Literary as hell.

Tag: Online Writing (Page 1 of 2)

Flash Fiction by Ivan Jenson

“Park Avenue Paradise” by Ivan Jenson

 The suicide’s body landed only a foot away from where Jake and his old friend Eton stood. They had just stepped away from that very spot after lighting up their cigarettes.  Neither of them really smoked back then in the summer of 1998.  They were just messing around.  When they heard the thud, at first they didn’t know what it was until they saw him–a pale geeky-looking man in his thirties dressed in black slacks and a white button-down shirt, just laying there with his legs and arms splayed in a zig  zag position.  He had the bemused yet hopeless expression of a man who had truly run out of options. He lay half on the grass, half on the city sidewalk.  Jake looked up to the roof from where the man had jumped to his death.  It was approximately twelve-stories high.  Jake had a friend who lived in the building.  She was a Ford model who he had spent two years hanging out with until he broke it off because he wanted to be more than just platonic friends.  It was a building that represented heartbreak to Jake.

 A few people gathered on the sidewalk.  Somebody must have called the police because two cops arrived on the scene within minutes.

  Jake and Eton kept walking because they were headed for a party at a loft on 14th Street and Avenue A.  They were speechless about what they had just witnessed.  And the only way they expressed their shock was with nervous laughter.

 The vast loft was owned by a famous artist who was in his 70s and his raw, expressionist paintings were hanging in museums and worth tens of thousands of dollars. Yet the artist did not seem to mind that a bunch of strangers were getting trashed in his living space and art studio.

  Jake ended up in a conversation with the artist’s alluring daughter.  She lived with her father.  She was not an artist; rather, she worked on Wall Street in a sensible job and she had plans to leave the city as soon as she saved up enough money.

  “Where do you want to go?” Jake asked, already feeling abandoned.

 “I want to live in Alaska near my brother who’s a fisherman.”

  “Isn’t it really cold there?”

  “Not as cold as this city.  And I’m not talking about temperature.”

  Jake knew then she was a New York City hater.  You either loved or hated it–there was very little middle ground.  

 The artist’s daughter soon lost interest in Jake. Before she wandered off she said, “Sorry, I feel like a social butterfly tonight.”

 Eton had copped some cocaine and was busy talking with a small group who looked equally hyped-up and wide-eyed.

  “I’m going to get going,” Jake said to Eton.  Once his friend started doing blow, he was beyond reason, and Jake was not in the mood for chemical stimulants.

  “Are you sure? Think of the connections you could make here.  Shit, man. Stick around.”

  “Naw, I gotta go.”

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2017 February Contest Finalist: “Instead of a Valentine” by Pamela Sinicrope

If a couple gets married

and one commits suicide on February 11th,

is it anyone’s fault?

Feminists can blame all they want.

Husbands can lament and take lashes

while they rewrite poetry.


Like a blinking eye that opens then closes-

what is-is.  Unless it isn’t.

Depression was a black lung hung off

a rat’s tail on the tree by her window or-

asbestos pilled on plumbing pipes-unwrapped

and falling like snow-long before they said, ‘I DO.’

Long before, Sylvia swallowed 48 pills, slept

beneath her house, woke to try again.


Marriage is hard, poets complex,

Poetry is hard, marriage complex.

Like pulled threads in a sweater, they unraveled.

Depression created a triangle.  

Factor in children and the figure converted

to a love pentagon-where two people wanted winged

poems sailing space and three sides were left hanging.

Pentagon then add a lover? That’s a hexagon.

The shape shifted, lost all sides, became thread-a heart,

became a pneumatic noose around a head roast.


Sylvia gasped air and faltered, fell asleep.  

She wrote every day in the dark before a baby

banged pots on the floor, uttered, ‘ma-ma,’

while Ted left to write, wrangle crows.

Rejection lassoes perfection.


How romantic-two poets in the same house-

unparalleled love letters, mirrored muses:

in truth, for them, it was murder-

no, it was a contest-

no, it was academia-

publish, perish, publish, Pulitzer-no


noose was wide enough to capture

the universe of words that broke them-

no-broke her.

Instead of a valentine,

the noose became a knot.

The Author’s Autopsy by Stacey Lane

Photographer: Michael C. Moore. (2013)

Briana Osborne and Jennifer Royer in The Author’s Autopsy at Changing Scene Theatre Northwest in Bremerton, Washington. Directed by Pavlina Morris and Kyle Boynton. Photographer: Michael C. Moore. (2013)



Stacey Lane

Lane’s plays have been performed at over four hundred theatres on six continents. Her scripts are published with Furious Gazelle,  Dramatic Publishing, Playscripts Inc., Pioneer, Eldridge, Smith and Kraus, Heuer, Brooklyn Publishers, Next Stage Press, Manhattan Theatre Source, JAC Publishing, Thunderbolt Theatre & Film Productions, Seraphemera Books, San Luis Obispo Little Theatre, Sterling, Freshwater, Poydras Review, The Quotable, Euphony Journal, Germ Magazine, Mock Turtle Zine, Indian Ink, The Other Otter, Monologue Database, Actor Point, Canyon Voices, Whoopee Magazine, Steel Bananas and Scene4.  She is the recipient of the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation Residency Grant, the Montgomery County Arts & Cultural District’s Literary Artist Fellowship and winner of the Unpublished Play Reading Project Award at the American Alliance for Theatre and

Poetry by T.J. Cheverie

T.J. Cheverie is an emerging Canadian poet living in Pemberton, British Columbia. In 2012 he won the Mayor’s Poetry Challenge in Whistler for his poem ‘Time’. More recently, he has been published in several literary journals and magazines. He is currently hard at work dreaming and contributing daily to the human story. Follow him @AuthorTJC or connect with him at

Gypsy Courtyard by William K Hugel


You called it a Gypsy courtyard.

The only Gypsy you had ever met said don’t call us Roma, only people who feel sorry for us call us that. Gypsies are free people who live how they want. Then laughing she said: Roma is a word for guilty white people. Then, no longer smiling: White people feel guilty because they think everyone wants to be like them.

Though you still didn’t know what a Gypsy was. Not really. Though you had some idea of course. You had had your pocket picked in Prague. You still remember the face, brown skin dark eyes (but in America lots of people have brown skin and dark eyes, so how were you, an American, to know the difference?). You had smiled at him after you’d all bumped with the starting of the train. Only checked for your wallet later, after they’d all gotten off.

But you still remember the face. A sudden grimace and pain had met your smile after you had all bumped. This wasn’t so strange; everyone in Prague met you with a grimace and some pain you didn’t understand.

You already thought you liked Hungarians better. Not so many grimaces, not the unfathomable pain. An old woman had set herself up grandly at the other end of your courtyard here. And then you too, following her example, at the other end. Hers was far grander. A recliner and a rainbow umbrella. You saw her on your first day holding a young woman’s hand, leaning close, you hoped she told fortunes. You wanted yours told, badly.

You’d left many times like that. Apropos of nothing, like a thief in the night. Just gone. But that last time it felt different. You thought for the first time you were perhaps sick, mentally ill.

So far a cat has been your best friend. He had said hello before, he always said hello, though stressfully, fretfully. Then he came through the bars in the window. You left some butter (you wished you’d had some tuna) on the sill and you went away. You didn’t want to pressure him. He licked the butter and left while you waited in the other room.

Then the old lady with the grand terrace with the recliner and the rainbow umbrella came to you at your own new small terrace.

It had been a glorious day, or two or three, at least two, you couldn’t remember, in Budapest. Some sort of spring cleaning. A license, you supposed (though you were too shy to ask anyone, someone you didn’t know) from the city to get rid of anything you didn’t want. Spring cleaning. It was mid April. And quite glorious, all this junk piled in the street. It reminded you of something you had read. Some tribe that took everything from their huts every spring and burned it all in a pile. Then started anew.

You respected the city (you had respected everything Hungarian before you’d even gotten there) for leaving the junk out, for at least two days or three, for whoever wanted to pick through and find something. A fine day for Gypsies! you thought with some amusement. People went about the city with cars pulling trailers, finding treasures. At first you were too shy. I don’t know the customs, you thought. Maybe only Gypsies are allowed to take stuff, and besides my little apartment off the Gypsy courtyard is fully furnished-overly furnished-and you didn’t know how long you’d be there.

Then you saw a broom. They had given you a mop but not a broom. You needed one, it was true. And then you noticed that everyone was taking things, not just those with brown skin and dark eyes (though lots of people in America have brown skin and dark eyes, so how were you, an American, to know a Gypsy?) and this filled you with respect and warmth. Yes I may take something, you thought and you were elated, floating down the street with your broom, with its old bent half-gone bristles, that you knew would fall out the first time you used it.

That was the beginning. There were old chairs, some beautiful, but you didn’t need those. Then you thought of a terrace! You had admired the old lady’s, with its rainbow umbrella and reclining chair. And certainly you shouldn’t bring out the tourist apartment furniture, it might get rained on or stolen (people were always coming in and out of that courtyard) and it would be disrespectful even. So, yes! you found a soft old chair, though not a recliner, and looked for an umbrella, as the old woman certainly knew how to build a terrace in that Gypsy courtyard! And maybe just an old table… but you wondered…. There were people lingering, some digging (these ones you knew were Gypsies, almost for sure) near this pile with the old table. Other Gypsies nearby had things gathered to them. Perhaps they rightfully owned all of it!? Everything in the street may be rightfully theirs! You were always one to respect proprieties….

But you were almost sure, nearly sure, that there was a distinction. People lingering near piles or digging as opposed to people with things gathered to themselves. There was a distinction, you were almost sure of it. So you took a chance, and nervously took hold of a table, by the leg, and waited a moment. You weren’t just going to run off with it. It was a small dirty table, just right for a little terrace, opposite the old woman with the grand terrace. You walked away slowly, whistling, waiting to be followed, chased, you rehearsed in your head an apology. “Bow-cha-shon mey. Shoy-nosh.” Would someone still want to fight with you? Even with an apology, said correctly in the native tongue? Well, if they didn’t take a polite apology that wasn’t your fault, you could fight, you supposed….

But that didn’t happen. And then you were sitting at your little terrace, quite a comfortable little chair it was and the old woman approached you. You hoped she would tell your fortune.

She didn’t speak English, and you used your Hungarian phrases. You were proud of how quickly you had learned them. “Shoy-nosh. Beh-say-lick chak ed-ya kiss mad-ya-rool. Ah-meh-ree-kah-ee vod-yok.” But she kept talking Hungarian though you knew you had said it right. You wished you remembered how to say “I don’t understand,” it was in your notebook, you almost remembered. But maybe it didn’t matter. She would talk anyway.

She gave you Christian pamphlets. You wanted to think they were elaborate advertisements for her fortune telling. But they weren’t. You knew as soon as she gave them to you. She knew the word “God” in English. It’s true you were disappointed.

She went away and brought you some food. Then she opened her mouth to show you that she had no teeth. This, too, filled you with warmth and respect. Certainly you worried about your own teeth.

Of course you wondered if the food might be poisoned, so you looked at her eyes. No no innocent eyes. Of course you can’t know for sure, but you were hungry, (so she read my mind after all! you thought, and you thought this was funny, because you were always hungry) and you can’t go around insulting people who bring you food by not eating it. And you would know, you thought, if it was poisoned, you would just know, and if not, what really matters?

She went away. You said “Keh-sa-nom keh-sa-nom ser-voos” and really it was very tasty.

When you were done the cat came back, the one who had been your best friend. He was always flitting around, never peaceful and still. Though he always said hello, that was enough, though a bit stressfully it’s true. You wished he was a peaceful cat and would sit in your lap. That would be better for you both. He must be young, you thought, and you thought again about your age and your teeth.

And you wished you still had a piece left for him. And you thought about how you had up and left everything once again. Erased everything. But now it didn’t feel so bad. Maybe I’m not mentally ill, you thought. The old lady had said I was good. I had understood that much. And the cat had said it too.


William K Hugel dropped out of college seventeen years ago to dedicate himself to writing, drinking, dancing and all other forms of degradation that lead to good fiction. Among his proudest accomplishments are the play DEMONS, which recently had a reading at The Hive Theatre in NYC; his novella Napoleon: The Boy who Found a War, which was shortlisted for the Faulkner/Wisdom award as a novel-in- progress; and a collection of self-published, handmade original fairy tales, which he wrote after experiencing the tragedy of Hurricane Katrina. The first of these, “Beautiful Wild Rose Girl” was awarded a Gold Medal by Children’s Literary Classics International Book Awards.


Twitter: @wkhugel

Survive the Night by Thomas Zimmerman

Thomas Zimmerman teaches English, directs the writing center, and edits two literary magazines at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His chapbook In Stereo: Thirteen Sonnets and Some Fire Music appeared from The Camel Saloon Books on Blog in 2012. Tom’s website:

Three Poems by Neil Ellman

Neil Ellman, a New Jersey poet, has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.  More than 900 of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and contemporary art, appear in numerous print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.

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The Dung Beetle & Other Poems by Ed Higgins

Ed Higgins’ poems and short fiction have appeared in various print and online journals including: Word Riot, Monkeybicycle, Pindeldyboz, Tattoo Highway, and Blue Print Review, among others. He and his wife live on a small farm in Yamhill, OR, raising a menagerie of animals including two whippets, a manx barn cat (who doesn’t care for whippets), two Bourbon Red turkeys (King Strut and Nefra-Turkey), and an alpaca named Machu-Picchu.

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Happy Birthday, Charlie!, by Jonathan Dean

“I want to get laid.”

The silence in the afternoon tea lounge was suddenly – deafening. Cups of milky Earl Grey tea remained suspended in mid-air, between saucers and lips; sandwiches with only one bite nibbled from them were returned to their plates and an errant piece of sponge cake fell to the floor, spreading a trail of crumbs as it rolled. Genteel conversation had stopped.

The innocent question had been posed by Ruth Denholme, Alberta’s Lieutenant Governor who was visiting ‘The Meadows’ retirement home. Two residents had reached the age of one hundred and each had received from Her Honour’s own hand a certificate acknowledging their longevity. Birthday cakes had been served, presents unwrapped and good wishes, along with a few appropriate jokes, had been heaped upon the two centenarians. As Ruth Denholme circulated among the tables, shaking hands, speaking a little louder than normal to accommodate various hearing aids, she came to Charlie Bright who sat in a strategic seat near one of the large windows.

Charlie, dressed for the occasion in his best sports jacket and tailored grey slacks, looked steadily at Ruth Denholme as he was introduced to the Lieutenant Governor.

“I would like you to meet Mr Charlie Bright, your Honour,” said Mrs Yates, the Retirement Home Director, as she accompanied the Lieutenant Governor around the room. “He will reach the age of one hundred next week. So this tea is, for him, a pre-birthday party. But we will make sure he has a special day for himself when his birthday actually arrives.”

Ruth Denholme extended the Honourable Hand to Charlie Bright who rose from his seat, gently took the outstretched limb and raised it to his lips. She smiled at the elegant gentleman who, at six foot two inches and with a full head of silvery hair, resembled a movie star of bygone days.

It was then that Her Honour posed the seemingly innocent question.

“And what would you like for your birthday?” she had asked, as if Charlie Bright’s childhood had never quite passed.

And Charlie Bright had continued to look straight back at her and had given his answer.

Ruth Denholme was a master at not reacting to the unusual and unexpected. Finessing the question with skill, she at once asked Charlie, who was still holding on to her,

“And do you think you will get lucky?”

Charlie Bright’s stare did not waver.

“I hope so, Madame, I really hope so,” was his answer.

And Her Honour, Ruth Denholme, the Queen’s representative, knew that Charlie wasn’t kidding. There was no embarrassed lowering of the eyes or uncomfortable giggle from either of them. Charlie Bright had told her exactly what he wanted. A rather refreshing departure, Ruth thought, from the usual wishes for visits from grandchildren and other family members, or a trip out to some local mall or a transatlantic phone call from an old friend. No, Charlie Bright wanted something he would enjoy. Good for him, she thought. The business of afternoon tea had resumed by now, but the buzz of conversation had notched up a few decibels and Charlie’s name or ‘he’ or ‘that man’ could be heard from the depths of a number of armchairs. Ruth Denholme completed her visit, checked her schedule with her aide, said a few words about how lovely it had all been and then took her farewell. On her way out, she stopped in the Director’s Office for a few words.

“You must excuse Mr Bright,” said Mrs Yates. “I never thought he would come up with – that suggestion. It was not the place to use that sort of language and I would like to offer you our most sincere apologies. I do hope you were not too offended.” She paused, trying to put the apples back into the cart.

Ruth Denholme leaned towards the Director.

“Do you know, Mrs Yates, he is probably more honest than most people when asked that question. I have seen so many people fishing around wondering what they would like for their birthday and I have heard ‘I don’t want anything at my age’ so many times that I have lost count. Mr Bright knows what he wants.”

“Well, he’s not going to get it here,” said Mrs Yates. “I won’t allow it.”

“Is that so?” said Ruth Denholme. “My feeling is that we should try to see that his birthday wish comes true. Maybe a solution will become apparent in the next few days?”

Mrs Yates was just about to dismiss Ruth Denholme’s suggestion when she realised that perhaps the Lieutenant Governor was quite serious. She swallowed a few times, took a couple of deep breaths and looked up at the woman who was still standing in front of her.

“Are you saying that I should…we should…that Charlie Bright…I don’t know how to…”


“Right. Proceed.”

“Let me say. Mrs Yates, that now his wishes are known, a solution will eventually present itself. No problem is unsolvable if the will is there. I would be obliged if you will let me know what the outcome is – when does he turn one hundred?”

“In ten days time,” said Mrs Yates, flustered by her guest’s request.

“Then I shall await your report, unofficial I might add, sometime later this month. Now, I regret I have to leave for my next appointment, children’s kindergarten classes at the school, quite the opposite end of the age scale. Thank you again for this opportunity to meet your staff and the residents.”

Ruth Denholme found it difficult to suppress a chuckle as she made her way out to her official car. As it drove off, she finally burst out laughing at the incredible situation she had just witnessed.

Katie Lynne Dempster, a reporter form the local newspaper who had been sent to cover the Lieutenant Governor’s visit, flipped open her cell phone and called her editor.

“Can you send someone else to the L.G’s next venue?” she asked. “I’m on to something here. Just trust me,” she replied when asked why she couldn’t keep to her appointed schedule. She snapped the lid back on her phone. Katie Lynne knew that her editor would give her the leeway she needed now that she was on to something. After fifteen years of hard work for the paper she had developed quite an ability to come up with an interesting story.

Katie Lynne Dempster was in her mid-thirties. A large woman with a homely rather than a good-looking figure, an open face and a mess of unkempt curly blonde hair, she stood just under six feet tall even in her flat shoes. Unmarried, no current boyfriend, between relationships she always told the inquisitive, no sex life whispered her co-workers, and newspaper reporting was her consuming passion. She would often work late into the night in her office, disregarding any attempt at social offers that came to her, and every week her articles were featured prominently in the city newspaper. And editors of some of the big national dailies always took notice if something of hers appeared in print or on line. Today she knew she had a winner. With an eye-catching headline she could trump local calamities and miseries of the world with a story about an unusual birthday wish. She had considerable hopes that this would stir up a real debate about what life was like for the elderly.

As soon as the visiting dignitaries had left, Katie Lynne gathered up her notepad, pen and camera. Instead of following the Lieutenant Governor out of the building, she headed over to where Charlie Bright was still sitting, savouring a final cup of tea. Switching on her most radiant smile she introduced herself to the handsome old gentleman.

“So, a reporter,” he commented after all the preliminaries were over. “Local paper interested in an old man, eh? You should be talking to these other old ladies who really are one hundred. They’re the ones Her Honour came to see.” Charlie took another sip from his tea cup.

“They will be suitably covered, Mr Bright,” said Katie Lynne. “It was about them that I came here. See, I have a whole pad of notes about them and photos with Ruth Denholme.” She waved her yellow pad in front of Charlie. “But I couldn’t help but feel intrigued by what you wished for you birthday. I think it took Her Honour by surprise.”

Charlie Bright gave her a share of the same steady look which he had turned on to the Lieutenant Governor.

“And why shouldn’t it?” he asked. “A natural part of life, I would have thought?”

Katie Lynne nodded. I suppose I would have to agree with that, she thought.

“Tell me about yourself, Mr Bright,” she said, “and then, if I may, I will take your photograph?”

Charlie Bright leaned forward.

“I’ll give you the short version,” he said. “A hundred years of my life is not going to be read by too many of your audience.”

The following day, the local city paper ran the article about the Lieutenant Governor’s visit. The headline announced the centenarians’ birthdays and then there was the obligatory photograph of Ruth Denholme having tea and cake with the two ladies who were celebrating the day. Further down the page a shorter paragraph mentioned the conversation she had had with Charlie Bright. Mrs Yates initially considered quietly removing the papers from the Common room but she knew that it would be impossible to suppress the article entirely.

As Katie Lynne Dempster had expected, it didn’t take long for the eagle-eyed readers from the big national papers to become aware of Charlie Bright’s request. By noon, phone calls had been made to Katie Lynne and then to the retirement home, and a local television station had expressed an interest in Charlie’s remarks. Of course, in the present age of digital communication, comments were posted on the internet and then, as they say, ‘it all went viral.’

Mrs Yates acted fast to minimise any damage and upheaval to her residents. All reporters were barred from the place. Phones gave out a recorded message about there being ‘no comment’ and emails were transferred to a special folder so that they didn’t clog the operation of the home.

“They’re coming from as far away as Australia, Sweden and even Africa,” the secretary reported as she managed the computer.

“And the contents?” Mrs Yates asked.

“Most of them want to help him out. They would like to deliver his present in person!”

Mrs Yates thought about what Ruth Denholme had suggested. For once, her own years of experience in dealing with difficult situations had deserted her. So for the next few days she diplomatically fielded ‘enquiries’ from near and afar. She noticed that quite a number of the Home’s residents were suddenly taking advantage of the visiting hair-stylist who reported requests for ‘something new’ or ‘something that would make me stand out in a crowd’ or simply ‘make me look sexy.’

On Saturday morning, five days after the famous request, a knock came on Mrs Yates’ office door. A few residents had made ‘enquiries’ about Charlie Bright but the two ladies who entered had a somewhat more determined air about them.

Janet and Jane Clements were two sisters in their late seventies. “Only one year and a ‘t’ separate us” they would chirp merrily to anyone who was introduced to them. Usually they would chat to Mrs Yates in the public areas over coffee or talk about the weather with an eye to taking a walk downtown. But today they had come with a purpose and the first matter of business was to ask if they could close the office door?

“Certainly,” said Mrs Yates.

There was a pause.

“We thought that…we came to…” Both sisters started at once then lapsed back into silence, obviously not knowing quite how to begin.

“Janet,” said Mrs Yates in her most understanding voice. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

Janet Clements looked at her younger sister, took a deep breath, and started to talk in a voice that came out an octave too high. She swallowed a couple of times and began again.

“Jane and I were talking – about Charlie.” She stopped and Mrs Yates waited.


“Well, you see, we were at the tea last Monday and we couldn’t help overhearing Charlie, Charlie’s request, his birthday wish, and, well, we got to talking and we just wondered if…well, how…”

“…if we could help.” Jane assisted her floundering sister to shore.

“We’ve never been married or anything,” said Janet, grateful for the rescue, “and it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen…”

“Anytime soon,” sister Jane added.

“And I’ve never…” a pause, “never, well, you know, done – anything – it – ever in my life.”

“I did once, when I was eighteen,” said Jane.

“And Jane told me it was quite nice,” said Janet soldiering on.

Mrs Yates smiled at the choice of words. ‘Quite nice’ was an interesting quantification of the particular situation.

“And so we were wondering – I was wondering if we could – I could – deliver Charlie’s present? In person?”

Mrs Yates leaned forward in her chair.

“Janet,” she said quietly, “I am not the person who decides this matter of Mr Bright’s birthday present. It was an unusual request, or maybe it wasn’t, unexpected is probably a better word for it. All I ask is that you think very carefully about what you are suggesting.”

“Oh yes, we have both thought about that,” said Jane.

“Then why don’t you wait just a little longer to make your decision. And you might even find out that Mr Bright has plans of his own. A little judicial sleuthing on your part, perhaps?”

“Oh yes, Mrs Yates, I fully understand,” said Janet. She turned to her sister. “Let’s go and do some more research on this,” she said. “I’ll read that book again that I got from the library.”

They got up to leave.

“Were you planning to do this in Mr Bright’s suite?” asked Mrs Yates.

“Ah,” said Jane. “Another problem to solve. Come along Janet. Things to do!”

When they had left her office, Mrs Yates sat for a long time mulling over the situation. She had decided some time ago that she was not going to facilitate anything that would bring the Retirement Home into questionable repute. The readers of tabloid newspapers and viewers of on the spot television were all hoping for some titillating facts; she had even heard that a book had been planned and that Charlie Bright was to be offered a cool half a million dollars for his part in writing it. How, at the age of one hundred, she wondered, would he plan to spend that sort of money?

She was roused from her thoughts by the sudden ring of the telephone. It was Katie Lynne Dempster who wished to speak to her face to face.

“How about this afternoon, four o’clock work for you?” Mrs Yates set up the appointment, wondering what was so urgent. Perhaps this reporter who had really let the cat out of the bag could find some way of recapturing and returning it.

“I think I have a solution to this – ah – dilemma,” said Katie Lynne as she occupied the same seat that Janet and Jane had vacated earlier.

“Really!” Mrs Yates observed, dryly.

“I set this ball rolling. I didn’t expect it to travel so far but maybe I can do something to stop it.”

Mrs Yates raised her eyebrows, and waited.

“I would like to take Charlie Bright out for his birthday, a date if you want to call it something. Nice meal, a show, perhaps to the casino, whatever he fancies.”

“And then?”

“If he wants to come back here after that, I’ll bring him back. If not, we’ll see how things develop. I might even invite him somewhere for a nightcap.” She stopped, the innuendo hanging in the air.

The look on Mrs Yates’ face did not change as she considered the possibilities.

“I think perhaps you had better talk to Mr Bright about your date,” she said. “And I would probably do it immediately. I have had countless approaches concerning Charlie’s birthday wish. Just this morning two very spry seventy somethings sat exactly where you are now and offered to help celebrate his day. Not to mention emails from Lola and Samantha and quite a few more. And the National Press phones regularly just to see if there’s any development. So I would suggest that you arrange an itinerary with Mr Bright for next Saturday and hope that nobody follows you.”

“I’ll go and talk to him right now,” said Katie Lynne, getting up from her chair. “Where will I find him?”

Charlie Bright was outside on the garden patio enjoying a warm spring afternoon. He was tending to the roses which were starting to bloom. He looked up, secateurs in hand, as Katie Lynne approached.

“Mr Bright – Charlie – I’ve come to ask you for a date,” she began. “Here’s what I had in mind.”

Charlie lowered the secateurs. He gave Katie Lynne one of his long steady stares, the beginning of a smile growing around his lips as he listened to what she had to say..

“I get to do all this?”

“You only reach one hundred once!”

“What time shall I be ready?” was Charlie’s only other question.

Katie Lynne took special care with her appearance for Saturday night. She wore a knee-length silk dress with patterns of roses and she draped a light-weight cardigan over her shoulders. She had her hair trimmed and a couple of discreet highlights added. A new pair of leather shoes, with flat heels, completed the picture. A quick dab of perfume and she was ready.

Charlie Bright, immaculately dressed in grey slacks, blue blazer and a showy cravat, was waiting for her in his room. As she entered, she glanced at the many cards and bouquets of flowers from friends and well-wishers which filled the apartment. Charlie plucked a rose from a convenient bunch and handed it to her with a gentle bow. It matched the colour of her dress and Charlie Bright beamed with pleasure.

“Lead on,” he said. “I am entirely in your hands.”

Instead of walking the hallway and passing through the common sitting area, they took an elevator to the underground parking lot.

“I thought it better to park down here,” said Katie Lynne. “Then we wouldn’t have to run the gauntlet of anyone waiting for you at the front of the building. There was a small group of press people near the front door, so this exit will avoid them.”

Charlie grinned.

“You’ve been watching too many spy movies,” he told her. “Shall I also slump down in my seat?”

“As you wish,” said Katie Lynne. “Now where shall we go first?”

They returned at eleven thirty. The Home was quiet, most guests having retired for the night. This time Katie Lynne pulled up to the front entrance and she and Charlie got out of the car.

“I should tell Mrs Yates that I have brought you home safely,” Katie Lynne said, slipping her hand through Charlie’s arm. “Then I’ll walk you to your room.”

“It was a wonderful evening,” said Charlie. “The casino, the restaurant, the dancing – I haven’t done all that since, since…” he paused.

“I understand,” said Katie Lynne, “and from what you told me this evening you have had such a wonderful life. I’m so glad that I have been this tiny part of it.”

“We’ll do it again next year,” said Charlie as they went inside.

Mrs Yates came out of her office and welcomed the two of them.

“You will have to tell me the story of your adventures when you get a moment,” she said.

“This young lady has been so kind to me,” said Charlie. “We both had a wonderful evening.”

“It’s not over yet,” said Mrs Yates. “There’s a visitor waiting for you. I said that you would probably come through the common room area and that you wouldn’t be hard to miss.” She winked at Katie Lynne.

Charlie Bright looked puzzled.

“Who on earth…at this time of night…it’s nearly midnight?” And he strode off towards the central common room. He pulled up short when he saw his visitor waiting for him.

“Bertram?” he said quietly. Then, louder, “Bertram? Bertie!!” he shouted.

Bertram Thwaite rose slowly to his feet and turned towards Charlie. A grin stretched across his face as the two men fell into each others arms and hugged and slapped each other on the back. When they drew apart, Bertram picked up a small bag.

“I came with your present, Charlie,” he said. “I know it’s rather late but…better late then never, eh?”

Charlie Bright unlocked his door. He put his arm around Bertram’s shoulder and just before he disappeared, he gave Katie Lynne and Mrs Yates a little wave.

“Who is Bertram?” Katie Lynne asked Mrs Yates.

Mrs Yates looked around her as if making sure nobody else was listening.

“We had a really interesting long chat when he arrived. He told me about himself, his whole life, practically. He’s ninety years old, would you believe! Then he told me why he came here. He said he wanted to bring Charlie’s birthday present in person.”

Mrs Yates paused.

“He’s Charlie’s special boyfriend!” she whispered.



Jonathan Dean was born and educated in England. He came to Alberta in 1968 where he taught instrumental and choral music and a Grade 4 classroom and introduced his students to quality literature. He has written many stories since then. In 2008 he produced the audio programme ‘Stone Soup’ for Voiceprint. This series of original stories and poems from current authors across Canada won a Gold Medal at the annual International Association of Audio Information Services at Cincinnati, Ohio in 2009.  He is an occasional reporter for the Lethbridge Herald newspaper, a keen gardener and enthusiastic home chef.

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