25 Saturday Dec 2021
Posted in Flash Fiction, publications, Uncategorized
Tags
amreading, amwriting, children, christmas, Flash Fiction, grief, loss, publication, retribution, Santa Claus, stories, toy shop, writerscommunity
A dark Christmas story, published at the Punk Noir Magazine last year. Many thanks to author Paul D. Brazill.
Season’s Greetings and best wishes for a wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year. 🙂
22 Thursday Jun 2017
Posted in Flash Fiction, Uncategorized
Tags
addiction, alcohol, attachment, disappointment, disillusionment, effects of alcohol, illusions, immortality, lies, old age, reality, rejection, stories, wisdom, witch, writing
Photo saved from Pinterest, crazyaboutphoto.com
The last customer leaving the bar, Harry staggered into the cold night air and made feeble attempts to walk in a straight line. The icy wind, signalling the approach of harsher weather, chilled him to the bone. Despite the protective shield of his padded coat and the woollen hat pulled over his ears, he felt naked. The combination of intoxication and freezing temperatures blurred his sight. All he could see ahead were dark buildings on either side of the road and a few flickering streetlights. He followed the pavement, counting his steps on his long walk home down Amber Street.
Harry kept counting to keep his mind active, but the road seemed to continue forever. 2500 steps later, he still had not arrived at the turn to the street where his flat was located. He halted and glanced back, and looked ahead again. There were no side roads, but one long avenue where all buildings looked the same. “I’m lost,” he muttered.
Though midnight had come and gone, Harry began to knock on doors, in panic. No one responded, not a single soul who might rightfully object to the disturbance of their peace. He decided to go back the way he came, hoping he’d missed his street. An eerie silence persisted in spreading its wings, despite the commotion he made at intervals. As snowflakes fell, misting visibility further, despair set in. He stopped in front of a weathered door, and seizing a worn knocker, banged on it several times.
A jeering voice answered. “The door is open. Shut it tightly behind you.”
Harry stepped inside. He blinked, surprised by an archaic hall, lit by candles poised on brass candelabras. The wheezing voice barked, “Straight down, the room on the right.”
Entering the chamber, he saw her- or him, he wasn’t sure, sitting at a table in the middle of which a large crystal bowl glowed. Wood crackled in the fireplace, casting shafts of light upon the creature’s face. Harry shuddered. Whatever this thing was, it looked older than the 250 year-old-man in China. Its features were deeply buried under the folds of time-chiselled wrinkles. A pair of sparkling amber, feline beams perused him through the slits below the forehead. Random spikes of white, straw-like hair escaped the grip of a colourful scarf wrapped around its head.
The thin, lipless slit at the bottom of its head opened, displaying the odd jagged tooth. “Sit,” it said. “I’ve been waiting for you. I’m Amacunda.”
Harry hesitated, but he obeyed his exhausted body and sat. “I’m Harry,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m here. I’m lost.”
“I’m also lost. My reasons are unclear, but I know yours.”
“Why are you lost?”
“I’m in purgatory. Neither here, nor there.”
“How long?”
Deciding the creature must be female, Harry watched her raise a lizard-skinned hand and point a crooked finger with a curled nail at him.
“Too long. I’ve been here forever. It defies your notion of time. Let’s come to your story. Why are you lost?”
“I can’t find my way home.”
“What’s home?”
“My writing. Stories. My dreams. Illusions, disillusionments, disappointments.”
“Rejections?”
“Exactly.”
“You must leave her.” She giggled, her rasping voice whistling between jagged teeth.
“Who? I’m not in a relationship.”
“Whiskey. You’re an alcoholic.”
“I’m not. I’m what’s called a functioning alcoholic.”
“You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. Why do you think Hemingway committed suicide?”
“He couldn’t write anymore.”
“Why? Because alcohol ate his brain. No more grey cells to dream stories.”
“Dostoevsky wrote all his life. He also drank.”
“He wasn’t an alcoholic. Some can hold their drink, some can’t. You’re drinking earlier and earlier in the day. There’s always an excuse. Pain, pleasure, anger. Find another relationship, a woman, a soul-mate.”
“The ones I want reject me.”
“Probably because you’re drunk all the time. Sober up and look around with eyes that see. You’ll find the one.”
Harry lowered his eyes and sighed.
“Regarding other rejections. There’s a name … I can’t remember, like thorn, splinter, something sharp from a tree or plant. My memory escapes me these days. Look them up and send your stuff.”
“Thank you.”
“Healthy eating, healthy drinking , healthy living and like me, you can live forever.” She chuckled again. “Time to go, young man. Remember what I said.”
Amacunda snapped her claw-like fingers, and Harry found himself at his front door. Once inside the flat, he crawled onto his bed and crashed.
The following day, he woke at noon and ambled to kitchen. Whiskey beckoned. The moment he grabbed the bottle, Amacunda’s voice rang like a siren in his ears. “Healthy eating, healthy drinking .”
Harry dumped the bottle on the counter and put the kettle on. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs, buttered toast and tea, he took a shower and shaved. In fresh clothes, he sat at his desk and began to write.
During a tea-break in the late afternoon, he remembered something else she’d said and began to search on his computer. Wood, Woody, splinter, Spillane, Tor, thorn – Thornton Publishers are looking for Anthology submissions. Submission deadline March 31st. A week from today, enough time to edit his stories. No alcohol for a week?
That evening Harry dined at a steak house and only drank mineral water. On his way home, he stopped at the supermarket and stocked up on healthy food. Just before the checkout, his hand went for a pack of bacon he’d missed in the morning. He wavered, unsure, then grabbed it. The sirens didn’t shriek. Maybe once in a while it would be okay.
Amacunda’s voice reverberated in his head each time he accidentally approached the liquor section in the supermarkets. After a sober period of many months, he became a social drinker, enjoying the occasional glass of wine at dinner parties.
Thornton’s published his Anthology and The Witch of Amber Street became a hit. Harry didn’t live forever, but his stories did.
01 Saturday Apr 2017
Posted in Books, Uncategorized
Video : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZoKYzVMC64
Blog: https://cakeandquill.wordpress.com/2017/04/01/out-now-paws-and-claws/
“It’s the first of April, and unlike the rest of the world we’re absolutely serious. So, no, it’s not a joke – our latest anthology, Paws and Claws, is out and available. Filled with all sorts of creatures, furry, fluffy, slimy, scaled, winged, weird, it tells you stories to make you laugh, make you cry, and make you wonder. As announced, all proceeds will go to Bob’s House for Dogs, a small charity that offers hospice care for older dogs,helps making senior dogs ‘more adoptable’, and ultimately works to try and give more dogs who have found themselves without a home, a forever home.
Hopefully you’ll enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing and compiling it! It’s on Amazon, in e-book as well as in paperback format. Perfect Easter present, isn’t it?
Get in the mood by watching the trailer!”
I have a story in there, my first ever ‘literally’ published work.
A Cake & Quill collection. Authors are: Tina Rath, Angelika Rust, Adam Oster, Jay Robbins, Yvonne Marjot, Tom Greenwood, Faye Kename, Paula Shene, Hannah Warren, Sue Moorhouse, Pat Black, Kate Murdoch, Karen Eisenbrey, Cindra Spencer, Sebnem Sanders.
13 Tuesday Dec 2016
Posted in Flash Fiction
Tags
cat, fishing village, loneliness, loss, love, octopus, Söğüt(Soghut), sleeping partners, stories, The Aegean, the sea, weeping willow
Soghut, a pretty seaside village on the eastern coast of the Southern Aegean, beguiles newcomers with its stunning views of the islands in the cove, and Symi in the background.
A well-kept secret, with exquisite villas on the hills, it had been recently featured in Exclusive Escapes. The article gushed: the unspoilt beauty of its shoreline boasts of a small restaurant called The Octopus Man, renowned internationally for Ali’s unique recipe.
I met Selma during a walk on the pebble beach after my first scrumptious grilled octopus lunch at Ali’s. An old woman with striking blue eyes, a small, upturned nose and delicate features on her weathered face. In a printed dress that swayed with the warm breeze and a white scarf wrapped around her frizzy, grey locks, she greeted me with a toothy smile.
“Hello, are you visiting?”
“My first time here, but I love your village.” I smiled in return, and gazed at the seascape.
“I came here as a bride. I’m from Bozburun.”
“I’ve been there. It’s very close.”
“It was love at first sight. One look, and we were enamoured for life. That’s until he left.”
“What happened?”
“He was lost at sea. Told him not to go out that day. He didn’t listen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I miss him. My house is down there, by the sea. Come visit me next time you’re here.”
***
The following summer I drove to Soghut again, and walked to her house to see if she was around. She was sitting in a wheel-chair under the canopy of her patio, stroking the fur of a gorgeous golden cat lying next to her.
“Hi, Selma, do you remember me?”
“Come closer, my sight is not very good, lately. It’s too bright out there.”
I stepped inside and sat on a chair, looking into her clouded blue eyes.
She pointed a crooked, arthritic finger at me. “Oh, yes, you’re the lady from Istanbul.”
“That’s right. Lovely cat you have.”
“That’s Tonton. He’s been my sleeping partner since my beloved left.”
“Pets are great company, especially if you’re on your own.”
“Told him there’d be a storm that day, but as they say, if you love someone, set them free.”
“I know. Sad …”
The table next to her was stocked with her immediate needs. A bottle of water, a glass, some food and a roll of paper towel. My gaze returned to the wheelchair.
She pointed at her legs. “Arthritis, very painful these days. I can move a little, but with difficulty.”
“Your children, are they here?”
“All in the big city. They want to take me there, but I don’t want to go.”
“Maybe you should. Isn’t it hard on your own here?”
“I can’t leave. They never found him, you know. Just the boat, washed up on the rocks. He’s out there somewhere. Besides, I have many sons and daughters here. Ali brings me food every day. The women help me and I entertain their children, telling them stories. That’s how village folk are. ”
“What stories do you tell them?”
“About life in the village. Their favourite is Ali’s tale. How he was stranded on the rocks with a sinking boat, a huge octopus he’d just caught, a supply of lemons and some vegetables, and came up with his famous recipe. When the fishermen rescued him and brought him to the village, he kissed the ground, and opened the restaurant to honour the octopus that provided him with food for many desperate days.”
“I read the story on his website. It’s curious how necessity is the mother of invention.”
“My beloved sometimes visits me at night. I say, take me with you, but he keeps saying, Not yet. Then I wake up, and watch the stars and the moon, my other sleep partners in the night. I wish he’d hurry up and steal me away, and take me into that world of his.“
The golden cat with amber eyes purred and jumped on her lap, surrendering to her caress.
***
The next time I was in Soghut, I asked Ali how she was.
”She’s gone. Back to her beloved, I hope.“
”I’m sorry. I was hoping to see her again.“
“The cat, Tonton, is also gone. I was going to adopt him, but he hasn’t been seen since the day she passed away.“
”Sometimes cats are like that. They just disappear.“
”Her children put the house up for sale. They’ll make a fortune. Prime position on the beach with a big garden at the back.”
A knot in my throat, I walked to her house and peeked at the empty corner on the patio where she had sat last year. I passed the For Sale sign and ambled to the back of the house to see her garden. A spacious patch of land with walnut and almond trees, and to the left a magnificent weeping willow by a small creek that ran to the sea.
Soghut (Söğüt) means weeping willow. Weeping willow, weeping widow. For a moment I pondered the meaning behind this. It’s graceful branches, leaning towards the water and the water reaching the sea. Perhaps, like Selma.
sebnemsanders 
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