Burnt Ends

Gabe Sherman

The thing about good brisket, my father used to say, as he spread tallow onto butcher’s paper and swaddled his meat-hunk like a baby, is that you need a good bark. I followed him around the whole day and watched him tend to the thing, poke and prod it, apply a salt and pepper coating with care, nurture the smoker, adding fresh wood chunks to the smoldering pile. A brisket is a responsibility, he said, unwrapping his dark, steaming beauty. He told me even jazz kind of came from somewhere else but barbeque was like crime movies — it was a distinctly American art form.

I remember fat running out when he cut the thing open; I remember the pink ring hidden just beneath the bark, rosy like a baby’s cheeks; I remember he always cut off four chunks of burnt ends: one for our dog, two for himself, and one for me; I remember the meat dissolving on my tongue, a soft, sweet smoke tickling the back of my throat. I remember thinking one day maybe I could set the bark and dad could guide my hand as I spread the tallow. I can’t quite mark the moment that thought became a memory, when hope turned wishful thinking, the whole thing sour and naive. But I never made brisket or ate one as good as his, never heard him say Just a little more pepper or Wrap it tighter there, son.


Author: Gabe Sherman is a writer based in New York. He loves to cook and play basketball, and hopes it snows soon where he is.

Barking Up The Wrong Tree

Martin Barker

Max found a quiet table and ordered a pint of best with a saucer. He was getting a few strange looks from the regulars, but the sign outside clearly stated that dogs were welcome. He’d never been on an internet date before. Jemma, the girl he’d been chatting to online, had suggested they meet up and go for a drink. She arrived ten minutes late and looked nothing like her photo. He reckoned it was ten years out-of-date. Still, his was taken when he wasn’t much older than a pup.

“Hi Jemma, over here,” he tried not to sound too eager.

“Oh!” she said, “oh gosh, I mean …wow, um… this is awkward.” She blushed furiously. “I didn’t realise you were a dog.”

Max sighed. He’d come across this sort of prejudice before. “I thought my profile picture was a pretty good clue,” he said sarcastically, “and you said you liked dogs.”

“I thought you were using an avatar, just being mysterious, and I do like dogs. You’re a handsome dog.”

Max struggled to stop his tail from wagging.

“I can’t see the problem. You said you like curling up in front of the telly to watch films, so do I,” he whined. It was obvious she was leaving. “And what about our long walks?”

“I’m sorry, it’s not you, it’s me. I’m looking for someone a bit more, um, human.”

She left. He slurped his beer from the saucer. Next time he’d use Tinder.


Author: Born on a funfair, the son of a Travelling Showman, Martin lives in Poole, on the south coast. He relishes the challenge of short stories and flash fiction, of drawing pictures and evoking emotions with a concise number of words. He’s still working on his first novel.

Writing Santa

Jan Kaneen

Strange how cultures twist the myth into their own image, but whatever peg they hang it on – Christmas, Yule, Saturnalia, it is always a mirror.

The opposite is true with me.

Seems like only yesterday that goodly folk bolted doors against me. I was a terrible stranger from the blackest shadows, a dark hunter that stalked the longest night. Now, they invite me in; tell their children to be good so I will pay them a visit.

Work hard at school, they say, respect your elders, eat your greens – and the children, obedient to the season – ho-ho-hoping that bells will jingle and I will come a-calling, send me letters. Write me lists.

How I love those lists.

Once the trees have cast away their colours and winter skies are dark and pale, I read those letters, every one. Dear Santa, they say, I’ve been good all year – can I have, I really want, oh please, please, please. Then they sign their names so the right reward might find the right child.

Strange, that reason and learning has lifted so many veils, and yet they see me not for what I truly am. Has their newfound power over darkness deluded them, the Christmas lights made them blind? Whatever the reason, they call me old Nick no longer, think they have blunted my claws. But my nature remains unchanged.

When your little darlings scribble their wishes, my real name is always there, hidden in full view and – blood or no blood – a deal is still a deal.

Did you really think it safe to let your children want so much? To lead them so far into temptation? You tell them to be good, but you don’t know what good is. I almost feel sorry for them, poor sold souls.

Almost.


Author: Jan Kaneen lives below sea level in the Cambridgeshire Fens worrying about the climate crisis and the cost of living whilst writing short and tiny fictions. Her story, A Learning Curve, won the 2023 Bath novella-in-flash prize and is on sale now at Ad Hoc Fiction.

Jan’s advent calendar prize is a 6-month subscription to WestWord on Substack.

What I Learned from Blue Peter

Stephanie Percival

The making of the advent crown was the highlight of our year. Mother and I worked in relative companionship. She’d actually smile, pursed lips unfurled for an hour or so. Mother twisted four wire coat hangers together, saying, “I’ll do this, Ruth. You’re all fingers and thumbs.” She wouldn’t buy tinsel but I was sent to collect ivy and holly from the garden for decoration. She’d grab the greenery from me, winding it round bare wires. One year she splashed out on baubles, they were reused every year. Our cassette tape of Christmas carols played, Mother trilling along.

The candles were never lit. “Too dangerous, with a clumsy girl in the house.” 

The maxim, ‘don’t work with animals or children,’ also springs to mind. Mother didn’t like animals. I wanted a pet. A dog like Shep with warm fur and waggy tail; a faithful friend who wouldn’t judge me. In response to my pleas, Mother commented, “A scatterbrain like you, couldn’t manage a dog.”

Mother wasn’t a fan of children either, unless you were one of the four Lambert girls, with glossy ringleted hair and ‘voices like angels’, visions of virtue and obedience; their mouths little round ‘O’s’ as they sang in the church choir. 

I wanted to watch Magpie which was considered a cooler show by all the friends I didn’t have. Mother thought it was ungodly, immoral. We abided by the ten commandments, which were scripted on a tapestry that Mother embroidered as a child. It hung as a warning on the sitting room wall. In red thread, ‘Honour thy Father and Mother,’ stood out. As I didn’t have a father, Mother demanded double obedience. There weren’t any photos of their wedding day. “Too distressing,” she’d once told me. When we kneeled to pray in the pew on Sunday, chilly wind blowing around our legs; I should have been squeezing my eyes shut, but would sneak a look round at everybody else. Mother would be twisting her gold wedding ring as we recited the Lord’s prayer. I imagined she was thinking of my daddy.

Following the example of Blue Peter, I did get to make pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. I ignored orders barked by Mother about how to make the batter. I recalled how the Blue Peter presenter did it. Unlike us, they always had fun. I’d take a deep breath before tossing the pancake, gripping the frying pan handle in my skinny hands. When the pancake flipped over in a perfect arc, Mother’s mouth opened and closed, rebukes of, ‘Stupid girl. You’re so clumsy,’ silenced.

The batter was sweet and lemony, dangerously succulent in my mouth. Of course, the treat heralded a bleak forty days as Lent beckoned its empty arms.

Other Blue Peter makes were failures, I blamed lack of sticky-back plastic. On reflection Mother was ahead of her time in not using plastic to excess. Otherwise, she remained in the dark ages. Grace before eating, Sunday best and not being vain. “Pride go’eth before a fall,” she’d repeat, if I ever mentioned I’d got an A for my school work or scored a goal in hockey. So, when I won a Blue Peter badge and Mother framed and displayed it, I was baffled. It hung in the front hall where it was reflected a million times in the mirror, and would be the first topic of conversation when guests came round for Bible study.

I still watched Blue Peter up to my sixteenth birthday; absorbing the technological advances they demonstrated. “Women can’t be scientists,” Mother stated. Her words made me more determined. 

I lied to my classmates that I watched Top of the Pops, feeding the untruth by secretly listening to the top twenty countdown on a tinny transistor radio. Beneath bedclothes, I’d mis-hear words, so when other girls sang pop songs at school they’d snigger and nudge elbows when I got it wrong. I’d blush, knowing I’d never fit in here.

Life improved when I escaped to university and then went travelling. I returned occasionally, to find Mother unchanged. In 1987 on a visit before I emigrated, Mother’s mouth made an ugly Cornish pasty crimp as she said, “I hope you’re not watching Blue Peter still. That presenter girl. So young, unmarried and pregnant. Flaunting her disgrace. What is the world coming to.” 

I had no polite response. I was twenty-six. Who besides Mother, watched Blue Peter as an adult?

*

A wall of stale air hits me as I fumble open the front door. I cough, the atmosphere clogged and loaded with the dust of memories. 

The Blue Peter badge winks in mirrored reflection.

Mother had been prepared. Documents neat and tidy, funeral wishes sealed along with her will. Everything left to me, except a gift to the church. 

I tidy downstairs before heading to the loft. There isn’t much here. 

Opening a shoe box, I find postcards. There are more than I remember writing. As I flicker through them a sound like wind rattling winter trees echoes. I’d scribbled an occasional card when travelling. After settling in America, I’d sent letters. They’re all here. Rushed spidery marks webbing pages. Mother sent me monthly airmail letters, delicate as butterflies. I’d skim read them, unmoved by church activities, marriages of the Lambert girls. I’d discarded the letters without thought. 

In another box I find my birth certificate. It’s brownish and creased. Perhaps I’ve seen it before, thought nothing of it. Now, question marks flit in my temples like moths disturbed. Answered by the light of the obvious truth. My father’s name. A name which didn’t match ours. No marriage certificate anywhere.

Lastly, there’s a gift box. Beneath layers of tissue paper the advent crown nestles. As I lift it out, rustling matches my whispered breath. The wires are rusting, tiny flakes dust my fingers. My face becomes wet as I think of Mother’s hands, gold ring glinting, twisting ivy round these wires. 

It is the one thing I take with me when I leave. 


Author: Stephanie enjoys writing in different styles and genres, and has been short and long-listed and won several writing competitions. Her novel ‘All the Trees in the Wood’ has recently been published. She is currently working on a collection of short stories to be published in 2023.

Stpehanie’s advent calendar prize is feedback on 2000 words.

The Clicking Keeps Me Company

Alan Kennedy

1

Despite the biting chill of November making her wheezing worse, Catriona insisted on having all the windows wide open. But, even after scouring the freshly sheared fleece five times in lukewarm water, the stink of the Jacob’s ewe impregnated the most remote corner of the cottage. 

Through a gap in the feather quilt that shrouded her, she threw me one of her ever-rarer smiles.

‘I’m icing up over here. Get off your lazy arse, shove a couple more sticks on the stove, then plonk your Sassenach feet on the pedals.’

Every Friday, after fixing frozen pipes, putting in second-hand water heaters or whatever moonlighting odd-job I could close my mitts around, I would trudge from house to house picking up leftover scraps the neighbours laid out for us to make the organic dyes Catriona needed to stain the yarn.

Sacks overflowing with onion skins, beetroot tops, and used tea bags lay scattered round the kitchen floor. Strips of banana peel shared hooks with spanners and pipe cutters in my workshop. Jars full of rusted nails, steeped in apple cider vinegar to fix the pigments, piled up in the garage.

We spent every weekend carding the wool with a special contraption she salvaged from her uncle’s farm, combing it out meticulously so as not to snap the fibres. In the evenings, Catriona would tease it through her grandmother’s spinning wheel. 

While I pumped the pedals, she twisted the yarn till a filament of irregular thickness snaked round the teak spindle. For her, it was perfect. 

‘Every knot in the sweater will remind you of me.’ 

All the while, she sang Gaelic waulking songs picked up from her mother and studied me with tearful eyes. We both knew she didn’t have long.

‘I want this to be a special present for you. Only for you.’

Before carrying Catriona upstairs to bed, my last task of the evening was to stretch my hands out for her to wind the roughly spun sheaves. Then I’d leave the balls of wool to steep overnight in one of three tin buckets according to what colour she wanted to dye them.

Crimson, ochre or lavender. 

2

She presented me with the knitted sweater on Christmas Eve, the last we would ever spend together. When I tried on her marvellous present, a ticklish tingle, a pleasant glow I had never experienced before, coursed through me. A creation of art and of love. I felt my muscles more vigorous, more sculpted. It was as if Catriona was hugging me in the same way she did when she was able to. 

Everybody remarked on how grand it was and how handy it would be for the dismal winter we were having. 

On the twelfth day of Christmas, the afternoon of her funeral, I put it on instead of the conventional black. 

3

On the last Friday of April, during a cold snap, I got to know Gloria when I followed up on a call to fix her boiler. We went out the following evening for a drink. On Sunday morning, while we were having breakfast in her living room, she commented on the jumper draped over the sofa. I didn’t fancy going into many details and limited myself to stating it was a gift.  

When I got out of the shower, Gloria was wearing it and admiring herself in the mirror.

‘Hey. What do you reckon?’

Before she could finish the sentence, the bay window gusted open with a savage force. The look on Gloria’s face tightened. Her grin evaporated and an expression of horror took over her.

‘I can’t breathe. Get it off me.’

The jersey was tightening more and more round her neck and wrists with every second, rendering its removal impossible. Gloria’s hands turned waxen white, then blue. I tugged and yanked in vain. She nodded towards the back garden, but I didn’t understand. Desperately, she made a scissor cutting gesture with her swollen fingers.

The pruning shears snapped into pieces. The hedge cutters went blunt immediately, but I took some half metre pliers from my tool case and, strand by strand, cut her out of the wool-corseted constrictor.  

Gloria got out of hospital three days later with four cracked ribs and both wrists sprained. Since the accident, she hasn’t returned my phone calls or read my messages. I spotted her two months ago on Johnson Street, but she bolted across to the other pavement and hailed a taxi.

I used to scoff at Catriona’s belief in magic, but every time I visit her grave, I wear only cotton, just to be on the safe side. Nowadays, even the aroma of roast lamb gives me the jitters. Her spinning wheel remains in the living room. I don’t have the heart or, I must admit, the courage to dismantle it. Once in a while, I sit on her favourite stool and work the pedals.

The clicking keeps me company.


Author: Alan Kennedy started writing seven years ago whilst training as a creativity coach and found that most of his clients were struggling writers. Inventing stories has since become his main creative outlet. In the past three year, he has seen 24 of his stories published.

This story was previously published in Lifespan nº 6 – M arriage” published by Pure Slush Books – August 2022.

Alan’s advent calendar prize is a 6-month subscription to the Retreat West Substack.

Photo by K Adams on Unsplash

Notes to Self on Christmas Gifts Received and Subsequent New Year’s Resolutions

Taria Karillion

  1. GO ON A DIET! Another New Year, another nine pounds! At this rate I’ll be so spherical that I won’t need a costume for next year’s Christmas parties – just roll me in glitter and call me a bauble!  Lovely customers are just too generous with festive food gifts. Why does Joe Public think that all HGV drivers have the appetite of a Sumo on steroids? 
  2. GET MORE EXERCISE! Need to tone up and lose the spare tyres – stomach currently resembling prize-winning Wobbly Thing at the Wobble-a-thon in Wobble Town on the festival of St. Wobble! Stop using snowy weather as an excuse to get out of Walkies – not fair to animals. Find a Walkies club in the vicinity? Unearth treadmill from under laundry basket and cake tins. Park further away from drop-off points and walk a little further? Can’t say I’m enthused, but better that than sharing a gym with beefed-up, muscle-mad posers making me feel as popular as a pork chop in a synagogue.
  3. DRINK LESS ALCOHOL! WHY is it that every Christmas I end up being given more booze than a Scottish Brewery at Hogmanay? Am I really that stereotypical? ‘Oh, he’s a big HGV driver, he must love beer!’ Must find a way of tactfully telling customers that I’m not actually that much of a drinker, or my poor old liver will be as pickled as a Herring in Helsinki. Plus, if the police ever stop me (God forbid, on my schedule!) it’d look seriously bad for a professional driver to have a cab reeking of booze! Definitely can’t risk losing my driving license or I’ll be out of a job! Can’t imagine trying to start a new career at my age! Think of a way to publicise that I prefer Cola, but discreetly, or I’ll end up with months of mick-taking from the smart-alecs in Vehicle Maintenance. (I’m still sure it was them behind last Christmas’ Sat Nav diversion via Alcoholics Anonymous!)  
  4. GET SOME DECENT REST! Am in desperate need a proper holiday. As is Wifey, bless her. A really good rest somewhere nice and HOT and sunny and all-inclusive. Soak up some sunshine in nothing but shorts. That said, am really not at all sure about the whole idea of shorts in light of last summer’s mailroom jokes. Damn cheek, considering how they dress!  I should never have introduced them to social media and camera phones – my reputation may never recover. Look at Spain or Mexico? Even better, could try Florida or Hawaii? No-one bats an eyelid at big people in shorts there – reckon I’d blend right in!
  5. GET UP TO DATE WITH ONLINE WORKING. Must prioritise Admin’s request to go paperless. All those customer order slips add up to a serious number of trees. Guilt, guilt, guilt!
  6. MAKE THE RIG MORE SUSTAINABLE. Need to look into hybrid technology and the ins and outs of installing a charging point and finding enough on my routes not to run out of power in the middle of nowhere – not easy with the HUGE mileage in this job, but I feel so guilty every time I hear the word ‘ozone’. 
  7. SIGN UP FOR DIVERSITY TRAINING AT WORK. I can’t believe someone reported me – the cheek!  I think I am tactful dealing with short people! I don’t think I do ‘talk down to them’, but it’s hard not to when you’re a big bloke and they’re pint-sized. It’s probably that Lofty fella – damn troublemaker – they should never have let him stand for Union Rep. We all know the real reason why he’s always grousing about the workforce being ninety per cent male! May mentally rechristen him ‘Ray’ (of sunshine! LOL)
  8. CHOOSE NEXT YEAR’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR WIFEY MORE CAREFULLY! There was I thinking that all the cookery programmes on TV meant that she’d like some baking kit for Christmas! How wrong could I be! This cake-tin shaped bruise is going to be embarrassing to explain to the chiropractor. Come to think of it – silver lining – the puddings might be fewer for a while, at least. Oh, be still, my bottom lip! 

DECISION >>> From now on will make OWN mind up about presents for Wifey. I knew I should have trusted my own gut – damn co-workers are FAR too mischievous to be guided by! 

Most especially, above all else, NEVER AGAIN ACT ON GIFT SUGGESTIONS FROM ELVES OR REINDEER!


Author: Taria grew up surrounded by far more books than is healthy for one person. Her stories have appeared in a Hagrid-sized handful of anthologies and have won enough awards to fill his other hand. Despite this, she has no need as yet for larger millinery.

Taria’s advent calendar prize is a ticket for the Online Flash Fest in March 2024.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash