Summer Shorts Read online

  ***

  Coincidence, even then I hung on to the belief that it was only that. I convinced myself that these occurrences could have no relation to the fact that a tree had been cut down in a village in Kent. That was then. I know better now for I write this just after saying goodbye to John for the last time. The churchyard at Midas Green now holds yet another Parishioner in a freshly turned grave. Apparently John had been ploughing the north acreage when it had begun to rain hard, turning the freshly ploughed field into a sea of mud. They believe he had overturned the tractor in his hurry to reach shelter. The tractor had pinned him down with its weight pushing him face down into the mud. When at last his strength had given out, he had suffocated in the same soft earth he had toiled to create. Why Sarah? Why? All he had done was watch, he had not wielded the axe, so why punish him? Tonight I am going to emulate that one-armed soldier all those years ago and try to pacify old Sarah. While the village sleeps I shall bury a small crucifix at the base of the stump which, in spite of all the poisons placed in it, shows signs of fresh greenery. Perhaps once one person has acknowledged her power, Sarah will sleep again.

  © Paul Raven 2014

  The Kitchen Imps By A. L. Butcher

  The kitchen was dark, just a faint sliver of moonlight shone through the big glass windows, which during daylight looked out over a rather mundane patio and a nondescript garden in an equally nondescript street. It was not a large room, this being a particularly cramped dwelling, at least for the human but he was not the only creature who lived here. Although of course, in the manner of humans he thought he was the most important, he was wrong. The human believed he ran this dwelling, in that too he was wrong.

  For a while the other creatures which dwelled here listened, pointed and hairy ears alert to any sounds, and eyes red and bulbous watching in the darkness. It was silent, save the drip-drip of the leaky tap and the soft squeak-squeak of one of the kitchen’s mousy occupants. The boldest of the small creatures pushed past the salt cellar, haphazardly shoved onto a shelf; it was a good deal taller than the creature and for good measure he kicked it hard. The salt cellar moved, teetering over the edge of the wooden shelf above the sink. The imp grinned, sharp and brown teeth revealed in a round but rather squashed face, a cap fashioned from the washing rags, which kept mysteriously vanishing according to the householder, adorned a bulbous head. The blue and white check pattern oddly reflected in the shiny silver cruet as a shaft of moonlight hit it. He kicked the salt cellar again bouncing with glee as it tumbled, showering salt hither and thither onto the floor.

  The imp tugged the remains of a face flannel about his rather hunched shoulders, another item purloined, this one pink with a grinning yellow duck, such as a human child would have, or perhaps someone who liked ducks. It did not suit the imp, but the creature was extraordinarily proud of his garment. It marked him out as leader, as the chieftain of this little group.

  Using a line no thicker than a length of cotton, which indeed was what it was, the imp slid down from the shelf. The cotton had been incautiously discarded next to the sewing box, and the reel of it was held by another imp – the Holder of the Sacred Rope. The sewing box itself was a treasure-trove for the imps, and each and every one held a needle, a sharpened button or scrap of cloth as a weapon or hook with which to climb. Those mice and the giant spider which lurked under the fridge could be pesky critters after all. Buttons were another item the householder found wanting in the dwelling. He knew he bought them on a regular basis but he could not, for the life of him, work out where they went, possibly the same place as his socks or keys. Ah yes the socks, perfect for imp bedding, but the human did not know that.

  The creature bounced from a tap to land in the stainless steel sink, chuckling when he saw the clean, empty expanse of stainless steel, the pristine sideboards and the carefully stacked washing up. This was going to be very enjoyable. Standing in a small puddle he beckoned the others down and one by one they slid down the cotton thread, yelling with glee at the prospect of mayhem. Their calls were beyond the hearing of any human being but alerted the elderly dog dozing in the corner; the hound opened one sleepy eye and growled, then barked once, and having done its duty to alert the household something was amiss returned to its slumber. The imps liked the dog, it was soft and slow and sometimes left food in its bowl. It was, they thought, a shame about the smell.

  The imps quickly scattered around the kitchen, their tiny but very efficient little legs carrying them far and wide, hunting for scraps and mayhem to be had. Small they might be but what they lacked in stature they made up for in cunning and mischief. One produced a small grappling hook- a twisted piece of wire and a magnet linked to silk stolen from an unfortunate and now very deceased spider and calling to nineteen others the imp spun the grapple around its head, and with a flick captured the handle of the refrigerator door. They were old hands at this and new exactly how many were required for their naughty plan.

  Twenty small bodies heaved and tugged until the door flew open and the delicious and above all messy contents were revealed to many grabbing hands and hungry mouths, which gobbled and stuffed and dribbled with delight at the repast. One of the imps, a tiny individual even by imp standards, spotted an open dish containing a lovely sticky sauce. Yelling at the top of his lungs he leapt over the bodies of his fellows and dived headfirst into the stickiness. He rolled and bathed and wriggled then for good measure he stood on the edge of the dish and jumped up and down until it tilted and fell. Howling and dancing with sheer euphoria he was as the contents fell to the floor with a deeply satisfying, “Splat!”

  Imps, still clamoring for room ran pell-mell through the glorious mess, sliding about on the tiled and formerly spotless floor. Another grapple found the pantry door and a myriad of small, but gleeful and sticky bodies leapt upwards, pulling, hauling and tugging. As the door swung open the imps pushed and shoved, grabbed and threw, clutched and gobbled. Flour fell like snow, a fine coating upon all it touched. Soy sauce tumbled and the glass bottle shattered, glass and liquid making sharp mountains and brown rivers amongst the white. Then came the tomato sauce, red and sticky, mixing in the mayhem. Four imps tugged their leader on a pilfered dish-cloth, like a sled on ice, only far more sticky. Eggs, the shells being used as hats or even tiny boats sliding in the mess brought ever more delight to the imps and still the dog snoozed, snoring and farting as it did so.

  The smallest imp began to tug at the washing up piled neatly, now dry it was merely waiting to be put away. The householder would soon regret his procrastination. Finally the dog roused from all the noise padded arthritically over to the center of the ruined kitchen, his paws moving through ketchup, jam and sundry other stickiness. Suddenly with a crash the plates cascaded from the draining board, smashing, bouncing and rolling in a cacophony of carnage. The door opened and every single imp disappeared, moving faster than the eye could see to leave an old and bemused dog in the middle of broken china, spoiled jars, squirted ketchup and other mischief.

  A bellowing voice yelled in consternation “Rufus! You naughty boy! Out into the yard you go and there you stay until you learn to be a good boy!”

  With that a hand grabbed the dog by the collar and the unfortunate animal was dragged whimpering to the aforementioned garden. The owner of the hand muttered and swore slamming the door to leave a poor and above all innocent hound to whimper in the rain. Within the kitchen a gleeful laugh echoed as the owner of the kitchen shook his head unaware of the tiny pairs of eyes enjoying their mischief.

  © A.L. Butcher 2014

  Boots? By Donny Swords

  Calmly.

  That is how he did everything. No move or gesture was dramatic. He moved with an effectiveness that subtly spoke. He knew things, had been around. He was experienced. The lines in his face said so. His easy manner suggested he learned from those adventures. Where he wore wrinkles, lines suggested happiness. He had earned those wrinkles while smiling.

  It was dawn when we sat
down at the table in his kitchen. We had pulled an all-nighter. I still could not believe it. I had nodded off for around ten minutes, while he had gotten up to stretch his legs a bit. When he came back in reeking of cigarettes, I was already up, with a cup of Joe in my hand.

  “Sorry darling. Had to go out. Some of these are powerful memories. Whew, the shit I’ve done. I hope Jesus still loves me.”

  He had just said one of his famous lines. I had to pinch myself. I was in his kitchen, holding a coffee cup… I had his poster on my wall when I was 14. I am 32 now. It is funny. I do not think my feelings have changed.

  “What do you say we go down to the beach? They can serve our breakfast out there.”

  “Sure,” I smiled, probably awkwardly. I still wanted to pinch myself. I could barely speak. He reached out his arm, I hooked mine in his, taking his hand. Here I was, writing his story…

  Sid Justice.

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s my pleasure darling.”

  Outdoors the air was refreshing, warm, but not sweltering, pleasant. The seaside sparkled as we walked down the beach, his beach; the whole island was his. Sid was smart when it came to his royalties. I wondered how he did it. How he was able to keep such a low profile. He let go of me and began to speak. I fumbled with my notebook and gave him the recorder to hold as he spoke.

  “Toronto.”

  “Why was Toronto so wild?”

  Did I really ask him that? It felt like a dream.

  “Me.”

  “You? What did you do that was so crazy?”

  I felt grateful for the recorder as Sid sat on a stone, knowing that I had not begun taking notes. That is the last time I worried about the notebook. The tape did turn out to be my savior…

  Sid began to speak.

  I could barely see his lips moving behind his beard, graying in places… He still sounded the same as he used to on TV or the radio, though he looked radically different. Gone were the long wavy tresses and full head of hair he had once enjoyed. His head was clean-shaven, a long beard helped interrupt his brazen baldness. His skin, a tanned bronze, shone shiny, clean, and soft in all the right ways. I realized I was swooning a bit. Even though Sid was in his late sixties, over twice my age, he still had the power to magnetize.

  “I woke up at 8:49. At least that is what the clock said.

  Dang it, I’m late again.

  There was no need to put on my blue jeans and look out the window. The van was gone. I knew it. The guys never stuck around.

  Somehow, I always found my way…

  How I made it to everything was beyond me to comprehend, above anybody’s ability in fact. It was only my second long road tour, in support of “Love Smokes,” but I was already a road legend. I dragged my jeans on anyhow, trying not to wake up the red haired sweetie I brought back to the motel, and did not remember.

  My feet felt sore on the shag.

  Looking down revealed too much about the night before, the debris, my cracked feet, their tenderness, and scabs… the beer cans, liquor bottles, clear, green, and brown, all told the same story. Half the trip had ended like this. I frequently woke up with women, in strange places, barefoot, often broke, and lost. At least this time I had landed at my own motel, much easier to manage.

  I slipped on my soft blue t-shirt with my bandmates’ side project artwork scrawled over the chest stating, “Paper Zombies.” I found a pack of cigarettes on the bathroom counter, and picked them up as I searched for my boots.

  I could have panicked. The year before, in similar situations, I had. Things came simpler this time around. Often, I absentmindedly went about my actions, rolling through a kind of mental checklist.

  “Girl?”

  “Check.”

  “Is she awake?”

  “Nope… Good.”

  “Showtime?”

  “8 PM/Eleven hours.”

  “Boots?”

  “Damn it.”

  I put one of the cigarettes to my lips, half-sneering, half-smiling as I stepped out of the motel room. The girl just kept sleeping. I let her. It was always better when they slept.

  “Wheels?”

  “Nope.”

  The band had grease-spotted me again. I often found myself in such predicaments, finding nothing but oil drippings where the tour van should have been.

  I would have to make it to Toronto by eight… I checked my wallet- plenty of cash. No problem. I headed towards the gift shop. It was open. Ah, what a small miracle- I had woke up in my own motel. That was a good sign. The sun above was another one. I hoped it would be a nice drive or ride… or whatever form of transportation I would end up taking to the show.

  The clerk greeted me as I came in.

  “How may I help you?”

  “Do you sell boots?”

  “Yes. Only the two pairs. I have most the sizes in stock.” The elderly woman motioned to the opposite wall. This was where mental conflict normally took place for others. Not so for me. I went to the boots, seeing the ones I wanted before I saw the other, less expensive ones.

  “Do you have a 12 in those?”

  It only took about a minute for her to find them.

  “How about a pair of socks, do you have any?”

  “Yeah, we have single pairs. You’ll save money if you pick up the multi-pack though.”

  “No thanks, one pair works.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She frowned as she looked at my feet. They looked rather beat up, as if I often went barefoot. I did, just as often as I blacked out. I got wild, whether the chips were down or not. I partied like a rock star, and rumors followed wherever I roamed.

  The boots shone sleekly, and they should have, for $800. Eel-skinned and fancy, with silver tips… just the thing I needed for the Sky Dome that evening. I was going to rock, plain and simple.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Yeah, do you have any black denim jeans, and a belt that might match the boots?”

  “I have a few.”

  She pointed them out, and soon enough I was leaving with my purchases. My wallet was $1300 thinner. So what? I made more cash every day. It was nothing but a thing.

  I finally settled on a taxi, which cost an excessive amount. I sat in back doing rails and drinking vodka straight from the bottle. The driver kept asking if I would be able to pay, so finally, my nerves growing thinner, I slapped a wad of cash on her seat.

  “Just drive, and don’t mind me darling.”

  Looking at the cash, she was aghast.

  “Where did you get so much money?”

  “I’m no criminal- if that’s what you are implying sweetheart. I’m a singer. A damn good one, when my head is right.”

  She smiled sweetly. I noticed her for the first time, not half-bad, for an older chick. I had my share last night. I sat back feeling confident I would make it to the show on time. Saying nothing, I stared at the forest going by on my right. Canada is a great place, but a cold one. I chuckled. I felt fine.

  Toronto or bust!

  I soon grew weary of staring out the window, falling asleep. I sorely needed sleep. I had not slept much the prior evening. Hell, I never slept. The driver was good for her word, dropping me at the Sky Dome ahead of schedule.

  Dale was standing next to the van when I got there. After listening to the bassist’s snide rhetoric, I balled Dale out for grease spotting me. I went inside for the sound check. It rocked. My voice cut through the stadium like a buzz saw.

  I strolled off the side wing, without speaking to Alan, (the drummer) or Peter, (the guitarist). Five hours until show time… I went and found something to eat, a couple small sandwich wedges provided by the venue.

  Sid Justice, I was two touring years in, and already the band was headliners. It was my name in the lights though. If they kept leaving me behind, I would do the same to them- permanently.

 
I went back to the dressing area, stripping by the small shower and got myself cleaned up. Then I went out to the van and found a new t-shirt, one not so stiff from spilt beer, or so spent.

  The crowd began arriving around three, packing the parking lot. Hoots and hollers rang out over rumbling muscle cars playing thunderous heavy metal- turned up a notch above ten in most cases. This was a heated crowd, and a hefty one.

  Surveying them, I was not nervous. A wide grin cranked my cheeks upwards, my eyes lit with enthusiasm. It was the show of a lifetime. I was ready.

  I went out into the hallway, somewhat blasted by the substances and alcohol I had consumed, for the better part of the day. With me, this went with the territory. I had never missed a show, not even a note. So what? It was fun.

  Alan was pacing the hall where it turned left towards the room where the sandwiches were. Sweating, and agitated- again. The drummer’s nerves always failed him before the show…

  “Dude, Alan, chill out buddy, no use having a coronary.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Yeah? How so? Last, I checked I have a bucket load of words to remember. I’m front and center. Honestly man, just keep the beat. You always do well, and, nobody can see you all that well anyhow. Get ready; we’ve got to rock their socks off. It’s our night man. Don’t let us down.”

  “That’s why dude- it’s a BIG gig. What if we mess up?”

  “We won’t- never do.”

  “Here puff this, it will mellow you out. I’m running down the hall for a snack. Want to come?”

  Alan followed me down the hall. Dale met us there, his face full of desperation.

  “Guys, help me hide- she’s back!”

  I smiled, “Here’s your chance Alan. Everyone else has been there.”

  The bassist’s face went rose in embarrassment.

  “Nah.”

  “Where’s Peter?”

  “Where else?”

  I should have known better than to ask. Peter was up to trouble. Guitarists often acted out, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

  What else was new?”

  Sid paused. I could see him process and disqualify what he was going to say. Any journalist ever to interview Sid Justice had to be patient. If I was going to succeed where my peers had not, I had to remain personable. It had not been easy to get this interview. I am not a pushy reporter. Maybe this is because I am not established. I did not get to speak to Sid on merit. I went through different channels. My goal was never a single interview. I want to write his memoirs. You see, Sid is my hero.

  He bent against the wind, palming an orange disposable lighter, propped a cigarette into his crooked mouth, and sparked it up. Three perfect puffs of smoke came from his mouth, as he turned towards me with a thoughtful look on his face.

  “See, thing is darling, I might not want to talk about that afternoon.”

  “I know my fellow journalists pressed you, but I won’t. Thing is Sid- well that is my point actually. You are Sid Justice. Everyone expects you to have a crazy story or two. I am confident it won’t affect your image, whatever you choose to say.”

  “Damn, you’re good sunshine, but I’ll just say this.”

  “Girl?”

  “Check.”

  “All good?”

  “Yep, feeling fine.”

  “Showtime?”

  “Ready.”

  “Boots?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  We hit the stage at exactly 8 PM. Thunderous riffs sliced through the air like a giant broad sword. Applause carried over the wall of music, as dual bass drums shook the ground and heavy metal- my way- came to town.

  All was mayhem. All was bliss.

  My right hand made a fist around the microphone as I bent towards the stand, my hair blown back by fans, and my right eel-skin boot propped on the monitor speaker, left fist in the air.

  “I can hear you scream,

  I control your dreams,

  I will make you fiend,

  I control all things,

  I can see your eyes,

  You don’t want to die,

  I can feel your pain,

  Stick the needle in your vein.”

  The crowd was electric and large, numbering in the high thirty thousands, and Sid Justice was on fire- kings for a night. Objects of affection and offerings of appreciation found their way to the stage.

  By the end of the first number, I had to ask the crowd to hold back so I could introduce the band…

  “Alan Parker on drums!”

  “Dale Foster on bass!”

  “Peter Paul on guitar!”

  “Who am I?”

  I bent towards the crowd, cupping a palm over my left ear.

  “Sid Justice!”

  “That’s right!”

  “When I ask you who you are, you say Toronto! Are you with me?”

  “Yeah!” came the crowd’s reply. There was working room.

  “I couldn’t hear you! Now, you can go around being sheepish, or you can rock. Lemme hear you one more time!”

  “WHO ARE YOU?”

  “TORONTO!”

  “That’s right! Goddamn, I think you have that licked. You know who you are. The question is what do you do? Why are you here? Why?”

  The drums pounded out an infectious groove, the bass joined in. Spirits were at stake.

  “Well I’ll tell you why. It’s why I’m here. It’s why we’re all here. When I ask what we do? You say ‘We rock!’ Got that?”

  The drums kept on, the stage lights were low. A single spotlight shone over me, silver light framing my silhouette against the drum riser.

  Now, what do we do?

  “We rock!”

  “Aw, c’mon, now I know you can do better than that, and you know it. Put your organs into it… WHAT DO WE DO?”

  “WE ROCK!”

  “That’s right!”

  Peter Paul’s Stratocaster cut in, announcing Sid Justice’s early song, Dreamweaver. The riff was enthralling, entrancing, evermore… it pumped pure magic into the air, igniting the crowd.

  “Razor’s edge,

  Cutting blade,

  No running to shelter,

  No hiding from pain,

  Shell of a man,

  Lost in isolation,

  A victim of love,

  Martyr of hate,

  Dreamweaver.”

  The second song had the crowd in pandemonium. Mosh pits erupted on the floor, crowd surfers rode on thousands of outstretched palms, and rockers wrestled for position, struggling to get their hand on the rail, the final barrier to the stage to avoid the ocean of bodies sweeping them away.

  Alan’s beat segued into the next number without pausing…

  Dale’s bass pumped a solid rhythm to the masses…

  Peter’s Am arpeggio sounded bell-like, beautifully blending with the rhythmic beat…

  “Hey Mister- what’s wrong with you?

  What kind of thing did this to you?

  Hello in there, is everything alright?

  You’re kind of drooling, and you look uptight.

  Hey-ay-ay-aa-ay.

  Hey Mister.”

  When the music stopped after the third song, we had won Toronto over. Whenever a group plays a show, the first couple of tunes put the audience on the fence. It is up to us to tip the fans our direction, no matter our legendary status. “Hey Mister” was a genuine crowd pleaser. I had a formula, the first song always rocked. Always a fast number, the opener had to give the fans release, a chance to pump their fists in the air. The second song had to engage the audience. By the third, they had to be singing along.

  Toronto sang.

  With every tune, the excitement grew. Bras and thongs, photos and signs flew onstage. The party was full steam. The audience sang every word.

  “Chains” was the final song we played, the thirteenth tune that evening left the crowd in smithereens, r
ocked to the point of exhaustion. “Rock-xhaustion!”

  “Another world brings us back,

  High on sin,

  Running with the pack,

  Forever lonely,

  Lonely is my name,

  I can’t live down my shadows of fame,

  Sitting in a cloud of smoke,

  Mind is blowing,

  It’s all a joke-

  Chains.”

  “I didn’t really care for the lifestyle, you know? I know it sounds like I did, free times, free dope, loose women- booze. It was all a front. I had to make a living. Toronto changed that somehow. Hell, it changed me. The after party was off the hook…”

  As Sid spoke, I began to come to grips with who he was. I felt his wisdom, and sensed his kindness. He was genuine, real. I have met a few stars in my time, but none carried themselves like Sid.

  “By the time I hit my dressing room, things were out of control. I remember the girl I brought along, and two others meeting me there. I don’t think it’s appropriate to kiss and tell, so I’ll move on. But, that isn’t why I mentioned it. They had vodka- about a pint I guess. It got me started. I went on a roll fairly soon after.

  Occasionally, experiencing stardom is rewarding. We joined the actual party after my band had. As soon as I hit the door, I was signing photos. Someone handed me a beer in a red plastic cup. We laughed and joked. The girls I brought from the dressing room fanned out in the room. Soon, they were magnets on one of my bandmates’ arms.

  Funny how that works, these girls make their rounds- no offense.

  Dudes passed me handfuls of party supplies- weed, pills, and booze kept coming… a lot of illegal stuff. I just took it all. If somebody said, “Here, take this,” I did.

  It got crazy. Things went askew. Hell darling, I probably drank a gallon of booze. Least I remember that much.

  Booze is the great eraser. I can tell you that.

  Dudes raced me with mugs of beer. We did rails in between… One girl kept rolling me joints. I remember talking to Alan with a gal draped on my arm. I was fully dressed- That’s it.”

  Sid looked serious then, his lines stretched taut over his forehead, his lips parsed by his beard.

  “Funny thing is that’s actually a sweet memory. My companion was worth spending time around. Her raven hair, dark eyes, and curves amazed me. Guess I couldn’t tell you her name if the horsemen showed themselves and the only way I could save us all was to know. It isn’t too snazzy, just the truth.

  Waking up was the crazy part. Now, not waking up per say. I came to. The world had been moving, and me with it. I just didn’t remember a lick.”

  We came to a gazebo, and Sid motioned me to a seat. He produced a flask as he sat down opposite of me. His eyes sparkled gently, devilishly.

  “When my brain finally knew what I was seeing, I sat on a bench, staring at my beat up feet, cursing under my breath.

  Someone had spoken to me. I had my hand cupped to my forehead, frightened to look up. I did. As shock hit my system, the homeless man seated next to me stated the case.

  “I don’t know who you are, but you sure can party!”

  The guy was blasted. His matted hair framed a deeply wrinkled face. What teeth my new companion had were stained a dark yellow or broken stumps. He was clutching a bottle of black label whiskey. I had one too. I had to look away.

  I was screwed.

  I surveyed the city in front of me.

  Manhattan.

  The city sparkled that day, the twin towers still stood… I took it in, shocked, and scared…

  “Blackout?”

  “Yup.”

  “Girl?”

  “Nope, worse.”

  “Showtime?”

  “8 PM.”

  “Wheels?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cash?”

  “Nope.”

  “Miles to go?”

  “300 or more.”

  “Dang!”

  “Boots?”

  “Nope.”

  “Things went differently then. We had phones in boxes, they took coins, but you could call folks collect. Sounds crazy now, but that’s how it was done in the 80’s. It took me two hours to find one, I kept asking people what time it was.

  I remember dudes giving me strange glances. It was wild. Bless Jesus. I was only a kid. I had a devil-may-care chip on my shoulder. I don’t remember how I shook the bum. I just remember finding a newspaper vendor. Following a blackout, it’s always good to find out the date. Nothing could describe my relief fairly. My black out occurred the prior night. This good news diminished the odds I caused any lasting damage in my wake.

  Finding a phone booth made me feel a bit better- except for Mike. Mike, our manager had gotten tired of my messing around. He was not happy. Even as he spoke to the operator, I heard his animosity.”

  Operator: “I have a collect call from Sid Justice. Do you accept?”

  Mike: “Oh yeah of course. This ought to be good.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Oh man, he was livid. I couldn’t imagine how red-faced he must have been.”

  “Hello? Where are you?”

  There was no use sugar coating anything.

  “Manhattan.”

  “Damn it!”

  “Lucky for you, the band plays Rochester tonight. I’m wiring money.”

  The agent explained where I needed to go to pick up the cash.

  “Did you lose your boots again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hate you.”

  Mike hung up on me. The phone went dead. I set out. You know the rest. That evening we recorded our live album and video, “Live at the Gates.”

  After The Gates released, Sid Justice became a household name. He wears a black silk shirt, blue jeans, and ebon motorcycle boots in the film. I used to play my copy of The Gates to death.

  He rocked.

  Sid spoke quietly as he cupped his palm to light another cigarette…

  “Would you like to hear more?”

  © Donny Swords 2014

  The Case of the Six Broken Milk Bottles by Chris Raven

  "It's happened again!” Henry Dunston said, as he looked back and forth between Charles and Benedict with a mixture of hope and annoyance. "That's five times now in as many months.”

  Benedict gave the older gentleman a sympathetic look and reflected on how time could be a lot kinder to some people rather than others. Despite his seventy plus years or so, Henry Dunston remained a dashingly handsome man for his age, with his thick wavy gray hair, strong chin and that cheeky twinkle in his eye. It was not for the first time that Benedict found himself thinking that in the right circumstances, he definitely ‘would’.

  "I know Henry,” Benedict commiserated. “It must be extremely frustrating.”

  "Frustrating? I should cocoa!" Henry replied, uncharacteristically irritable. “I brought this to you back in October but you said it was a coincidence."

  "I know,” Benedict agreed apologetically, “but it had only happened once before then.”

  "Both occasions were on the same day of the month and it has been again every month since.”

  “Well in retrospect, I would have to agree with you,” Benedict thoughtfully replied. “It does indeed sound like a pattern.”

  “It is more than that young man,” Henry insisted. “I have asked the other tenants, the ones Humphrey delivers to at any rate, and no one else apart from me has had any problems at all with their milk deliveries. Five smashed milk bottles and me at my age having to mop up the mess from all over the corridor each time. I wouldn’t mind so much but I had a house guest last month, an old friend from Germany. I was ever so embarrassed not to be able to offer her a cup of tea with her breakfast.”

  “Mr Dunston,” Charles suddenly announced, “I have decided to take on your case.” Benedict had all but forgotten about Charles, as he had spent the whole time sitting at
the dining table in silence, absentmindedly stroking his full groomed mustache.

  “Oh!” Henry said, surprised. “Um, thank you Charles.”

  Shortly afterwards Benedict showed Henry out of the flat and in the hallway by the front door Henry asked what was wrong with Charles.

  “I mean,” Henry continued, “why did he call me Mr Dunston? We’ve known each other for years.”

  “I don’t know Henry,” Benedict replied thoughtfully. “He’s been a bit off since Christmas. He seems to have gone all Victoriana for some reason.”

  Henry nodded, almost as if that made some kind of sense to him. As he was about to leave Benedict suddenly thought of something.

  “Before you go Henry, I was just was wondering, is there any significance in the date? You know the 23rd.”

  “No, not really,” was the reply but Benedict could not help but notice a slight pause and an uncomfortable look on Henry’s face. ‘Oh, you are a dark horse after all’ Benedict thought, as he closed the front door.