr. Bullington. I don't pay full price for anything. I'm going to go and check out Bob and Linda's. See, I got this flyer they sent out, and I just love to get something at a discount. Come on, Elmira. Let's go."

Mycroft followed them out the door.

"Where are you going, Mycroft?"

"To Bob and Linda's. I'm applying for a job. I need to make some money."

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Wayne Douglas - The Job (First Day) (Short Story)

The move to California wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. The new condo was fifty miles north of Los Angeles in a nice neighborhood. Work was two miles away with very little traffic. The only time I would have to go into the city would be when running errands for the new boss.

Monday morning I went to the school and got my son registered for the special education class. We had a prior meeting with the teacher and a tour of the class, so my son was not completely stressed out when I left him. I have to admit I am sick to my stomach about all this change at once. It is bad enough starting a new job but up rooting my kid too was enough to push me over the edge.

Wayne lives in a gated community so I checked in with the security guard before I could go in. I pulled into the driveway of this Mediterranean style house with a tile roof. A large fountain took center stage in the rounded driveway, with a large black truck off to the right. This truck was massive dual cab with a long bed all jacked up on big black wheels. Men and their toys.

Wayne answered the door in his underwear, apparently the look on my face said it all because all he did was smile and say get used to it I'm not shy. Amused with himself he told me to make myself at home while he ran upstairs to put some clothes on.

When he came back he had a hire package with him. Standard stuff health insurance, w-2, 401k etc. While filling the paperwork out his cell phone rang, he handed it to me and said tell my mother that he was on the other line. I chatted with her for about five minutes, introducing myself and other pleasantries.

He received a text message a couple minutes later that said "I like her." I had passed the test, at least his mom's test anyway. Wayne said that he talks to his mom about everything so it's no wonder that she called.

He faxed my hire packet to the management company and showed me to my office. A previous assistant put together a daily schedule so I at least had a place to start. Wayne said to figure out what I could and then ask questions. OK, I was on my own. I took a deep breath and dug in.

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A Love That Killed (A Short Story)

There was a man and his wife who were fervently in love. These two shared a love that was rare. A love that was extraordinary. A love that was unstoppable. Being with one another was their greatest joy. They had been married for four years and planned a trip to Italy for their anniversary. They were just through all the security checks and were boarding the plane for their trip. The woman loved flying. Her husband did not. However, he was willing to do anything for his dearest love.

This was the longest trip the man had ever gone on. The first half of the journey was very difficult for him. He had an anxiety disorder which the plane trip aggravated. He became more comfortable as the trip went on however and was even able to get some sleep. His wife enjoyed the trip immensely. The man had made sure to secure a window seat for his wife who loved to view the ocean from such a high altitude.

They finally arrived. Italy was beautiful. It was a marvelous day. First they went to try some of the famous, real, Italian food. It was delicious and their time together with the true, Italian ambiance was utterly romantic. After this, they made their way to the hotel to get some rest. But, in the cab on the way home, they met a very interesting driver. His name was Kaliim. They tipped him well as he was an excellent driver and had a glowing personality. They had all their luggage taken to their room, ordered some wine, and had a most romantic evening.

They had decided in the morning to go sight seeing. They called for a cab and to their surprise it was Kaliim in the driver's seat. They were delighted for they liked him very much. That however, was soon to change. There was another man in the passenger seat. A stern, mean looking man. He pointed a gun at the man and woman and told them not to say a word. Kaliim drove to a beaten down warehouse well outside of town and the man and his wife were taken inside.

The man and his wife were immediately tied up. They beheld other people being tortured and women being raped. The man was deeply afraid, not foremost for himself, but for his dear wife. His thought was, "what can I do to save her". The man who was in the passenger seat in Kaliim's cab was Abdul. He came over to the man and his wife and said to the man in a raspy voice with a thick accent, "your wife is very beautiful". This frightened the man terribly. Abdul hit the man in the face and his wife screamed in terror. The man and his wife were then taken to a room that was bare.

The man and his wife spoke of the horrid situation they were in. They discussed the possibilities of escape but could come up with none that was sufficient. But the man had an idea. An idea which made him shudder. This idea he did not discuss with his wife. His wife came up with many options but the man diffused them quickly. But the man, he had an idea.

The man suggested that his wife try to sleep. He said that he would stay up and think. He positioned himself against the wall and she curled up next to him laying her head on his chest and fell asleep, feeling safe and secure in his arms, listening to his heart beat. The man thought and thought. "It's the only way", he whispered to himself. "How could I though", he asked himself. He wrestled with himself in his mind. It was torturous. His wrestling was on this wise. He thought to himself that he must keep his wife from being beaten and raped and therefore his only choice would be to kill her. Finally, he came to the decision that he should act on his idea. He kissed his wife's hair and then, then he covered her mouth and nose with his large hand to suffocate her. After a few seconds she began to struggle. She jerked and looked deeply into his eyes. Death was in them. He clasped his hand tighter about her mouth and nostrils. She fell limp. Dead.

Moments, only moments later, the man heard the sound of a helicopter and then a voice. It was a loud speaker. The voice demanded that the terrorists come out quietly with no resistance. The voice insisted, "resistance is futile". Soon after this, the man was rescued. His wife was dead. His love, it was a love that killed.

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The Great Roof of Villa Rica (A Short Story and One Haiku Poem)

(It's how it was... in the coffee plantation countryside, 2007)

The coffee plantations (or farms) lying close to the township of Villa Rica, raised coffee beans (when red, they looked like berries) which commanded top prices in Lima, and elsewhere throughout Peru, reached by bus or car only, from La Merced, mostly dirt roads. And those folks in town not engaged in the coffee business, were in the trades-carpentry, mechanic, or the restaurant business, house painting or building or the like. The few small grocery stores, bars and one main hotel, were all in walking distance and on the Main Street, which had just been paved with concrete, otherwise it was for eons, a dirt road. A city of ten-thousand or less, nestled within a green and luscious valley, cuddled by the Andes.

On summer mornings men, women and children went to work on the coffee farms. And when the coffee beans ripened, everyone was rushed back to work and the streets of city were once again deserted.

Smaller trucks were loaded with boxes of coffee beans while children and dogs played and laughed nearby, and everyone else picking those coffee beans in the plantation type setting, a few banana trees scattered among the coffee plantation, and a few young men would shake the tree to get a cluster of bananas for the workers, men smoking their afternoon pipes after a meal, or chewing coca leaves, they carried in their pockets, talking about production.

At night folks of the town loitered in the nearby park, up a ways from around the hotel I was in, it had a statue of a giant coffee pot in the park, a city icon that seemed to disturb the new mayor for some odd reason. Children recited poetry for their coming poetry fiesta, and the normal talk among the old folks on: horse racing, politics and religion. It's how it was in Villa Rica.

Old men with lit pipes, young women with lovers, kids laughing, everyone gossiping along the curbs, all throughout the city sidewalks and especially on Main Street, in Villa Rica. Everyone had put on their white clean shirts, after a long day of crawling over and through the bush like shrubbery, of the coffee plantations, those coffee bushes on the farms, rows of coffee beans looking at you, in tangled masses. The girls put on pressed clean skirts and blouses, walked up and down the sidewalks before the young men. Under the trees lovers embraced.

At the end of the season for coffee bean picking, there was always a mild outburst of marriages to the town. So nicely isolated there was no great national problems that touched closely their lives, they received three newspapers three times a week, amongst the ten-thousand.

The soul and its destiny of each person was spoken out in the open on the streets, as was poetry, or the recent sermon at the church, and the coffee picking for next year, that was all that seemed to occupy the minds of the citizens of this little town.

The town had a character of its own. All the citizens of Villa Rica were like one big family. It was a town with an invisible roof of which everyone lived beneath. Here boys and girls fought and quarreled went to the same schools, formed life long friendships, fell in love, married, became fathers and mothers, grew old, sick and died. That's how it was in Villa Rica.

No: 799 (4-21-2011)

Haiku on Truth

When you seek out truth
You may find an end in life-
Just a child will do...

No: 2930 (4/17/2011)

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The Swimming Lesson - A London Short Story

"I swear if there's a woman in Bedford, some school tart you used to shag behind the bike sheds, don't bother to come back. Don't think I won't find out either; I can smell them. There won't be any 'Donna, give me another chance' this time."

She went to the bedroom door and shouted, "Chrissy come up here and say goodbye to your dad."

Mike Anderson grimaced but said nothing. He continued to pack the overnight bag that lay open on their bed.

She watched him for the slightest clue he was lying. She was reassured when he put pyjamas, dressing gown, and his slippers into the bag. Then she reasoned it could be a scam. He wouldn't have packed a bottle of Champagne and a box of condoms in front of her.

Donna felt a strange sensation in her chest that she had almost forgotten. Love, she thought. This stupid, stupid man who she loved so much it hurt might be throwing away everything with some shabby one-night fling.

She handed him the T-shirt she'd ironed. The years together and she still got a thrill from the sight of his smooth, sculptured torso. The bulk of his biceps had been a pillow for her head just an hour before.

His daily workout in the gym he'd created in their garage meant if he was not the handsomest man she'd ever known, he was the strongest.

He dropped his mobile phone into his jeans' pocket. "Look it'll be on," he said. "Ring me any time."

"Don't flatter yourself."

He couldn't think of a smart reply so instead pulled her towards him by the belt of her housecoat.

She kept her lips closed until she yielded to the pressure of his mouth.

Perhaps he should cancel the trip, he thought. Some Saturday morning nookie - the only time their daughter could be guaranteed fixed to the television - would sooth both their tempers of the last few days.

"I haven't brushed my teeth," she said pulling away.

"You've got nothing to worry about. I'll be back before lunch tomorrow. Don, I really am going to meet Adrian, his missus, and their three kids."

She knew he was telling the truth about the meeting. She'd spied on his e-mails. But he had got up to enough mischief in the afternoons without spending a night away. Who knows what temptation he might find after a few drinks?

"No more tattoos," she said firmly. The last time he'd strayed - with a Bosnian ballet student he'd rescued from a chip pan fire - he had M and D entwined inside a heart decorate his shoulder. It wasn't his first tattoo.

He kissed her again and this time she'd didn't resist.

"Yuck," said their eight-year-old daughter Chrissy from the door. She was dressed in pyjamas and carried the television remote.

Blonde and pretty she was a tiny model of her mother, he thought.

"Chris, I'm sorry love but you remember daddy won't be able to take you to karate this afternoon." He used the third person-speak with his daughter that still unsettled Donna.

"She'll just have to miss class this week; I'm at the hairdressers." Chrissy didn't seem bothered.

"But daddy will be back in time to take you swimming tomorrow," he promised.

"Why do you have go at all?"

"Well, you've got your best friend Amanda at school. When I was at primary school I had a friend called Adrian who I haven't seen since I was 11 and that was nearly 25 years ago."

"So?"

"You tell him, Chrissy. It's not as though you were best mates otherwise why wait so long?"

He ignored Donna's dig and swept his daughter up in his arms, did two straight-arm stretches bringing her close to the ceiling and nearly kissed her before setting her back on her feet.

"There's this website on the internet that gets old school friends back together. We met through that and now he's invited me to visit him and his family. We all could have gone but it would have been a squeeze."

"Are they going to come here?"

"I don't suppose so."

"Why do you have to sleep there?"

"Enough," he said impatiently. "Go and watch the cartoons and I'll say 'bye before I go."

"Why are you sleeping there?" Donna asked when he was ready to leave. "It's not that far a drive, you could have done it in a day if you'd wanted to?"

"It means I can have a proper drink with him. We haven't seen each other for 25 years. Aren't you impressed? I know I am."

"Why have you got to get pissed?"

"Because that's what men do."

Mike was 20 minutes into a motorway traffic jam when he had his first serious reservations about the reunion. It had seemed such a good idea at first. One of the guys at work had raved about the website and he felt compelled to give it a go without thinking too deeply why.

Adrian Black made contact almost immediately. But their e-mail exchanges were clumsy and boring. Each recalled ancient incidents the other didn't remember. A face-to-face meet-up was called for.

But now Mike was doubting the value of the whole enterprise. They had been in the same class but had never really been friends. They hadn't even gone to each other's birthday parties. What would they have to talk about?

He was still wondering whether to turn back when he reached Bedford.

"A fireman of all things, who would have believed it?" said his host handing Mike a fresh beer before settling down in the garden chair opposite.

"No stranger than you turning out an art teacher," said Mike putting the can by his feet. He had only just opened the one in his hand. He had already drunk more than he cared to for the time of day.

It had taken him a while to find the house. They had exchanged pictures over the net. Mike had been prepared to find Adrian tall, balding, hungry-looking. And his wife Julia, small, mousy (Donna didn't have to worry about this one) and the young children indistinguishable from each other by age or sex in their general scruffiness.

However seeing him in the flesh, Adrian seemed genuinely surprised at the body Mike had built for himself.

"Good God, Jules, if you knew how weedy - I'm sorry you were - Mike was at school and look at him now."

He didn't know if to be flattered or embarrassed, as Adrian seemed to take his wife on a tour of his body. In fact he wasn't certain if Adrian was taking the piss and Julia seemed to be pretending interest.

The two men went off to the local pub an hour after Mike's arrival. The hours and the pints drifted away in empty conversation much like their e-mail exchanges.

On their return Adrian gave him the house tour proper, while the children, unchecked, charged about between them. It was a terrace house much like his own except with an extra bedroom and a much larger garden

Adrian's paintings were everywhere. Bowls of fruit and flowers and fields were just about recognisable. The thick paint looked as though it had been applied by hand. He thought of Chrissy's nursery school daubs and he wished now he had kissed her goodbye.

On the wall of the staircase there was a series of small frames containing drawings of nudes of both sexes.

Above Adrian and Julia's bed hung the largest painting in the house; a nude which he took to be of Julia because of the smallness of the woman's breasts and not because of the abundance of the model's pubic hair.

They moved on to red wine. Mike kept a clear enough head to be glad not to show his irritation when later Julia expressed regret on learning that he and Donna hadn't thought it necessary to marry. It was no one's business but theirs. Donna refused to tie the knot until she was sure Mike had given up his philandering ways. He didn't like to be reminded.

Early evening he found himself gratefully alone in the garden picking the grit of half-cooked veggie-burgers from between his teeth after the worst barbecue of his life. It took the couple an hour to bathe and put their children to bed.

About 9.30 Julia followed them to "give you boys a proper chance to chat." At the same time the men moved from the garden to the living room. There she air-kissed him goodnight. "Thanks for coming; Adrian doesn't bring many friends home."

Mike hadn't expected that despite the amount of booze that had been consumed, Julia's departure made he feel more uncomfortable not less.

Adrian seemed genuinely fascinated he had joined the fire service.

"You were brilliant at arithmetic," he said.

"Fancy you remembering that. I'm a bit of a disappointment to my dad. He wanted me to be an accountant. Somehow it never worked out. I'm happy enough."

"But burning buildings and all that?"

"All in a day's work." Mike was used to people wanting to hear about his job. It would have been easy to impress most listeners with the things he had seen. But he didn't like to. Unless the eyes widening at his stories of rescued children and bodies fished from canals belonged to an impressionable girl, who thought it witty when he brushed her tights saying, "I'd climb up your ladder any time."

But it was Adrian leaning across the gap that separated them to grip his knee and say, "You're too modest, matey."

Mike needed to change the subject. "What about yourself? Captain of everything. Tops in running, swimming, football. And teaching art?"

"My family moved so I could go to a decent secondary school. It had a really good Art master and I found I loved painting. I left the sport stuff behind. Art school and the rest followed - I'm good enough to teach but not enough to sell. All round I bet I'm a bigger disappointment to my father."

Mike was to sleep in one of the kid's rooms when he was finally shown to his bed at around 1am. Until that point Adrian had led their conversation on a ramble over many subjects; from the best place to locate a smoke alarm to infidelity.

"I've never been unfaithful to Julia, not with a woman, man or sheep. Not yet anyways." The remark penetrated Mike's alcoholic haze as a bit weird.

When Adrian said goodnight and left, Mike started to empty his overnight bag, his fingers made clumsy by the booze. He took off his T-shirt so carefully ironed by Donna. It was too late to call. So he sat on the bed and carefully texted her "Love u sweet dreams."

Adrian came into the room without knocking. "I forget to leave you a fresh towel. God!"

"What?" said Mike alarmed getting up quickly from the bed feeling giddy as he did so.

"Your chest - that really is a six-pack and a half."

"I...I like to keep in shape."

"I'll say. Do you shave your chest hair?"

"I suppose I do. There's not much to start."

"Would you mind? No, I'm pissed."

"What?"

"Would you mind if I touched it? Your chest."

Mike heard himself say, "Sure."

Barely grazing the surface Adrian's hand travelled down Mike's body from his neck to his navel and then back to the space between his nipples where it rested a brief moment.

"Wow, that's something. Well, goodnight. Again." He left closing the door quietly behind him.

Mike felt queasy, his knees weak. He sat down heavily on the bed.

In the instant Adrian had touched his skin, memories of childhood penetrated his brain with such sudden ferocity his head ached from a blinding light.

First the only sensation was the smell of chlorine. Then it was almost as though his eyes stung from the water and he could taste its bitterness.

He was 10. In his school's local swimming pool; he was flapping arms and legs in the cold water. He couldn't sink because Adrian was standing next to him, a hand supporting his chest, the other his waist.

Puny Mike, the class joke, the only one his age who couldn't swim. Adrian, both the tallest and the best swimmer, had been told by their teacher to help Mike in the shallow end, while everyone else shrieked and frolicked at the deep end of the pool.

Adrian must have said he was going to join the others, because Mike was crying, taking mouthfuls of water. "Don't leave me, don't leave."

One moment Adrian's hands were holding his body and he was safe, the next they were gone and he was drowning.

In his struggle to find his feet, Mike turned over on his back and through the water he could see Adrian towering over him, laughing.

Mike flipped over on to his knees and Adrian reached down through the water and grabbed his trunks. The material bit into his groin as Adrian hauled him upright until he was standing.

Adrian turned and was off. It seemed to Mike like a superhero from his comics, moving down the pool to join the rest of the class.

He stood alone shivering, holding the gully at the pool's edge. He peed filling his trunks with a pleasant warmth. He wished Adrian was still holding him.

The panic passed. He thought again about ringing Donna. She would think the worst and whatever he said his clothes would be waiting for him on his doorstep. He wanted to leave, to write a note saying Chrissy had been taken ill. But he was too drunk to drive.

It was then he saw Adrian must have put a key in the lock on the inside of the bedroom door. He was almost sure it hadn't been there before. Mike locked the door and went to bed.

He couldn't sleep. He lay on the single bed beneath the Transformers duvet fearful other ghosts from his lonely childhood might rise up from their graves.

Once during the night he thought he heard the door handle turn. He couldn't be certain he hadn't been dreaming. He got up and stood listening by the door. He touched the key erect in the dark. The door must always stay closed.

At 6 the children in the adjoining bedroom started fighting and Mike dressed quickly, had a brief wash in the bathroom, and headed for the kitchen.

By the time Adrian and Julia emerged, Mike had made himself some tea and toast.

"I hope you don't mind but my daughter Chrissy wasn't well in the night and I need to get back as soon as I can."

Adrian walked Mike to his car. "You're sure you're OK to drive?"

"I'm fine." said Mike knowing as soon as he could he would stop on the motorway for a proper breakfast and the chance to clear his head.

They shook hands. "It's amazing, isn't it, what we've done, getting together after all this time?" said Adrian. "You're not at all how I imagined you'd be."

"Nor you me," said Mike.

"We've got to stay in touch."

"Right."

"Look out for those fires."

When Mike arrived home Donna was about to berate him for the heavy drinking session which showed in his weary face but something told her just to be pleased he was back safely.

Chrissy hugged him and begged, "Don't make me go swimming, dad, please."

"Go next door and play with Jane until I call you," said her mother.

When Donna walked into the bathroom Mike had the shower going full blast into his face.

A little later they were lying on top of their bed, he in his bathrobe and she fully dressed.

"Was everything alright?" she asked.

"Of course. Why shouldn't it? Strange bed that's all. I didn't get much sleep and I'm on early shift tomorrow."

"I'll let you have a nap then" She got up.

"Donna, there is something." She held her breath. "Don, I was thinking we ought to get married."

She laughed. "Funny, I was thinking the same thing myself."

Mike and Adrian e-mailed once every couple of months over the next year. Adrian sent a picture of the two them taken by Julia, which Mike showed Donna.

"I like the garden" was the best she could say and she wasn't happy when Mike said Adrian had sort of added his wife and himself to the wedding guest list.

"I could hardly say no," Mike said lamely. But with a fortnight to go, Adrian cried off saying they were moving house because he was unexpectedly changing schools.

That was the last time there was any communication between the men - except for the exchange of a wedding present and a thank-you note.

Adrian sent a coffee-table book of David Hockney paintings. A swimming pool was on the cover. Inside he had written "Wishing you the best splash, Adrian."

"A bloody strange present and why didn't he put his wife's name?" said Donna.

"Don't ask me," said Mike.

Soon after the wedding Donna got pregnant and Mike dismantled his gym and turned the garage into a playroom.

I'm a retired former British national newspaper journalist who hasn't lost the writing bug. Visit me at my blog http://www.grapefruitcrazy.com/ Here I post regularly on my take on the world around me. As for the website's title all is revealed in the blog's profile.

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Mad Love - A London Short Story

You'll know if it's happened to you; mad love. When it strikes it's the only adequate translation for the French L'Amour fou. All the more crazy, when, as in my case, it was unrequited.

I was in my early 50s, divorced, and living alone in a rented apartment in north London. To break the work-sleep-work cycle I signed up with an arts group for a course of Saturday guided visits to the capital's galleries.

The possibility of meeting a woman of a similar age from among my fellow students added extra spice to my anticipation. And when we met up that first Saturday, now more than 10 years ago, there were indeed a number of suitable 'candidates' in the group. That was until I saw Lucy.

She looked as though she had stepped out of my Sociology class in the Sixties dressed in a long white cheese cloth dress which one moment would cling to her hips, the next sway from her body as she moved.

Shortish, a brunette, I don't remember Lucy as a great beauty, but O, her eyes, her smile, her laugh. I wasn't to know a web of lies, sleepless nights, tears - all mine - was to be my fate for the next two years.

For the first couple of Saturdays I only exchanged a few words with Lucy. But perhaps because she was by a good way the youngest in the class - 31 as I was to learn - she didn't team up with any of the other cliques. We began to discuss the paintings in front of us as we walked round.

By the last few Saturdays we took our sandwich lunch breaks together. The final afternoon the two of us had a farewell drink in the Thames-side pub close to Tate Modern.

The setting sun bathed St Paul's; I glowed in the presence of an angel.

Lucy was an English teacher at a secondary school in the East End of London, one of the country's most deprived boroughs. She had been privately educated.

"On the front line now," I joked. She chided me on my flippancy and explained she felt driven to use her advantages to help youngsters to whom fate had dealt such a poor start.

The woman was perfect. She was better read than me; knew more about art, film and the theatre. Lucy was about the best-hearted person I'd met in a long time. There didn't seem to be a 'significant other' and, yes, I ached to take her to bed. This last consideration was the reason the "fou" got added to the "amour."

I had told Lucy I'd been divorced three years and it seemed so right to say I was in a long-term relationship which was on its last legs. I reasoned if Lucy was to see me again, she had to be reassured I wasn't a sex-starved no-good (you be the judge on that).

I invented a girlfriend Annie (probably after Annie Hall), a neighbour; an embellishment I would regret.

We did see each other again. As soon as I could I intended dumping fictitious Annie for flesh and blood Lucy.

Art galleries at weekends, some movies during the week. I once took Lucy to a black-tie dinner at the Royal Academy (I was disappointed she didn't make more effort to dress up) where a journalist chum slipped me a note: "Introduce me to your daughter."

But mostly we met for supper in the West End. Reader, take my word; she was lovely in candle-light.

Sometimes we went dutch but mostly I paid. As a journalist I was earning a lot more than her and I never once got the feeling I was being used. I talked about taking her to Paris but she never took the bait. We never ate anywhere I hadn't first checked out the location of the nearest hotel just in case.

My biggest extravagance was taxis. When I got to dropping her back to her place and then turning the cab round to take me home, I told Lucy I would be charging the fares on my work expenses. To be caught fiddling meant instant dismissal and I never risked it.

She refused to visit me; she said Annie wouldn't understand if we bumped into her. But I always tided the place up before we met just in case she changed her mind.

Eventually I got to cross the threshold of her small council flat. I'd bring a bottle of wine and we'd order a tepid takeaway, listen to music, discuss books, and talk. We'd sit in chairs with a few feet of insurmountable carpet between us - and the hours rolled by.

I learned how tough it was being a conscientious teacher in the East End.

There was nothing else going on in my life so I'd talk about Annie. Or Sarah as I once called her with my brain muddled by Merlot.

"Who's Sarah?"

"Did I say Sarah? I meant Annie. Sarah's Annie's daughter." Why not? Expanding the cast aided the narrative. Lucy liked it, for example, when I helped Sarah leave her abusive boyfriend.

A year came and went; I reached a point where I'd all but given up hope that Lucy would see me for what I was - a sensitive, intelligent, humorous if older man; one still with a man's needs for all that.

Given her generous spirit perhaps I could worm my way into her affections via a different route by becoming one of the sad case, lost causes she supported

Annie and I had a reconciliation; quite a passionate one if you get my meaning. Then we broke up again bitterly (hence the tears). I still couldn't make it across the carpet.

Lucy began to make excuses and our dates became fewer. I was even more watchful for evidence of a boyfriend when I did successfully invite myself over. There were neither razors nor multiple toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet.

One night I took a cab and had it park a few doors away from Lucy's building. I had intended to stake her place out from behind an abandoned car or whatever. But one look at the dark, threatening streets encouraged me to tell the cabbie to take me back home.

It started to look as though Lucy wasn't taking my calls. After about a dozen attempts one Sunday evening she picked up.

"I know it's late but I must see you," I blurted with a catch in my voice. "I can't explain over the phone."

"I had to get dressed," Lucy complained as she opened her door. "What is it?"

"Annie's a lesbian." I recited the speech I'd composed in the cab. I told her how I'd been shaken to my core when Annie came out during another argument. How unmanned I felt losing my lover to another woman. Meaning, Lucy, take me in your arms and make it better.

Lucy made me a cup of tea and said she was pregnant.

I never found out who the father was of baby Tomas (without an 'h'). Lucy never said and I didn't really care. I saw her twice during her pregnancy and once after the birth and he didn't seem to be around.

At first I felt pretty stupid. "You must get out more; all work and no play," I'd chide her over the phone. I'd kidded myself that without me Lucy would have become a hermit, or was that a nun? Clearly she was neither.

Dylan or someone sang you should not be where you don't belong. And I had no place in Lucy's life; certainly not her bed.

But no damage was done. Not even to my pride; if I'd had any I wouldn't have been such a dick in the first place. And then I would have missed not fun, no it wasn't fun. I would have missed the chance to feel alive - alive as a first parachute jump.

The chance to will the cabbie to jump every stop light. The chance to stand at her door; the chance to draw the cork and pour the wine. The chance to talk, the chance to invent a parallel life. The chance to kiss cheeks goodnight. The chance to come away in despair and frustration. To lie awake and replay the night.

The chance to know mad love.

I'm a retired former British national newspaper journalist who hasn't lost the writing bug. Visit me at my blog http://www.grapefruitcrazy.com/
Here I post regularly on my take on the world around me. As for the website's title all is revealed in the blog's profile.

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The Forgotten Body - Short Ghost Story

Katy was twelve when she first knew that aside from her family, there was another presence in the house. It was almost dusk, and she was sitting alone at the swing out front. She had been waiting for Penny, the nanny, to call her in for dinner when she saw a lady in the kitchen window. The lady was wearing a long white dress, her hair was pitch black, and her skin pale in contrast. Even though she couldn't quite see the lady's face, she knew she was pretty. Katy was still looking at the lady when she turned her head and smiled. She headed back to the house but stopped in her tracks when she saw the lady up close, around the corner.

Where the lady's eyes should have been, were deep, dark and empty sockets. Her head was still inclined towards Katy, and on her mouth was a plastered smile. Katy almost uttered a scream when Penny came out to call her in, "Katy! There you are. What are you doing?"

"Hi, Penny! I'm starving..." She looked back into the kitchen, but the lady was no longer there.

*****

"Please pass the peas, Katy. Katy? Katy!" her mom, Mrs. Marie, snapped her fingers.

"Oh. Yes, Mum?" Katy had been in a daze, thinking about her earlier encounter with their other resident.

"The peas, dearest darling," Katy did as she was asked. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about, darling? You've hardly touched your food."

She hesitated for a moment, in light of the possibility that if she told her mom what had transpired that afternoon, they might think her silly. But her mind wouldn't keep her at peace. "Mom, who owned this place before we moved in?"

Mr. and Mrs. Marie looked taken aback. After a bout of silence, her dad was first to speak.

"This place was empty for many years. The last occupants had left 13 years before we moved in. They were the Lucans. Why do you ask, Katy?"

"Hmm, is there any chance they had a daughter? Maybe about 20 years of age?"

"Where are all these questions coming from dear?" there was a hint of strain and panic in Mrs. Marie's voice.

"There was someone this afternoon, in the kitchen..."

Creak. Creak. Creak. They all turned to look at the stairs. After a few long moments, the creaking stopped, but the air in the house suddenly felt chilly, if only slightly.

"Dad, maybe we ought to move out tomorrow. Please, Dad." She had never seen her mom so frightened. Her dad agreed and told them to pack their things tonight.

Without asking, Katy figured out what was happening. After dinner, her mom helped her pack in her room. They went into bed together while her father was out to arrange their move tomorrow.

But Katy couldn't sleep that night. She felt as if someone was in the room with them, and someone was watching them both. That night, the house seemed cold despite it being summer, and noises were becoming more and more prominent as the night grew older.

Katy could not restrain herself any longer and decided to come down to the kitchen. She wanted to run back up when she saw the lady sitting quietly on the kitchen counter. Despite the hesitation in her legs, she mustered the last ounce of any courage she had left and approached the lady. She peered through the lady's dark hair and looked at her as though she actually had eyes. The lady smiled again.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Katy implored.

Even though the lady did not have eyes, she appeared sad and stood up. She took Katy by the arm and started leading her outside. While they were moving Katy felt the heat in her body slowly draining out where the lady's hand held her. She was scared but would not let her curiosity have her.

The lady knelt down beside the swing without saying a word. She sat still for a few moments, then started digging with both her hands, scraping her fingernails into the cold, damp earth. After a few minutes of what felt like an eternity, Katy started to see bones of a hand emerging from the dirt. And then she noticed that one finger had a ring. She helped dig with the lady after what seemed like an hour. The earth revealed bones of a young woman who passed away a long time ago. Katy looked over to where the lady was sitting, but all she saw was the swing. And empty earth. Her mother woke up and came looking for her, and all that they had seen, they reported to the police.

The body was of Carol Lucan, a 22-year old lady who was to be married. On the eve of her wedding, she was kidnapped and brutally murdered. The police had to file her case unsolved after many years of fruitless searching. With Katy's discovery of her remains, the police could open her file again. Katy's family gave her a proper burial on auspicious land, and from then on, the ghost of the young lady never appeared before them again.

To read more ghost stories, visit ReadingRabbits.com, where you will find some of the coolest online short stories.

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