More Short Stories to Read on a Bus, a Car, a Train, a Plane (or a comfy chair anywhere)

“Why do you cry?”

He took a deep breath, aware it was one of his first for a very long time, aware it was close to his last, meaning the longest time. He looked directly at the little girl, looked into her eyes, saw the mirror image of another pair of eyes as her less than brave brother peered across her shoulder and he surveyed his young guests with as much dignity and respect as he could tiredly muster. Before she could voice her question again he answered while delicately squeezing her little hand.

“That was my home,” he nodded at the red dust swirling across the bare planet below them, then went on. “It didn’t used to look like that you know. Once it was very beautiful,” and a choking sob erupted from his chest forcing him back into his casket and releasing, slowly, reluctantly, the hand of the little girl.

She shrugged her shoulders and looked at her brother who returned her shoulder shrug and they both switched their eyes to the view of horrible planet below. They forgot about the old man. They forgot about the casket. And when the tour was over and the walls of the great hall solidified, the casket was no longer there.

Later, as the huge ship prepared for the long return journey, caskets replacing seats, the great halls filling again, a small dot was ejected from a service port, accelerating away toward the hostile atmosphere of Earth. A casket, but a special casket carrying a special client, a customer who had paid to return home. His casket bored the Trump logo, everything from the ship did, but this casket also carried an inscription;

…I REMEMBER BEFORE …

============= THE END ============

W155 – The mind replays what the heart can’t delete

KNIFE

Luigi was the last in a long, long, line of master craftsmen. Their skills, precision, and traditions were handed down from father to son over many generations. They made blades, cutting implements, not just battle weapons like swords, daggers, long knives or scythes but anything for any purpose that required the keenest edge available. He’d heard many times in hushed tones that his family was responsible for the mythical sword wielded by Arthyr himself, and closer to home the dagger Brutus used to betray his Emperor, though Luigi scoffed at the idea of either!

In recent centuries of course, most of their products were sold to overseas buyers – Kings, Dictators, Pharaohs, Despots, any warlord willing to pay the exorbitant price for the best. Their wares were all custom designed and made, and in keeping with expectations and desires of the purchaser, as plain as a cheap market trinket or elaborately scrolled with the best metals and jewels money could buy. Each buyer knew their item was unique, one of a kind, and regardless of decoration, capable of cutting through almost anything without losing its edge.

The modern world however, was taking its toll on Luigi – his Grandfather and Father had passed decades earlier and he had no son to pass on the skills he had painstakingly learnt under their watchful paternal supervision and guidance. Then came the day that changed his life, not that Luigi would live to see the final result of his labours. He would instead become the first victim, a first of many.

The little bell over the shop door heralded a new customer, the custom tinkle something his great grandfather had worked very hard to achieve using left-over material from a large order of katana blades bound for a Japanese samurai clan. The bell design would be viewed by most as a windchime, however the blades were wafer thin and, in accordance with their heritage, sharpened to an edge of infinite keenness. The tiny weighted blades hung from individual fine chains – the shop door’s upper edge sheathed in protective alloy to stop the blades from slicing through the timber frame and contributing to the fine tinkle produced by the bell. The tinkling was a rare occurrence nowadays, customers almost always ordering online or through an anonymous middleman. The very occasional tourist or windowshopper sometimes activated the tinkle but as the shop bore no sign or displayed any wares, these were usually wayward accidents. Oh how Luigi would wish this time had been one of those instead of the vision who now stood before him.

At first, she appeared to shimmer but as Luigi allowed his middle-aged eyes to focus and adjust to the bright noonday sun silhouetting her from the street behind, he saw the curvaceous figure of a woman. She was looking slowly around the small shop, devoid of products or advertising. Finally she noticed Luigi sitting behind the small desk and she stepped forward, her low heeled boots clicking against the wooden floorboards almost at the same pitch as the bell over the door. Her piercing dark eyes sparkled as she watched Luigi observing her from head to toe. She was pleased to see that he appeared absorbed in his examination because her preparations for this visit had been lengthy and detailed, not to mention painful at times. His eyes finally arrived at hers and he was startled quickly to his feet as his brain registered the beauty before him. He dropped his gaze quickly before speaking, his hands wringing together and advertising his embarrassment at being caught.

“I’m sorry, Miss? How may I help you? Are you lost?” He shuffled his feet adding to his look of abject misery.

“You are Luigi?” Her voice was deeper than expected but in a sultry, smoky way. A slight accent was evident but her question too short for Luigi to assess further.

“Yes, that’s me – how may I help you?” Finally he lifted his face and his eyes widened as he took in her beauty from less than a metre away. He frowned slightly, “how do you know my name?”

She reached out a gloved hand, a dainty lace glove trimmed in gold edging which highlighted her slender long fingers. “Chovani you may call me, and for me you shall be Armandino!”

She spoke the two different names with a much heavier accent than the rest of her sentence and Luigi recognised an Eastern European clip but couldn’t possibly determine the source of the accent. It was not unusual at all for the middlemen or customer to have a foreign accent, in fact, it was the norm but what wasn’t normal was for that person to be a woman, an extremely beautiful woman at that. In her face Luigi could see an almost Central-Asian countenance tinged with some Slovak and something else almost middle-eastern in her dark eyes. She wore short, patent leather boots and the glint of sunlight on metal showed a small stainless cap backing the rear of the stumpy heels and probably the source of the tinkling sound as she walked. He legs were sheathed in patterned soft-pink stockings until the fine lace hem of her below the knee dress interrupted his view. The dress was multi-coloured but the tones were subdued and the pattern itself random, set off with lace edging on the half-length sleeves, bodice and neckline to match the hem. A soft pink mantilla draped across the top of her head and slinked around her shoulders, with her dark eyes making her almost appear Spanish. She held a patent leather clutch in her left hand. He studied her amused gaze.

“So, Armandino, are you ready to do business? Do you approve of what you see?” She smiled showing her even white teeth and making him drop his gaze again. “Look at me Armandino, there is no need of shyness, I do not bite!”

Luigi complied and tried a smile himself but even with his head up, his eyes kept casting to the floor. “Why do you call me that, Armarn … Armen?”

“Armandino! Do you not know your own name?” Her smile tightened a little as if addressing a little boy. She watched patiently as he composed himself, his bushy eyebrows raising as she added, “we are ready to do business, yes?”

“Signora…,” he began.

“Chovani, if you cannot remember your own name then perhaps you can remember mine?” She raised a single eyebrow.

Luigi swallowed, then continued, “Showvarrni,” he enunciated slowly and carefully and seeing her nod and smile, he relaxed somewhat. “You are aware of my expertise?”

She smiled widely now, “of course, do you think I would go anywhere else other than here, to the best?”

Luigi wasn’t sure if she was actually flirting or being patronising but he was certain that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She looked like an exotic Sophia Loren and he was willing to let his mind believe she was flirting … nothing wrong with a little fantasizing! He hurried around his little desk and made a show of dusting off a padded armchair and offered her a seat. She primly sat down, crossing her legs and arms and raised both eyebrows at him this time. “Yes, so, Showvarrni,” he waited again for her smiling acknowledgement, “how may I help you?”

She opened her clutch purse and drew out a slip of paper which she placed on the desk in front of him without a word. She watched as he looked at the elaborate patterns on the paper and could see the obvious question developing across his face, then as he opened his mouth to speak, she quickly interjected one single word. “Trishul.”

“What, Signora, sorry, Chovarni? I, I didn’t catch that …”

“You don’t know what a Trishul is? I thought you were the best? Perhaps I was mistaken.. " she made to stand up, reaching toward the paper on the desk as she rose.

“Trishul is a cross,” he look her squarely in the eye as he spoke and she nodded and resumed her seat. “What I don’t know is what this is,” his eyes glanced to the pattern on the note before him. “You were not mistaken, I am still the best but perhaps you could help me with this and what it means in relation to a Trishul?” He was looking directly at her eyes, his master craftsman brain was working hard now and effectively masking his previous shyness.

“What else could Trishul represent, besides a cross which you correctly identified. You surprised me a little Armandino. I like your surprises. Give me more!”

“Ah, it was originally a trident, and I wish I could pronounce the name, and yours, as eloquently as you do, but Trishul in more modern times is in the form of a cross, like a religious artifact. And this pattern …?” He didn’t glance at the paper again, instead maintaining their steady mutual gaze. Beautiful woman or not, he was still the only professional craftsman present.

He had his finger on the slip of paper and she reached out and put her hand near his, tracing the elaborate pattern neatly with a finger without even looking. “It is indeed the cross that I seek and this is the adornment I want on the haft and the quillion.”

His bushy eyebrows rise together again, “that is a knife or a dagger then rather than a traditional cross,” he nods at her, “and the blade?”

“As you would normally create Armandino, the sharpest of sharpest edges available,” she smiled.

They spoke of length, weight, balance, material, the necessity of a camouflaging scabbard and Luigi became absorbed in this new project, this new very interesting project. It was a relatively easy task for him but the very interesting part was the customer. Finally, they arrived at money, as all business transactions are wont.

“This won’t be wildly expensive but you will have to leave a deposit to cover the cost of the raw materials. For that, I can give no discount,” he shrugged.

“How much, the deposit? And how much in total?”

“The materials are exotic but easily obtainable, around three thousand Euros. Three will be enough,” he watched her eyes as he mentioned the amount, she did nothing but nod so he went on. “My charge for moulding, machining, tempering and finishing will be considerably higher than that, but,” he added quickly, “it is a little quiet at the moment so I could spare a small discount, say, a total of twelve thousand Euros.”

She didn’t blink, instead reaching into her clutch again and withdrawing a small billfold. “Three now and another nine thousand on completion, yes?” This time it was he nodding. “And how long until completion?”

“About two weeks, but I’ll have to wait nearly a week for the special alloy. If it comes sooner I can finish sooner. Maybe I can call you …?”

She smiled and stood up, proffering a bundle of cash toward him. “No need Armandino, I will be back in two weeks.” He took the cash and was opening a desk drawer to retrieve a receipt book when he heard her tinkling footsteps. Surprised, he looked up. She was almost at the door when she whirled back to face him. She waved, a dismissal. “No need for that either. Goodbye for now Armandino, I will see you again soon.” She blew him a kiss.

“Wait, wait, what was your name again?” He started after her.

“Borsaki my darling, Borsaki,” and with that, she turned on her heel, the tinkling of the bell over the door and her heels dissipating together.

Luigi walked back and slumped down at his desk, the cash still ensconced in one hand but his eyes remained firmly fixed on the closed door where he had last seen her. He shook his head a little, and not for a second recognised the different name she had given before leaving. It was sometime before he locked the door and went upstairs to his little home to phone the metal supplier.

The elegant lady walked confidently around the corner to a waiting limousine. The back door opened as she approached and she began to laugh before getting into the car, sinking into the plush leather and surveying the elderly, and some surprised, faces around her. The oldest, a slightly built man dressed in a simple dark suit that clashed heavily with the large gold hoops hanging from each ear, grinned back at her.

“It went well then, I see,” and when she laughed a little more he added, “so tell us what you did to this little man so we may laugh along with you!”

“First, first, I told him my name was Chovani,” she laughed more, “then, wait for this one, I told him I would call him Armandino!” Some had laughed at the first name but all of the men broke into laughter at the second.

“You jest child?” asked one of the other men, also dressed plainly but he too adorned with somewhat smaller hoop earrings.

“No, no jest, and I thought he was supposed to be worldly and clever but he couldn’t see past my beautiful face … men!” She spat the last word savagely and silenced the laughter. She grinned but not the smile Luigi had seen, this time there appeared to be too many teeth, not beautifully full as he had seen but sharpened, pointed like the teeth of a shark. “Then I told him the truth, I told him who I really was, I told him my name was Borsaki and do you think that idiot noticed? NO, he was still far too enraptured in his appointed task, too sad that the beauty in front of him was leaving.”

“What if he is aware of the Romani folk?” another asked the elder.

The old man turned his eyes to the woman. “Yes, so you tell this man you are a witch, a good witch, then you use the name of a cursed one to address him, and you leave after telling him you are in fact an evil witch! What if he does know the Romani and works it out? He will not make the Trishul if he knows.” His voice gathered volume as he spoke and he pointed fixedly, accusingly, at the woman, with a single gnarled finger.

She laughed out loud, again, slapping her thigh in glee at their combined looks of shock. “Because I gave him the Solax to engrave onto the handle and he did not recognise the old speech. When he completes the engraving he will be putting a hex on himself, a curse that will see him dead within minutes, or hours, or days if he is extremely careful. But you tell me, how soon before a blade maker draws blood, mayhap when he shaves in the morning?” her laughing increased and the men in the car nodded their approval and laughed along with her. “It will end his blood line forevermore, justice finally after his family effected the deaths of hundreds of ours.”

The limo departed with its laughing occupants, leaving behind a reflective Luigi, upstairs in his apartment thinking of the woman who had come into his life so abruptly. Maybe, just maybe there is a chance for me to have a family, a heir, he was thinking. He picked up the telephone and called his special metals supplier again, this time he wanted a special express delivery. He was going to make sure this job was so exquisite she would drop dead at his feet in gratitude …..

============== THE END ===============

W156 That’s not ‘extreme’. That’s just stupid!

FINE DINING

Ever have one of those days, you know, the type of day that you wish you never got out of bed? Everybody has them, occasionally, some more than others, and for those who get out of the wrong side of bed on one of those days, it can be catastrophic, life defining, or life ending. Eve, Tom and Jerry shared one of those days together. The three close friends suffered at the hands of fate, a hand obviously dealt with the greatest amount of malicious intent with the aim of delivering the most brutal torment imaginable.

Eve slept in, her alarm inexplicably not working even though it had done so religiously for the past three months. She tripped over the cat (black of course) hurrying to the bathroom, chipped a tooth when she collided with the partially open door then in her half stupor, sat down on the toilet and began her business having forgotten to put up the lid. The warmth from her nether regions, not to mention the smell, performed the function that her alarm clock didn’t and she truly came awake quickly, jumping up and swivelling quickly to witness her stupidity. She cursed to the heavens with all her petite frame could muster but quickly realised there was something worse happening … she’d also forgotten to lower her panties. She didn’t believe for a second that her day could get any worse, however, this was just a prelude of what was to come!

Tom was always early to work, always. His nickname at work was ‘Early-Tom’ in fact, something his colleagues always managed to say with some form of added sexual innuendo, more often when there was an attractive new young lady in the office. This day Tom was not early, he wasn’t even on time – Tom was late. More than one person looked around the expanses of the office wondering why the lights weren’t on, why the coffee machine, printers and photocopiers were not operating. Some of them milled around the coffee machine studying how to make it work! Where was Tom, where was ‘Early Tom’? He was on the freeway, which was the actual reason Tom became ‘Early Tom’, because he liked to avoid the morning rush hour. Unfortunately, this day Tom had created a nightmare for commuters because he had smashed the brand new car he had picked up just the previous afternoon. Tom had bought a Ferrari, red of course, and yesterday drove it home with loving care, pride, and due attention. Tom’s mistake was believing he could leave home five minutes later now because a Ferrari was infinitely faster than the Prius he had traded. What Tom hadn’t reckoned on was the minor percentile increase in traffic just five more minutes added, and in his frustration at his potential late arrival, had attempted one too many gung-ho passing maneuvers. His brand new Ferrari currently occupied lanes three and four and a fair bit of overpass support pylon. Tom was fine; shaken, furious, frustrated but fine. The only condolence was the fact that if he had been in his Prius, he’d probably be seriously injured or worse. Worse was though, of course, yet to come.

Jerry was Tom’s best friend, had been since they started school together. But where Tom was always neat and punctual, not to mention well dressed, Jerry was slovenly and tardy. Casual, was how Jerry saw himself. Casual Jerry had met Eve about five years ago, a casual meeting at a bar, a casual meeting that turned into a casual relationship until Eve decided they should part ways and just be friends. Their casual relationship cum casual friendship actually turned into a full-on trio of close friends who, over the years, developed an understanding and acceptance of each other and their individual idiosyncrasies. Jerry only ever stressed over whether Tom and Eve would ever get together as a couple, though he had never dare share this thought with the pair of them lest he accidentally introduce something they had never thought about before. That would be an irony he could never accept. Jerry had a, well, a fairly casual morning so far, nothing stressful had happened that he’d noticed anyway and it had been a fairly typical day. That was until he got the first text message from his best pal Tom, and almost simultaneously, an email arriving pinged its existence on his computer, from Eve he saw. Both messages had the same heading – HELP!

Jerry acted immediately – comforting, supportive text messages, emails and follow up phone calls to his two best mates, his casual attitude actually helping to relieve their respective moods. But it didn’t last long as Tom soon discovered that the insurance on his Ferrari hadn’t been validated and approved and Eve received her nightmare client in person when he was only supposed to call to arrange an appointment. Naturally, the pair of them were at their lowest ebb by the end of the day and even Jerry was becoming concerned at what to do. Suddenly, he had a revelation. Tonight, the same night every week, the trio usually joined up for dinner. They’d been doing this for nearly three years, sans holidays and illnesses. Jerry understood he had to make tonight special, spectacular even to try and cheer his friends up after their respective disastrous day.

Jerry ate anything. Jerry ate everything. Tom and Eve were different though, their diets restricted to their chosen favourites irrespective of the cuisine. Jerry thought they were boring, unadventurous, dull, so he thought it was time to go to the extremes because nothing else would do it. There was one thing the three of them universally disliked, only one cuisine among hundreds they had always agreed was taboo, and that was spicy food, specifically, spicy Thai food. Sure they ate spicy Mexican food, spicy Chinese and Indian food, damn it, The Colonels Spicy Buffalo Wings were the best too but somewhere, somehow, the three of them had agreed never to eat Thai food. Jerry couldn’t recall when and why they had decided this but what he did know was after such an epic day, they needed to go to the extremes.

He emailed them both an address and a directive to meet him there at seven sharp this evening because they were all going out on a limb tonight. He didn’t tell them the name of the restaurant because tonight, they were going to live dangerously. It was now or never and he couldn’t see either of them refusing such was the downer they were suffering. Jerry was late getting to the restaurant and Tom was already there, naturally, walking the footpath out the front taking in the glowing neon announcing THAI FOOD. They shook grips and bumped shoulders as old mates do but Tom kept glancing at the sign. He made it clear he was not impressed with the idea but Jerry convinced him it was worth a try. Eve arrived just as Tom acquiesced and Jerry had to repeat the process but was at least supported by Tom now. After the day they had, what could be worse was the general feeling. Jerry was congratulating himself on a good decision.

All of them drank too many Phuket Lagers and Singha beers before attacking the seemingly unpronounceable menu. Their courage was up, albeit alcohol fuelled. A further round of beers followed after they ordered a kind of soup named Tom Yum (Eve chose this, because of Tom of course and Jerry’s eyes narrowed a little when she giggled her reasoning), Jerry chose the only dish he thought he could pronounce, Larp, but the waitress laughed and told him it was spoken as LarB, and Tom boringly decided on a Thai beef salad, because salads are not spicy are they! Neither Tom or Eve had eaten that day and both decided, with a gutful of beer behind them, that a little spicy Thai food wasn’t going to hurt anybody. They laughed at Jerry’s explanation of extreme dining and none of them could deduce who had decided Thai food was sacrosanct.

The first course arrived, the Tom Yum, the aroma permeated even their close to totally inebriated minds. They ate, gasped at the tartness, hissed at the sweetness and drank liberally to deny the harsh chili bite. Eve got the nose runs and used half the napkins stemming the flow, their loud laughter now was anesthetic bolstered by beer. Thai food wasn’t hot at all they laughed, but Tom was also sweating copiously from the forehead to go with Eve’s never ceasing nose runs. The Larp arrived before they finished their soups, LarB Larb, Larb they chorused loudly to other non-amused customers. Larp is served in a lettuce leaf and smells like heaven, even after the addictive aroma of the Tom Yum, it was something else again. They all plunged in, eating with their hands and even Jerry had to admit, it was firey-hot, but no-way was he going to admit it to the other pair. Firey-hot yes, delicious, a big yes! Tom’s sweat was making it hard to see as it ran down over his eyes, Eve felt like she was swimming in her nose runs. But oh, this food was so delectable.