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    DREGS II: The Aftertaste
    DREGS II: The Aftertaste
    DREGS II: The Aftertaste
    Ebook114 pages1 hour

    DREGS II: The Aftertaste

    By Rachel K Jones

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Following hot on the heels of the magnificent "Dregs - The First Batch", comes a new phenomenon.

    "Dregs II - The Aftertaste". Just when you thought it was safe to pick up an anthology again, here something very disturbing indeed.

    Yes, it's true!

    Dregs is back; and this time it is wearing shoes.

    As before, you will find p

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRainy Arvo Press
    Release dateJul 6, 2023
    ISBN9780645474633
    DREGS II: The Aftertaste
    Author

    Rachel K Jones

    Brit now living in the Northern Territory.Short story lover, poetry fiend, and still writing my big book!

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      Book preview

      DREGS II - Rachel K Jones

      DREGS II

      DREGS II

      The Aftertaste

      Rachel Jones

      publisher logo

      Rainy Arvo Press

      DREGS II

      About this book

      Dregs II: The Aftertaste is a book that contains humour and horror in equal measure.

      It explores topics that are both thought provoking and challenging.

      The author may or may not have lived experience of these themes.

      Caveat Lector

      Contents

      Perspective

      Dedication

      Another Dog Poem

      Nothing You Can Name

      Proof of Death

      Screaming In The Shower

      Fishing in the Dark

      A Gnome's Request

      Father’s Day

      Sweeping In The Dark

      Seen But Not Heard

      Satan’s Frozen Bum

      This Small Bird

      A Devil Put Aside

      The Wish-Fae

      The Jar

      Be of good cheer!

      Mischief Night

      Portent Potential

      The Interview

      About The Author

      Copyright © 2023 by Rachel K Jones

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      First Printing, July 2023

      Perspective

      Bad

      Not

      Good

      Be

      A horrible person

      Don't be

      Listening to others

      Remember to be

      Shunning everyone

      Don't be

      Kind to others

      And a good thing is to be

      Mean

      Don't be

      Nice

      Be

      Bad

      Not

      Good

      (Now read from the bottom to the top) - by Isaac Burgess, 11

      To Steve.

      Put the kettle on.

      Another Dog Poem

      Weekend dogs are different dogs,

      Whilst bacon odds are high.

      Man's feet are slippered, soft, and still,

      With their little people nigh.

      Weekend dogs are wriggly dogs,

      A cadence to their bark.

      Suspension of the dreary week,

      They bound, joyful, round the park.

      Weekend dogs are helpful dogs,

      Always keen to lend a paw.

      They schloop the windows, sniff the drains,

      Lick cold gravy off the floor.

      Weekend dogs are snoozy dogs,

      Heads resting 'neath the chair.

      A Sunday feast, full belly growls,

      And gas abroad the air!

      Nothing You Can Name

      The rising sun brushed the hedge-tops, appearing sleepily in the eastern pink as a distant dog grumbled his breakfast demands into the burgeoning light. Tiny birds, ever hopeful of the early worm, chattered amongst themselves, adding their chorus to the morning refrain.

      Night retreated silently into itself, gathering secrets and promises whispered under its sombre watch. In its wake, day stepped in, growing louder and brighter with each passing moment. Colour returned to the world; the full spectrum restored once more.

      Through his bedroom window, Sidney Strudwick beheld the dawn's creeping progress. On the opposite wall, the light rose higher and higher, illuminating the wallpaper roses. Beryl said it was like the new day painted the bedroom, announcing Curtain Up on a new show. She always loved the eastern aspect of this room.

      Sid could only ever catch Beryl's show on Sundays. Most days, he was up and out while it was still dark. Nobody wanted their milk delivered at lunchtime, especially if they needed it for breakfast. He usually left the depot by dawn; milk float clinking and rattling behind him.

      That was then, though. Now, in retirement, he watched the dawn's overture every day, alone.

      Next door, in the potting shed, George bashed his knee on the bench. The little workspace was too small, and he found himself constantly knocking elbows and knees on something. It didn’t help that finding anything in the increasing chaos was becoming a treasure hunt. Sadly, the prizes were terrible.

      He ran his hand along the rough sides of the wooden bench until he found the smooth, cold metal curves of the lawnmower's handle. With a few tugs, he manoeuvred it out through the narrow doorway, pulling it free of the rest of the jumble. Squinting into the fuel tank, he noted there was plenty of petrol left to accomplish his planned chores. Out of habit, he grabbed his safety gear from the hook.

      He had set himself an early start today, keen to finish everything by lunchtime. There was a county cricket match this afternoon, and he might as well get some enjoyment out of his bloody TV licence fee; the so-called entertainment tax they forced him to pay.

      Death and taxes. You can't avoid either of them, he mused.

      With the shed door slammed behind him, he wheeled the mower to the lawn. Looking to the kitchen window, he half expected to see Ann at the sink, washing dishes, waving and smiling. The space remained empty, of course. He missed her; these last eight months agonising. He would give anything to see her face at the steamy window once more.

      Sometimes, though, he felt her presence when struggling with the crossword. He imagined her laughing as he failed to get more than halfway through the cryptic clues. She was always the thinker, the creative flame. George was the rock on which she stood, she called him her steadfast, her clifftop.

      How he longed to have Ann scold him for doing too much, to fuss over his holey socks, or even remind him to be kinder to Hissing Sid next door.

      Bloody Sid, why be kind to him? They had lived through over twenty-five years of that tootling bastard leaving the house in the middle of the night. Whistling tunelessly, and always the same song, Nothing like a Dame. Rogers and Hammerstein would be spinning in their graves to hear it. South Pacific? More like South London.

      George really thought of him as Pissing Sid, having seen him piddle into Ann's lavender bush late one summer evening. His only consolation was that Sid obviously had problems urinating at will, his reduced stream barely dribbling into the plant pot.

      Saying a silent prayer to the patron saint of prostate problems, George had allowed himself a quiet smile as he pictured Sid's urological journey over the coming years.

      Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, George said quietly, pushing the mower to a suitable starting point. Opening the choke, he pulled the starter cord. The two-stroke engine sputtered once, twice, then died.

      Damn this thing.

      He pulled the cord again. The same sputtering, some rumbling, then silence. It had only been a month, or

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