Smorgasbord Short Stories – New Series Authors in the Sun – Pedigree Chump by Marilyn Brouwer

When I worked on radio in the south of Spain I presented and recorded four series of Authors in the Sun showcasing local writers and their short stories.  In 2017 I ran a series on Smorgasbord with stories from the writing community and they were much enjoyed.

I would love to share your short stories here too this summer and details of how you can participate is at the end of the post.

As an incentive… I will select three stories at random to record for my podcast on Soundcloud with a link to embed on your own blog or to share on social media.

To get you in the mood…over the next two weeks I am sharing stories from the original series 17 years ago

Today’s story by Mal Brouwer is a cautionary tale to those who would make other people’s lives a misery. Her stories all have a twist in the tale and this one is no exception.

Wet food for dog and cat in colored bowl isolated on white background. The Wet food for dog and cat in colored bowl isolated on white background royalty free stock photos


Pedigree Chump by Marilyn Brouwer

He started eating the day after the wedding.

Beatrice had booked a cruise for their honeymoon. She’d heard that cruises were romantic, something to do with the small cabins and big oceans she supposed and dressing up and dining at the Captain’s table. The cruise had been a surprise wedding gift for Gregory; she’d given him the tickets in the limousine after the ceremony.

“Wonderful” He’d enthused stroking the tickets as if they were living things “I hear there’s non-stop food, midnight buffets, afternoon teas………..”His eyes had taken on a dreamy quality that Beatrice could not quite recall ever having noticed before.

Gregory was simply the most handsome man Beatrice had ever seen and Beatrice would never forget the first time they’d met four short months ago. She was being presented with a business award for female entrepreneur of the year. A dull affair really; a few members of the local press, local businessmen, dignitaries from the Chamber of Commerce and the Lady Mayoress who’s proportions were so vast, her mayoral chains of office were almost lost in the folds of her neck and chin. Beatrice had shuddered inwardly at having to stand next to so much uncontained flesh and only hoped the make-shift stage would hold up until she’d finished her acceptance speech.

Gregory had been lounging against the door frame at the back of the room, urbane and immaculate in a pale grey Armani suit and raw silk shirt. He never took his eyes off her, and as she walked the length of the conference room (to an agreeable amount of applause,) Beatrice had felt herself beginning to blush for the first time in twenty years. Gregory had held the door for her with a sexual indolence, making sure his hand brushed against Beatrice’s sensible suit jacket for just a fraction too long.

“Anyone who can make a success of a business called ‘Precious Pooches’ deserves a bottle of champagne at the least.” He had closed the door to the conference room and blocked Beatrice neatly between the wall and his body. Not that Beatrice particularly wanted to go anywhere, the faint scent of his aftershave and nearness of his hard, finely proportioned chest had made Beatrice unaccustomedly feel quite faint.

Gregory was ‘something in the city,’ too boring to go into on their first meeting. Whereas Beatrice, clever, pretty Beatrice running her own company with a turnover just hitting its first million…. Gregory had shaken his head in wonderment at her cleverness and pressed his knee ever so slightly harder into hers.

Beatrice had never drunk champagne before. Her father would have turned in his grave. Clive Woodstock and Son -Family Butchers since 1890. The sign was still above the shop, although it was no longer a butcher in the truest sense of the word, nor was there a ‘son’. Her father had been the last Clive Woodstock. The birth of Beatrice, with no offspring to follow had been a bitter disappointment to a gruff, no nonsense Yorkshire man expecting a boy to carry on the family tradition.

But Beatrice was nobody’s fool. If her father wanted a son, then that’s what she would be. So Beatrice watched and learned. Carcasses and blood and buckets of innards held no fear for her, she had no pre-dawn nightmares of Larry the Lamb gambolling in pastoral bliss one minute and smothered in mint sauce the next. Beatrice was a born pragmatist, and when her father found her balancing on a stool practising carving up a T bone steak at the ripe old age of seven, Clive Woodstock re-evaluated the seed of his loins on the spot. And it was Beatrice, years later, when Clive Woodstock was on the brink of going out of business due to “them bastard, sanitized, undercutting supermarkets and all them bloody vegetarian idiots” who came up with the solution. Saved his bacon as he would tell anyone who would listen. (Beatrice’s father had never been famous for his cutting wit.) Her father had almost turned in his grave BEFORE he was dead when he heard out Beatrice’s proposal. They were standing side by side at the cutting bench in the back room, both of them as fleshless as a pair of Yorkshire whippets, when Clive Woodstock first heard Beatrice’s blasphemous words.

“DOG FOOD!” Clive Woodstock dropped the bloody saw in horror. “DOG FOOD! FANCY BLOODY DOG FOOD AT THAT! OVER MY DEAD BODY”

“It was all your idea really dad.” Beatrice continued calmly and delicately cutting and preparing a rack of lamb, before looking up and patting her father soothingly on the arm. “What did you say to me this morning? What do you say to me everyday?”

Clive Woodstock’s brow darkened. He was cautious of his daughter, he knew never to underestimate her and if he could have articulated his feelings he would have admitted to a fierce pride in her abilities. Beatrice WAS the son he’d always wanted…..except, except she was a GIRL. It was a bugger, it really was.

“Well girl, I don’t know what I say to you everyday, except two sugars and mek it strong, but what I do know is I never said nowt about turning my shop into a purveyor of bloody fancy dog food”.

“And cat food.” Beatrice had remonstrated mildly. “Don’t forget the cats. And what you say everyday dad,” Beatrice put the lamb to one side and stared at her father intently, “what you say everyday is that people spend more money on meat for their pets than they do on themselves. And special cuts at that! Sirloin steak for Mrs Arbuthnot’s schnauzer, chicken breasts for Mr Dingle’s Siamese. God! Even Millie Trupp will only buy the best mince for that revolting flea ridden mongrel she’s got!”

Clive Woodstock retrieved his saw and wiped off the sawdust without looking at Beatrice.

“And just think of all the waste dad…” Beatrice always left the clincher until last.
”What about the waste?” Clive Woodstock was already in the bag, trussed like a Christmas turkey.

“Exactly dad,” Beatrice said happily, “what waste?”

And so, Beatrice started Precious Pooches. At first the food was bottled in the back of the shop, (Beatrice although acknowledging this method to be impractical in the long run) loved the irony of her dog and cat meat packaged like baby food. Special labels were made depicting most breeds of dogs and every variety of cat in chocolate box poses. (Beatrice’s dogs never inspected themselves or sniffed around lamp posts and her cats didn’t scratch or howl under windows.) Then Beatrice bought a little van, had it painted in Harrods’s green livery with gold lettering: PRECIOUS POOCHES and CLASSY CATS and began home deliveries. Clive Woodstock lived just long enough to participate in the opening of the Woodstock canning factory but unfortunately passed away before Beatrice was approached by a leading supermarket chain that paid her handsomely for the exclusive rights to stock her pet food.

Beatrice had had no time for romance. In truth, she was not the most appealing of women, tall and angular with her father’s no nonsense approach, all she knew of romance was what she read in the trashy magazines on her fortnightly trips to the hairdressers-Beatrice’s one indulgence. (Clive Woodstock’s one vanity had been his full head of hair, like father, like daughter.) But Beatrice knew a handsome man when she saw one, and Gregory Winterbottom was most certainly a handsome man. And Beatrice was lonely. Beatrice was bowled over. Beatrice was besotted. Beatrice could not wait to become Beatrice Winterbottom.

On the second day of the cruise Gregory got up at 7am and headed for the buffet. Beatrice found him an hour later and onto his third plate of bacon, eggs, sausage and beans with a side helping of waffles in syrup.

“Oh my!” She said, a trifle nervously, “You have worked up an appetite.” And Beatrice, although vastly inexperienced in matters of a sexual nature, HAD still read those magazines and knew that not a lot of his energies had been expended on her.

Gregory continued to eat all through the cruise. Gargantuan lunches, huge afternoon teas and dinners so obscenely large that the only time they were invited to the Captain’s table, the Captain, half way through the second course, feigned illness and fled to his cabin.

Beatrice tried tactfully to tackle Gregory about his appetite when one morning in their cabin his shirt button flew off and hit her in the eye.

“I think we’ll both have to go on a diet darling after this cruise, won’t we? I expect I’ve put on quite a few pounds.” Beatrice had tried unsuccessfully to push out her almost concave stomach.

Gregory eyes had raked her body up and down, an unpleasant sneer on his face. “You could certainly do with putting on a few pounds,” he said spitefully, “but as for me,” (and here he slipped his hand into his shirt where the button had popped off and slapped his gut cheerfully) “as for me, I’ve still got a long way to go.”

Beatrice couldn’t wait to get off the boat. Couldn’t wait to get back to some semblance of normality. Surely when Gregory got back to work he’d stop eating? Beatrice didn’t know how he’d fit back into his beautiful suits, his bespoke shirts. (In truth, she was wondering if he’d even fit back into the Z3 sports car that she had adored from the very first evening he’d taken her home.)

When Beatrice came home from her first blissful day back at the factory she was surprised to see the lights already on in the house and Gregory slouched on the sofa, his shirt straining over two small but discernable rolls of fat, his tie and briefcase discarded on the rug.

“I’ve been made redundant.”

Beatrice’s heart sank, but she remembered all the advice in her hairdresser magazine’s problem pages..

“Poor darling, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find another job really quickly.” She’d accompanied this with an encouraging and she hoped sympathetic kiss on Gregory’s forehead.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Gregory had looked up at her calmly, “I don’t think it’s going to be easy at all.”

And Beatrice, for all her inexperience, knew the difference between defeatism and a threat.

The weeks passed. Gregory made neither any attempt to get a job, nor any attempt to resume sexual relations with Beatrice. The latter was a cause of great relief to Beatrice. By now Gregory was unrecognisable to the man she had married. The Armani suits, silk shirts and linen jackets hung in useless mockery in Gregory’s wardrobe. Gregory’s habitual attire now was track suit bottoms and increasingly larger nylon football tops. (Even Beatrice, a football virgin, and sickened by Gregory’s grossness, could not fail to find the irony in Gregory wearing Beckham’s No 11 shirt) There was no talking to him. Beatrice had given up. It was hard enough looking at him; let alone having to talk to him. The sofa was indented to the shape of his body, stained with ketchup and curry sauce, scratchy with crisps, damp with lager. Most nights Beatrice cried herself to sleep. Had she done this to him? Was she so hideous in womanly ways that he had taken comfort in food? If only her father were still alive. He would know what to do. So as Beatrice grew thinner, Gregory just grew.

Beatrice never knew if it was a pure accident or a little malevolent spite on the part of the trainee who washed her hair. (Beatrice had never liked her, she dug her fingers too hard into her head and popped gum in an insolent manner-Beatrice had stopped tipping her in silent protest) whatever, after Beatrice had been shepherded under the hair dryer, the little trollop had sashayed over and thrust a magazine at Beatrice. Before Beatrice could say it wasn’t the normal one she read, Trollop Tracy had turned and walked away. Sighing loudly, Beatrice began to flick the pages. The lead story on page three almost stopped her heart where she sat.

SLIMMER OF THE YEAR- THIS MAN LOST 18 STONES!!! And there in glorious Technicolor was Gregory-Gregory before-(Dear God! thought Beatrice, he was even bigger than he is now) and Gregory after his weight loss wearing the same Armani suit and holding up a pair of track suit bottoms that he (and a small tribe of pygmies) had lived in. Beatrice felt physically sick. The copy blurred in front of her eyes.

Unemployed Gregory Winterbottom won this year’s Stupendous Slimmer of the Year Award walking away with a Z3 sports car, a wardrobe from Armani and a cash prize of £5,000. When asked what his next goal was, the irrepressible Gregory replied laughingly, “To meet a rich woman and start eating again!” Only kidding, I’m sure!

Beatrice couldn’t read the rest, hardly remembered leaving the hairdressers, driving home. But she did remember the magazine. She threw it at him with as much force as she could muster.

“Now I know why you married me, what I want to know is what you want to get out of my life?” Beatrice looked at Gregory with sheer loathing. “Or should I say, how much?”

Gregory burped loudly and moved the plate of sausage rolls from where it was resting on his stomach onto the floor.

“Half the factory, Beatrice. Half of Precious Pooches.” Gregory rubbed at a grease spot on one of his chins. “Or half a million pounds. I know that’s what the bank is going to lend you.”

“But that’s to reinvest in the business, Gregory you know that!” Beatrice cried desperately.

“Your choice, Beatrice. Half a million pounds or divorce, and then I’d take half the factory anyway.”

Gregory knew that Beatrice could never, ever bear to lose her factory.

Beatrice collapsed onto the armchair opposite, ashen faced,

“Alright Gregory, you win, but I want you out of here, out of this house, every trace of you gone. Come to the factory tomorrow night with your suitcase and every single piece of your FAT belongings and I’ll give you your money. However I want a signed document that I’ll have drawn up by my lawyer tomorrow, then that’s it, not a penny more. Don’t ever think of coming back. O.K.?”

The next evening after Gregory had gone, Beatrice, exhausted, went back to her office on the top floor of the factory and opened a bottle of champagne. Gregory’s signature stared up at her from the legal document on her desk. Beatrice took her father’s old zippo lighter from the desk drawer and carefully lit one corner. Her father would have been proud of her. Very proud. An extra two hundred kilos of prime dog food, absolutely free.

And no waste.

©Marilyn Brouwer

About Marilyn Brouwer

After some dreary years in the Civil Service, Marilyn realized her dream of living in Paris. She arrived in Paris in December 1967 and left in July 1969. From there she lived in Mallorca, London, Oman, and Dubai, where she moved with her husband and young son and worked for Gulf News, Khaleej Times and freelanced for Emirates Woman magazine. During this time she was also a ground stewardess for Middle East Airlines. She now lives on the Isle of Wight just eight miles across the Solent to my own home town of Portsmouth.

Thanks for dropping by and I hope you enjoyed Marilyn’s cautionary tale. 

If you have a fiction short story to share with us then here is what I will need. Please send to

  • A word document with your edited story.
  • 1000 to 1500 words.. but if it is slightly shorter or longer that is no problem. It can be any genre except for erotica as I have younger readers.
  • If you are an author or blogger who has featured here before I don’t need anything else.
  • If you are new to the blog then I will need an Amazon page link, blog or website links,three main social media links and a profile photograph.

I look forward to hearing from you and sharing your writing here… thanks Sally.

Smorgasbord Short Stories – Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction – Storm Windows by Sally Cronin

After a brief break from the Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge by Charli Mills I am back in response to this week’s wonderful prompt.. “Storm Windows”.

She looked out through the slightly distorting storm windows that protected the house from the harsh winds that swept onto the coast from America. This part of Ireland was notorious for its harsh winters, but also its outstanding coastal views and warmhearted people. She had moved here to escape her past, and preferred the natural violence of the weather to that she had endured for many years. She sighed as she turned to face the man in the room. Another more dangerous storm had breached the defences and windows could not protect her. It was time to be brave.

©sally cronin 2010

If you would like to participate in this week’s challenge you have until November 19th: Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge by Charli Mills

I hope that you have enjoyed this piece of Flash Fiction – thanks for dropping by.. Sally.


Smorgasbord Short Stories for Christmas – You’re Never Too Old for Love by Sally Cronin

You’re Never Too Old for Love

He was getting on a bit in years, his eyesight was very dodgy, and his hip was definitely causing him gyp. His teeth were still okay; he still enjoyed his meat slightly chewy, instead of that pap that they gave the real oldies in this residence. And if truth be told, despite his advanced years there was still a little fizz left when it came to the ladies. In fact there was a rather saucy looking old gal in the residence four down from him, who despite the silver threads through her glorious mane of hair, still had a twinkle in her eye.

Making his mind up to make more of her acquaintance later when they were all out in the garden enjoying their daily exercise, he closed his eyes to have a quick nap before lunch. He dreamt of a luscious garden full of the scent of flowers, as well as the laughter of children as he chased them around the apple trees. Two hours later he woke with a feeling of sadness, knowing that he would never see those children again. They were grown now and had no thought of him as he sat alone in this place.

There were visitors who came from time to time, but this was a residence for the elderly, and whilst they were well taken care of with amusements laid on, and so called enrichment programmes, they all felt the loss of being part of a family. They would talk about it amongst themselves when they were resting in the shade of the garden; out of breath from their recent exertions. They had to accept that they were not going to see the outside of this place again and had better make the best of it.

One day they woke up to see the garden covered in snow and some of the more elderly residents declined the invitation to go out for their usual daily exercise; choosing instead to huddle under the blankets and watch through the windows of their rooms. He, however, was made of sterner stuff. He remembered the fun he had enjoyed with the children; lying in the snow whilst they covered him from top to tail until only his head could be seen. He was not sure if he lay down in the soft snow now, that he would be able to get up again with his dodgy hip.

Tired from his time in the winter wonderland, he returned to his room and settled down in the old chair in front of the window. For some reason he felt incredibly sad; for once his normally sunny disposition was overshadowed by grief.

The next day the staff could be seen rushing around putting up shining decorations, and the residents perked up knowing turkey and all the trimmings were imminent. You have to give credit to the woman who ran the place; she was a kind soul who was committed to giving her elderly charges the comfort and care they deserved. They all enjoyed her frequent visits to their rooms for a chat and a hug or two.

Somehow this year he found it difficult to get excited, despite loving the taste of turkey, ham and those little sausages wrapped in bacon. But his dreams each night of children’s laughter lingered throughout the day, and he felt incredibly sad.

The day before Christmas, he woke to hear people talking outside in the corridor. Not unusual certainly, but he kept hearing his name mentioned and there was something familiar about one of the voices… He moved closer to the door and tried to understand what was being said about him. He heard the click of the latch and hurriedly moved back into the room; watching as the woman who ran the place entered with a tall young man.

“Hello Jack is that really you.” He stared at the stranger who seemed to know his name. He edged forward to get a better look and a hand reached out towards him.

“We’ve been searching for you since Mrs Jones died and we didn’t know where you had gone, I cannot tell you how happy we are to have found you.”

We, what’s this we bit?

Suddenly two very young children pushed themselves into the room and rushed towards him, throwing their arms around his neck. After a moment’s fear he surrendered to the wonderful emotions that surged through him as he heard their laughter; feeling their small arms choking the life out of him.

He looked up through rather bleary eyes as the young man knelt down and stroked the fur around his neck, a familiar smell immediately unlocked the memories he had tried to suppress during his waking hours. Memories of this man as a teenager living next door to his mistress, coming over when he was a puppy and playing with him, rolling around in the snow and teaching him how to make snow angels.

“You’re coming home with us Jack, would you like that boy, would you like that?”

To say that he was out that door like a whippet up a drainpipe, despite his dodgy hip, was an understatement. He was helped into a large box that hummed, sitting between the two small children strapped into special seats. They both reached out to touch him; reassurance that it was going to be safe as they set off at an alarming rate.

So here he was on Christmas Day having just eaten a meal of chicken, basmati rice and vegetables with special gravy, no salt his new mistress said in her soft caressing voice. He had a lovely new bed in the same room as his two young friends, Billy and Grace. He lay there in the warmth listening to them breathing gently in their sleep, knowing that he was now their guardian. He was filled with new purpose and strength; even his dodgy hip didn’t hurt as much.

More than anything he felt young again and loved… You’re never too old to feel loved.

©Sally Cronin 2018

At the moment I am offering a free ebook from this choice of five of my books to find out more about them and read a review please click on this link:

How to get your free e-book version of these books.

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Look forward to hearing from you.

The offer runs from today 18th December until Midnight Christmas Eve 2018 wherever you live


Smorgasbord Short Story Festival – 9th – 12th June – Search and Seizure by Phillip T. Stephens

Delighted to welcome my next guest writer to the short story festival, Phillip T. Stephens with his science fiction contribution with a topical twist.

Search and Seizure by Phillip T. Stephens.

The Jovian Starlines conveyor belt shuttled Faust and Roxanne to the customs counter. The obsequious looking rodent behind the counter held out his hand. “Name?” he squeaked. His whiskers bounced like a see saw when he spoke.

“Roxanne Street,” she said, dropping her HolID into his white-gloved hand. The rat slipped it into the HoloViewer and scanned the data stream cascading down her fully dimensional facsimile.

“What’s that on your shoulder?” he demanded.

“You mean the whip?” Cracked leather strips, braided together in a chord, coiled up her right arm. “It’s an ancient Terran herding device, now worn exclusively for ornamentation.”

The rodent returned her card. “Name?” he asked Faust.

“Goëthe Whip,” cracked Faust, who collected false identities the way other connoisseurs collected fine wines or pre-Twentieth Century artillery. He gave the rodent his voice activated, instantly programmable HolID. Faust kept his invention secret. Cheap Titan clones would flood the inhabitable planets the day after he sold even one on the black market.

“Open your bags,” the officer ordered.

“Why?” Roxanne demanded.

“Drug search. There’s a big market in Auralen 5 right now.”

“I’m tired of your planetary profiling,” Faust said. “Just because we’re Terran, it doesn’t make us drug smugglers.”

“We all came from the same ocean,” Roxanne said, sliding her solar lenses back into her eyelids. “Besides, shouldn’t you be more concerned about terrorists than drugs?”

“We won the war against terrorism. Don’t you listen to Emperor Trump 720? The new war is the war on drugs.”

The clerk waved through three Martians lugging large trunks without even checking their HolIDs. “See what I mean” Faust said. “Why didn’t you search their trunks?”

“Do they look like drug dealers?” the official squeaked.

Roxanne snapped her whip. The whip cracked against the trunk, opening the latch. Particle cannons and subterranean mines clattered across the star port floor. One of the Martians drew his top-spinning quark gun. Roxanne snapped her whip again. He jumped back from the whip, cracked his head against the wall and collapsed to the floor.

The rodent kissed her feet and thanked her for saving his ass. He returned their bags and passed them through.

Back at their apartment, Faust kissed Roxanne and said, “Great decoy, Rox. We’ll be on Saturn before they discover the guns were fake.”

He set up the flash freezer and froze the whip. Roxanne slammed it on the table. The whip cracked. She slammed it again. The whip shattered, spilling out twenty-two grams of crystal Auralen 5, worth seventeen million dollars. Martian dollars.

©PhillipTStephens 2017

About Phillip T. Stephens

Phillip T. Stephens, a professional educator and writer who developed a number of innovative classroom programs for exceptional and at-risk youth, drew on his own experiences as a minister’s son being frequently moved to new schools as well as those of his students to write Seeing Jesus. He and his wife carol rescue and rescue cats in Austin, Texas for

He is author of Seeing Jesus. A humorous, coming of age story, suitable for Christmas reading, Seeing Jesus introduces young readers to questions of spirituality and philosophy they might not otherwise find the opportunity to explore.

A selection of books by Phillip T. Stephens.

Read the reviews and buy the books:

Connect to Phillip.


My thanks to Phillip for his contribution to the short story fest and for keeping you entertained in my absence. Please check out his books and share thank you Sally.

Coming up this afternoon a story from Wendy Janes – From Hackney to Hollywood.


Smorgasbord Short Story Festival – 9th – 12th June – Tales from the Garden – The Last Emperor by Sally Cronin

For the next story in the festival I am sharing one of mine from The Tales from the Garden volume one.

The Last Emperor by Sally Cronin

High above the garden our feathered cousins soar on the updrafts caused by the scorching summer heat on the peaks and valleys of our mountain. They search diligently for their preferred prey which is anything that dares to fly beneath them or scuttle out of the undergrowth in search of food.

Majestically they accomplish what we cannot and have never been able to. From our place guarding the main entrance into the building that now stands on this ancient site, we watch enviously with our own wings fixed in stone.

We are the last of the stone eagles that have watched over this magical place. The first were made by a slave of the Roman merchant who built his villa on this mountain over eighteen hundred years ago. He and his countrymen had swept across and settled on the now peaceful sunlit Iberian Peninsula after many centuries of war. He supplied olives, figs and grapes to his fellow Romans and delivered casks of wine to the garrison of soldiers in the camp down by the river. He was a rich man with many slaves collected and bartered during the long journey from the coast to this central part of Spain.

For two hundred years the merchant’s family prospered and enjoyed the life so far from their original home. The skill of stone carving was passed down from the original slave to his sons and their grandsons as the seasons rolled through the decades. But then it all changed as the Visigoths invaded from the north and violence once more shattered the peace of the land.

The merchant’s family left and retreated back towards the south and eventually began a new life far away. Slaves were left behind in the panic, but being essential to work the land, were allowed to settle on farms and in small villages. But the stonemason of that time remained in the crumbling ruins of the old villa and built a modest dwelling where he continued to work and pass on his craft.

Finally his large family scattered across the surrounding area as towns and cities lured them away from the rural life. But always one remained to learn the trade and instruct another to take his place. The very last stonemason who had no sons, crafted us before he died, and as he smoothed our stone wings and hid us within the leafy folds of the boundary hedge, he muttered final words to us.

“Wait for the last Emperor, he will come and find you.”

We waited and the protective hedge grew around us. The stonemason’s humble home crumbled in the heat and snow filled winters, until it too joined the grand remains of the Roman villa beneath the soil.

Finally, fifty years ago, the sound of modern machinery woke us from our sleep and we watched between the large green leaves of the hedge as a new villa emerged in front of us. We heard human voices for the first time in many years and the sound of laughter as children played in the gardens.

But still we waited.

Thirty-five years passed and the children grew and left the home leaving an elderly couple rattling around its vast empty rooms. Soon they too left and all was quiet again.

One bright morning, as we lay in our hiding place, we were startled and shocked by the sudden intrusion of a long canine nose that pushed aside our overgrown covering. We stared into a pair of eyes that sparkled gleefully upon us. From this creature’s mouth came forth a high penetrating noise; enough to awaken even us stone bound creatures. Two human hands reached around the canine and pulled him gently back by his dark purple, imperial collar. They then returned and each one of us was lifted clear of the entwining stalks and leaves and we were placed in the sunlight for the first time in over a hundred years.

I won’t go into the indignity of being cleaned with brush, soap and hot water in places left untouched since our stonemason fashioned us. But finally we were pristine again and placed on our ledge to guard the house as was our duty.

We remembered what our old master had said as he had hidden us from sight. And, within a short time, we knew indeed that the last Emperor had arrived, as he came before us wearing his wreath of office and informed us of his imperial title of Moyhill Royal Flush. We and his courtiers were permitted to call him Sam, but only in private.

Our joy was beyond comprehension as the prophecy was fulfilled and we took pride and delight in guarding our new master. We remained alert over the next many years as our Emperor roamed the grounds on his daily inspection, supervised the garden workers and reigned over his house slaves.

Each night he would hold court from the front balcony of the villa listening to his canine subjects in the valley as they recounted the day’s events in his domain. He would wait until they had completed their report and then respond for several minutes, encouraging them to be vigilant and valiant.

He would then wait for his house slaves to bring him ice cubes to cool his parched tongue and platters of his royal repast in the form of chicken gizzards and sweet smelling Basmati rice.

We, as his loyal cohorts were not forgotten. As he passed us each day he would delicately sniff our bodies to check our health, and if he felt we were dehydrated, he would anoint us with his regal blessing.

We treasured our role as his elite royal guard and although, to our great sadness, he has now passed from our sight, we still stand sentry over him today. It is in a place where he can continue to view his great domain and listen to his many canine minions in the valley below. The last emperor has left his mark on this place, on us and on his people and will never be forgotten.

©Tales from the Garden 2015

Tomorrow we have two short stories from Phillip T. Stephens and Wendy James and I hope you will pop in to read and enjoy.


Smorgasbord Short Stories – Shopping ….. by Sally Cronin

Shopping…. by Sally Cronin

‘Come on let’s whip into that lane over there.’

‘No, I am fine here, look the line is moving already.’

‘Are you kidding me?’ He glared at her in frustration. ‘We are going to be here till Christmas at this rate and the game starts in twenty minutes.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s only football for goodness sake, just be patient.’

‘Patient, patient!’ Hands in pockets he made a face.

‘I came shopping with you didn’t I? He put a hand on her shoulder.

‘Come on Penny, please we only have three items and that line is much shorter.’

She shrugged his hand off and took a deep breath.

‘She doesn’t like me.’

‘Who doesn’t like you?’

‘The woman in that checkout.’

‘Excuse me!’ He looked at her in disbelief. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I have been through that checkout several times when I was in a hurry and each time she has made rude comments.’

‘Love, you’re losing it babe, big time.’ She glared at him.

‘Okay last time I went through that checkout with a pizza and ice-cream, she said that she could see why I was fat.’

‘You must have imagined it doll.’ Laughingly he grabbed her waist fondly. ‘I love every inch of you and you are not fat just cuddly.’

‘Alright, I’ll prove it to you.’ She turned and stomped off to the now empty check-out and waved the first item, which happened to be a packet of fish fingers, under the scanner.

A slightly metallic female voice spat out of the speaker. ‘Oh my, still picking the fat options I see.’

Penny turned to her husband and gave him a glare…. ‘Well, do you believe me now?’

‘It must be a wind up… Candid Camera or one of those stupid programmes. Put another item through.’

Penny put the two other items under the scanner one by one. The voice smugly pronounced. ‘That will be four pounds and eleven pence and half a stone madam.’

Fuming Penny put her debit card into the reader and completed the transaction. She threw the offending items into her bag for life.

‘Okay Penny let me have a go.’ Her husband picked up some gum from the stand next to the checkout and passed it under the scanner.

‘Hello handsome,’ spoke a silky sexy voice. ‘What are you doing for the rest of my life?’


©sallycronin 2016

Thank you for dropping by and wave to me next time you go through the automatic checkout because I am likely to be in a queue!  Thanks Sally

Smorgasbord Short Story – The Surprise by Sally Cronin

This short story began life as flash fiction for a challenge. As I was restricted to a certain number of words I decided to expand on the story and share with you.

The Surprise- by Sally Cronin

Lawrence Matthews was a good looking man. Tall, with jet black hair, he could charm the birds out of the trees… or out of a nightclub and into the back of his car which was as flash as he was. The life and soul of any party, he would splash the cash and whilst the fairer sex adored him, males clustered around him on the off chance some of his luck with the girls might rub off.

He had fallen into the estate agency business through sheer luck when he left school. His best friend’s father owned several offices in the surrounding county and he offered Lawrence the opportunity to join along with his son as a trainee. His friend soon discovered that he was unable to come out from under his friend’s shadow, leaving to join the army, but Lawrence was born for the job. He worked his way up to branch manager in an exclusive area by his mid-twenties, and as a salesman he excelled. Sometimes his unsuspecting clients would wonder why they ended up with the house they did. Good old Lawrence always popped round and reinforced all the positives about the property they might have overlooked when the back wall of the house subsided.

Lawrence rarely took any of his expanding group of acquaintances home to the modest terrace house where he was brought up. To be honest, his parents, who were quite shy and retiring, had no idea how they had produced this charismatic son of theirs. His father privately wondered if he had not been switched at birth; especially on the rare occasion he joined Lawrence down the pub for a pint. He would sit there quietly sipping his beer and watch as people gathered to bask in the radiance that emanated from his offspring.

More and more he refused his son’s infrequent invitations. Eventually he and his equally mystified wife sold their home and moved to Bognor to retire. Lawrence barely noticed their departure and would phone once in a while and threaten to come down for a weekend. His parents soon realised that these promises were empty, resigning themselves to the fact that Lawrence was far too involved in his own life to be bothered about them.

Whilst apparently an open book as far as the world was concerned, there were a couple of things that Lawrence liked to conceal from people. One was his pathological fear of snakes that did not enhance his macho and gym-toned public persona. At five years old his well-meaning parents had bought him a Jack-in-the Box type toy for his birthday. He had screamed like a girl when a two foot and very life-like banded snake had launched itself at him from the stupid thing.

The other secret was his little gambling habit. He did love those horses but unfortunately they did not love him. This had not been too bad when property was selling like hotcakes, but with the downturn, his commission was as extinct as a Dodo. This little matter was resolved by the charm offensive, seduction and marriage to Rebecca, the daughter of a multi-millionaire retailer who gave them a rather nice cash settlement on their wedding day. Just in time as recently the account with his bookie had plummeted deeply into the red. Their frequent telephone conversations had become downright hostile.

Apart from the gambling there were also some other side activities that Lawrence kept from his wife who would look at him adoringly when he walked through the door each evening. She seemed to accept that he needed to work late a couple of evenings a week, taking potential clients to dinner or showing properties in the longer summer evenings. He was careful to make sure that he didn’t bring home evidence of his dalliances, thinking himself rather clever at having his cake and eating it.

His wife was pretty enough he supposed, but he also thought she was not very bright. He did however appreciate the generous monthly allowance that her father paid into his daughter’s bank account which he offered to manage for her. She had agreed readily enough, and to his knowledge never bothered to check her bank balance. Lawrence decided to do a little mining into the account and gradually syphoned off thousands of pounds to cover his debts over the next few months. To celebrate he suggested that he and Rebecca head off to Thailand for a second honeymoon.

They stayed at the best hotel close to the sandy white beach where the calm waters invited the visitors in for swimming and water sports. For the more adventurous, deep sea snorkeling was on offer, and surprisingly the normally reserved Rebecca, took to the activity like a duck to water. She headed off with one of the undersea guides every day for several hours returning exhausted and full praise for her guide’s patient tutelage.

Lawrence was a little miffed if he was honest at not being the centre of attention. He got a bit bored lying by the pool and sipping a selection of exotic drinks off the cocktail menu. He spent some time flirting with some of the younger bikini clad sun worshippers; knowing that he would be unlikely to get away with anything more in these restricted confines.

At the start of the second week Rebecca suggested that he might come with her out to a small reef just a five minute swim off shore. Taken by surprise by her rather seductive smile and the sight of her now bronzed body in her bikini he nodded his agreement. He donned his mask and after some tips from Rebecca on how to breathe and dive with his apparatus, they headed away from the beach.

He had to admit it was pretty stunning seeing all the brightly coloured fish and coral life and he relaxed into the adventure. Suddenly, his wife appeared right in front of him with her hand behind her back. She gestured to him to rise to the surface.

They both removed their masks and as the warm water lapped around his neck he saw Rebecca’s gloved hand reach out towards him rapidly. He felt an excruciating pain in his neck and looked down to see the brightly coloured, writhing body of a snake. As his vision blurred he screamed like a girl and stared at his wife treading water calmly.

As his eyes met Rebecca’s cold and steady gaze, she mouthed just one word.


©sallycronin 2017

Smorgasbord Short Stories – The Soldier by Sally Cronin

The Soldier by Sally Cronin

Norman carried his plate carefully across to the gingham covered table under the window, setting it down next to his cup of tea that had been as carefully transported a few minutes before. He could not walk without his stick and had to adapt his routine to fit around this inconvenience. He steadied himself on the back of the wooden chair and deposited his walking aid up against the window sill. He turned himself around and sat down heavily with a sigh of relief.

He assaulted the still steaming cup of tea with four spoons of sugar and smiled wryly at the silence that accompanied this act of rebellion. If Ruby had been sitting opposite him there would have been hell to pay. He closed his eyes and willed the disobedient tear to cease its descent down his cheek. He sniffed and reached for the butter.

His flat was in an anonymous looking block on a small estate that had been built in the 1990s. He had moved here begrudgingly from their little terrace house that had been home for fifty years. The council were going to knock the late Victorian homes down and make way for a modern housing project. As a widower without any living family, he did not qualify for one of the new three-bedroomed semi-detached houses. They had moved his bits of furniture and treasured belongings to the flat, but the money that they paid him for the compulsory purchase of the house was still sitting in a bank account untouched.

He managed his simple needs on his state and army pension, only glancing briefly at the monthly statements that showed a steadily increasing balance, before throwing them in a drawer in the sideboard. There had been an effort by his previous neighbours to fight the compulsory purchase. He had watched the protests in the street dispassionately, ignoring the knocks on his door from those soliciting his support. Ruby had only just died and a part of him had as well. He had been numb at the time and also strangely voiceless but he had looked upon the resultant pay out as blood money. As he looked around the small room that had never seen a visitor, he realised how much he had relied on Ruby and the community spirit in his old neighbourhood.

Norman’s flat was on the second floor of the building and thankfully the lift was in operation most of the time. He couldn’t manage the one flight of stairs now even with the stick; resenting this as evidence of his further decline. During the day the building had always been reasonably quiet and he barely noticed the passing of the hours. That is until he would hear the sound of the children returning from school and diving straight into the playground at the front of the flats. He usually opened his windows and sat with a cup of tea, enjoying their shrieks and laughter. It reminded him of his own dead son when he was that age; long before he joined the army and went to Iraq.

Recently however there had been new sounds and they drowned out the childish laughter. Teenagers from a neighbouring estate were prowling the stairwells and communal areas of the blocks nearest to them, but away from family and possible consequences in their own neighbourhood. His own block had taken on a seedy and unwholesome appearance with  evidence of night-time drinking and drug taking on the landings and underground garage. The local residence association had contacted the police and there had been a begrudging response which included one or two more cars patrolling at night, but no arrests were made. The council representative had said that they were powerless to provide security with cutbacks to essential services already.

The residents now rarely went out at night unless absolutely essential; locking their doors and windows and turning their televisions up louder to cover the noises of anarchy on their doorstep. Children no longer played on the swings as aggressive teenagers of both genders took over the playground in the central area as a gathering point in the afternoons, jobless and bored. Graffiti began to spread across the walls of the ground floor and up the stairs; Norman shook his head at the hatred and violence it depicted. He had never felt so powerless in his life.

It was Wednesday and Norman always went down to the legion for a pint and bite of lunch. It was his only interaction with others during the week, except for the cashiers at the local supermarket. He laid out his suit on the bed and found a shirt that was crisply ironed. He would wear his regimental tie today and give his black shoes an extra polish. He needed to look his best for what lay ahead.

An hour later he made his way through the swing doors of the legion and walked past the walls covered with photographs of those who had served and passed away. One day his image would join them and younger men would mentally salute him as they walked into the bar. But he was not there yet, and grasping his stick firmly, he straightened his back and walked briskly through the tables of men talking quietly in this place that linked them to their years of service. Some looked up and said… ‘Morning Sergeant Major.’ He acknowledged them silently with a nod.

‘Atten… Shun’

At the barked command thirty pairs of eyes swivelled to the front of the room and automatically several stood to attention. As Norman’s stern gaze descended on the other men, they too stood to join their comrades.

‘You have all served your country bravely, but now you, like me sit silently by and watch as an enemy infiltrates our way of life. The people we fought for are under attack and barricaded into their homes afraid to breathe in the fresh air and walk unmolested.’

Several men nodded and Norman could read their body language as he had thousands of soldiers before. They too had lost their purpose and it was time to give them their pride back.

Later that afternoon the children arrived home from school and were ushered straight into their flats on the different levels of the apartment block. A few stray elderly residents also made their way back from shopping and packed into the lifts that would distribute them over several floors. The block was preparing for the daily invasion of the gang.

They were not disappointed, and as the warm sun hit the playground it began to fill with the dross from the neighbouring estate, laughing and throwing their rubbish on the ground. When dusk fell they would start working their way through the block with their spray paints and drug paraphernalia; turning this community into a no go area for decent people.

Suddenly one the group caught sight of movement coming from the direction of the main road. He shushed his mates and one by one they went silent. They watched as an old man walking with a stick marched up the street with determination. He was followed by at least thirty men in rows, also marching in time. They wore suits and looked proudly to the front where their leader preceded them. Some of the youths began pointing and laughing but a tall, older boy told them to be quiet.

The marching men arrived in front of the block of flats and turned sharply to face the playground. Norman took three steps closer and placed both his hands over the head of his stick. He looked to his right as two large vans marked with the name of an industrial cleaning company pulled up to the kerb.

He turned and addressed the youths now waiting expectantly and looking at each other in stunned silence.

‘These men behind me have fought in wars around the world and are all trained killers. They will now be patrolling our estate day and night in teams of three and have orders to treat any they find defacing the walls, using drugs or threatening the residents as terrorists which is what you are.’

Norman paused and behind him he heard the snap of boots on the road surface as a number of the men took three steps forward and stood with their arms folded menacingly.

Sergeant Major Norman Smith pointed at the two vans. ‘These contractors will now clean the graffiti off the walls and remove your filth from the stairs and hallways. You will now pick up all your rubbish you have dropped and put it into the bins provided. You will then leave this estate and not return again. These men behind me are just a handful of those at my disposal and any ideas you might have of bringing reinforcements to assist you will be met with severe repercussions.’

The youth who the others followed, looked at the old man and smiled slightly as he shook his head. He pointed to the others to pick up their discarded cartons and soda bottles, which they did reluctantly. He glared at some and gave others a sharp word. He knew there were other soft targets out there. Perhaps not as convenient to his estate, but this one was no longer worth the hassle. Hoods up and hands in pockets, the youths turned and began to saunter nonchalantly out of the far exit of the playground.

As they did so Norman heard doors begin to open on the sunlit walkways behind him and voices as people tried to find out what was going on. He glanced behind him as the cleaning crews began unloading equipment from the back of the vans. He had finally found something to use that blood money for in a way that he could live with.

Applause broke out on the walkways, and as the last of the youths sauntered off down the road, a mother ventured out of the safety of the building holding her two children’s hands. They broke away from her and raced into the playground shouting and laughing.

Soon others left the surrounding blocks and came to speak to Norman and their new protectors. As he watched the exchanges between the former soldiers and the liberated residents he saw how they carried themselves now with pride and purpose.

It was good to be back on the front line again.

©sallycronin 2017