Ah February. Love is in the air and the prospects of Spring are just around the corner. People begin to smile a little more, feel a little more carefree, dare a little, and share a lot.

Mocha Memoirs joins in the spirit of the season, sharing with your our special edition, scattered with themes of love throughout. Good food, beautiful flowers, and happy people, it has to be our feature story, Carrot Cake and Daffodils by Liz Palmer. We also have a special mug for this month, brought to us by Coffeemugheaven.com. Check out the Focus section to find out more about it.

Visit our Nook as we explore the joys of poetry from Gwendolyn Brooks. Or explore the many wonderful stories and poems we have this month. We also have the honor of featuring a very talented poet, Alan Bates.

Finally, we are pleased to officially announce our new Short Story Editor, Lauri Jean Crowe. She comes to us with a great deal of experience and has already had a wonderful impact on the short story section. She has a lot of great ideas lined up for the coming issues.

Sit back, relax and enjoy this issue.
Thank you for visiting and being part of Mocha Memoirs!

The Staff of Mocha Memoirs

Agatha watched her elderly neighbour, through the window. Poor man. He had been a widower when he moved in across the road and that was almost 12 years ago. Yet he still hadn't found himself another wife. Something that Agatha could not understand.

He was very good-looking, even at his age. He had the deepest eyes she had ever seen on a man - dark brown with just a glimmer of green. The type of eyes that made you forget what you were about to say. Agatha, herself, was reduced to stuttering every time she tried to talk to him. Women should be throwing themselves at his feet.

Throwing herself at Henry's feet, was something Agatha had thought about doing herself many a time. She had peered through this very window, imagining those sinewy arms wrapped around her waist and those lips pressed against her cheek.

Foolish, it was, to fantasize about a man as though she were 16. She was 67, for goodness sake. Too old for crushes.

But yet, there was something about him. Something that moved her in ways she had never been moved before, not even by her late husband. Perhaps she should do something about it?

"And what would that be?" she chided herself. "Go around and ask him for a date?"

She chuckled at the thought. Ridiculous. He did live by himself, though - he may not be adverse to a little homemade cooking. No, she could never ask him around. Even at 67, she was too shy to make advances on a man. She did still want to do something for him. Bake him a cake or something he could enjoy.

She started to blush, thinking about knocking on his door with a cake. He didn't have to know who sent it, though. She could go around secretly. She knew, from constant observation, that he left the house every Monday morning at 8 o'clock, just before her sewing bee. It wouldn't be that embarrassing to leave the cake there while he was gone now, would it?

After much contemplation, Agatha decided to bake Henry a carrot and walnut cake, with cream cheese icing. She was well renowned for her carrot and walnut cake at her sewing bees and if the sewing women liked it, Agatha thought Henry might like it as well.

Besides, it was no trouble, as she usually baked one for the meeting, to bake an extra one for Henry. In fact, it was the decent thing to do, him being a widower and all. Celia Montgomery or Jemima Clark would have baked one for him ages ago.

Talking like this, Agatha almost convinced herself that she was baking the cake solely for charitable reasons and not because she had what would be called, if she were 50 years younger, a teenage crush.

Agatha sat by the window on Monday, making sure that Henry left for his usual Monday appointment. When she was sure he was gone, she stepped out cautiously, feeling a little like a spy would feel, and gingerly placed the cake on Henry's doorstep. Her heart was beating rapidly and her breath was coming in short quick gasps as she walked back across the road to her own house.

There, it was done! Now that the feat was accomplished, Agatha felt quite brave. It wasn't that hard, after all. She should do the same next Monday. What a pity, though, that she couldn't see his face when he discovered it. But it was sewing time and sewing bees would not, could not, be missed.

By the time her meeting was finished, and she returned home, she had almost, but not quite, forgotten about the cake. The memory came rushing back when she saw Henry pottering out in his yard, tending to his daffodils. She kept her head down low, worried that her face would somehow give away that she was the one who placed the cake there.

"Morning Agatha," Henry called out.

"Good morning," Agatha mumbled, head down low.

She quickly walked up the garden path to her front door, wanting to look at Henry, but too afraid. Her head was so low down that she almost tripped over a bunch of daffodils on her front door-step.

Daffodils? How strange. Agatha remembered the daffodils in Henry's front garden. But it couldn't be him, could it? Why would Henry want to send her flowers?

As Agatha bent down to pick them up, she noticed a note.

"To the baker of the best carrot cake I have ever tasted, love always."

Agatha clutched the note to her heart. She dropped her bags and went running across the road as fast as her 67 year old legs could take her.

"Oh thank you. Thank you so much for the flowers."

Henry smiled, "So it was you?"

Agatha's mouth dropped open. "You didn't know? And now I've just given it away. Oh, I'm so embarrassed!" She started to walk away.

Henry walked after her and grabbed her by the arm. Agatha noticed that even though those arms were lean and wrinkled, they were still very strong.

"I had my suspicions, or should I say hopes. I couldn't be certain, so I figured if I left that bunch of daffodils with a note about the cake, that would soon tell me if you were the person who left it. If it wasn't you, you may have had a strange few days wondering who would leave a note like that, but no harm done."

"Well, it was me. Are you satisfied? I just thought with you being a widower, you might enjoy a bit of homemade cooking."

"So it was purely out of pity for a poor old widower."

"I wouldn't say pity exactly, just . . ."

Henry wiped his brow with his sleeve. "I guess I was kinda hoping that maybe it was because you felt a little something for me."

Those eyes. Why did they look at her like that? How could she concentrate with those deep, brown eyes staring at her?

"Wait. You were hoping?"

"Agatha, I've admired you from afar for the past 10 years or so. I guess I was just too embarrassed to say anything. You're a mighty fine lady, but you never even seemed to want to talk to me. Well, I guess I've said so now. You can do with it what you wish."

After a long pause, Agatha finally spoke. "It must have been a long time since you've had a decent home-cooked meal."

Henry inclined his head "That it has, Ma'am. That it has."

"You're welcome to join me for dinner, if you wish."

"I might just take you up on that offer."

"You can bring dessert," Agatha smiled.

"It's funny you mention that, because I've got the best darned carrot cake you could ever hope to taste sitting inside my kitchen."

"I look forward to it."

One month later, at Agatha and Henry's wedding, no-one could understand why they were insistent on having carrot cake as their wedding cake, and why Agatha chose daffodils to have in her bouquet.

© 2001 Liz Palmer Liz Palmer is an Australian writer who has published both short stories and articles in print and online. She currently publishes 2 e-zines, Mothers_zine and The_Beginner_Writer. She is also a contributor at themestream.com.

The swallows were motionless smudges against a gray sky. Andie huddled on the porch steps and stared at them dully--there wasn't anything better to look at. And she was too weary to do anything else. Weary? You're lazy. You have no reason for moping.

The admonition only fed the persistent, numbing buzz inside her head. Andie wrapped her arms around her hollow center and waited for the chorus of gray noise to stop.

The grandfather clock droned out the hour, muffled by the walls between them. The buzzing in Andie's head swelled. Time to pick up the kids. Think you can manage that?

Tears welled, but dried quickly in the stinging wind. Andie didn't move: she watched a shriveled leaf struggle to cling to the oak beside the porch. It wrestled with the wind, but its efforts were useless. In the end, it was swept away.

"What's the point?" Andie whispered, shivering.

When she looked back at the swallows, they were larger. Closer.

Close enough to dispel the earlier illusion of motionlessness. Their frail-looking wings beat frantically, pulling them unerringly against the wind. They could have landed, could have dropped from the sky and never risen again. Instead, they flew.

The sun peered between scudding clouds, sparking silver light off blue-gray wings. Andie watched the swallows trudge past overhead. When they'd moved on, she stood and fetched her keys from the house.

It was time to pick up the kids.

© 2001 L. E. Erickson The author is a specialist in interpersonal communication for preschoolers, noise level management, and how to write four hours per day in 120 two-minute increments.

None of us were rich. It was student accommodation. An old, run-down farmhouse on 3 acres of crabapples. We had no cars. Only bikes, old clothes, big dreams, and delusions of grandeur. Like other students we waited for our monthly grant cheques, eking out our remaining pounds towards the end of each month with lentils, beans, toast and lots of potatoes.

There were seven of us, all guys, or eight if you count Carrie, Simon 's girl. We were never sure if she was visiting or staying. Simon and Carrie were lovey-dovey one minute and fighting bitterly the next, hearts on their respective sleeves for all to see.

Tall, with long dark hair, high boots and a resolutely feminist stance before it was chic, Carrie swore she was a witch. "Taught the coven in my cot," she'd say to anyone who listened long enough to get past the non-stop couch cuddling practiced by her and Si. It was hard for us to take in our hormone driven testosterone-filled hostel. So we decided to play a practical joke.

I was the main instigator, the brains behind the operation. I planned everything carefully so that they couldn't catch me. I was going to be the 'good man', the confidante. It wasn't meant to be serious. Just some gentle conjuring, a mild haunting. For a laugh as much as anything else, but also to pay Carrie back for choosing someone else, stop the irritating witch talk, the self-assurance, the baby talk. "Hey Babycakes" she'd call Simon, giving him a loud and obvious kiss on his cheek while making us all cringe.

We started with a horror film. Kubrick's The Shining, beautiful in its horror, with imagery that would sit in the head like a half-remembered dream. We all watched in silence, the cold night air filling our well-ventilated room through the holes and whistling slightly as we shivered on our mismatched sofas.

"Redrum? Redrum," we laughed nervously, but the decayed lady and bleeding twins stayed with us as we went off to bed. At least Carrie and Simon had each other.

The rest of us went off alone, Andy and Marcus to set up the light show while I organised the shoe. It was actually a boot, like one of those cartoon ones fished out of the sea. I attached it to the rafters in the attic and fed a thin, transparent wire down through a crack in the wall, coming out near my bed so I could make it bang with a gentle tug without leaving my room. Then I went to sleep, pleased my sophisticated haunting machine was safely in place.

A few days later the haunting began. It started with a gentle tug. A light shake of the string was all that was needed. "Tap, tap, tap." Maybe they would think it was water dripping onto the roof, although it hadn't rained in days. Maybe they wouldn't even notice it, letting the sound fill their subconscious minds until I pulled harder, causing the boot to bang against the roof.

"Thump," just as Simon was getting off to sleep. "Thump" in the morning while Carrie was brushing her teeth. "Thump" during their inevitable overheard lovemaking sessions. Just enough to leave them wondering if something was on the roof.

I helped them search. Naturally they couldn't find anything. The others had difficulty controlling their laughter as the two explained the noise, but I was all ears, full of sympathy. "Perhaps it's the water-pipes, or maybe a rat. I'll stay awake tonight to see if I can hear anything". I was their friend. The kind one.

Carrie came to see me a few days later. "Simon is so insensitive. He can't understand why it bugs me so much. I think it could have something to do with my uncle Joe, who died a year ago to the day."

I was nice. Warm. Understanding. "Simon has been studying for finals Carrie. I'm sure he'll get more involved after they're over. Tell me about your uncle."

As soon as I realised Carrie was convinced that her uncle was haunting her, I got Marcus to begin the film. He set up a trigger below the floorboards. Late at night when Carrie would be up to go to the loo, the trigger would open a filming of a point of light projected just on the wall in front of her. It would only appear for a few seconds and then disappear.

Simon never saw this one. Every few days we would disconnect the trip so it wouldn't work. Somehow only Carrie saw it. She would wake me to go with her and even when the light appeared, I claimed not to see it.

Carrie became edgy, sleepless nights leaving brown rings under her eyes. Simon would talk to me, tell me about her, her silly ideas, her hallucinations, her nasty side. Carrie would talk to me, tell me about Simon, his shallowness, lack of culture, his irritating skepticism.

I nearly told both of them, nearly disconnected both the boot and the film, but somehow each night I felt my hand on the string, pulling; heard the creak of their door as Carrie tip-toed out and watched, listening for the sharp intake of air when the light appeared. I took a strange pleasure in their discomfort, and watched their relationship fall to pieces.

The lovey-dovey talk stopped. The fights became worse. Carrie had red eyes, swollen from crying, walking aimlessly through the house. Simon was losing weight, listless. It had to stop. Andy, Marcus and I agreed to end it. We stopped our haunting, but Carrie and Simon continued to fight.

One day we watched as Simon threw all of Carrie's things: clothes, candles, crystals, the lot, out of their bedroom window. Carrie left soon after that, and although we all felt a little guilty, we told ourselves that their relationship probably would have broken up anyway. The haunting was just a bit of fun. Nothing serious.

Simon moped around for a while. We tried to cheer him. Took him to pubs, watched Laurel and Hardy tapes, drank masses of cheap wine and watery beer, but eventually he just moved out. After that we all forgot about them. There were exams, papers, meals, the distractions of routine.

Until one night a few months later I heard a banging in the attic. It couldn't have been the boot. I threw that away long ago. In the morning I looked everywhere but there was nothing, no boot, no string. I grabbed Marcus and Andy, but their faces were blank. They were terrible actors so I knew it couldn't have been them.

Every night I heard it. A boot against the ceiling, "thud, thud," and every morning I searched for some scientific explanation but I couldn't find it. Was I the subject of someone's revenge? Carrie and Simon getting their own back? Maybe Carrie sent a spell my way, but as far as I knew, no one had told them about the haunting. They still thought of me as the good guy.

I was losing sleep. Andy suggested we go for a drink down at the local pub. Marcus told me I looked awful, was losing weight, had deep circles under my eyes. Then all of a sudden it stopped.

I felt a blackness come over me, almost like a depression. I could hardly drag myself out of bed in the morning. I was unable to work. My supervisor was worried. "Nemesis" I said to myself as I packed my bags. I deserved this. I couldn't live in the house anymore.

Maybe it was Marcus or Andy. Maybe Carrie and Simon did find out and came to pay me back. If so, they did a damn good job. I never saw either of them again and no one ever admitted to anything.

My new place was bright, small, with a studious curly red haired flatmate who I rarely saw. I woke early and he was gone. Went to bed late and he was still out. His work was something to do with IT, but I never knew what it was.

He did know Carrie though. Told me she'd buggered off to Latin America. On some peace mission. Something to do with Oxfam or one of those mob. There was a rumour she'd gone missing. Been taken by rebels and shot, or worse.

As for me, I had long since given up my larrikin ways. I hardly ever even told a joke and lived a pretty quiet existence myself.

One evening, alone as usual, I heard a noise, perhaps the dripping of a tap. I checked the bath, the kitchen sink, but nothing was leaking. Then again, but slightly louder. It was unmistakable. A boot in the ceiling. A shiver of almost pleasure ran through me and I thought I heard a laugh, whoosh of black hair, a ghostly shadow with high boots. My nemesis had returned.

© 2001 Magdalena Ball Maggie can be reached at: maggie.ball@orica.com

Buy It Now!

by Pamela Kock
Originally published January 21, 2001 at themestream.com

"Well, dang it," Jane sighed. "I think this story I'm writing is terrific, but everyone thinks it's boring."

"Here, let me look at it," said Joe, reaching for Jane's notebook.

She frowned. "Well, okay. Maybe you can give me some suggestions."

Joe sat in the ratty blue vinyl chair in the student lounge, concentrating on what Jane had written. From time to time he mumbled things like "mm-hmm," or "good," or simply twitched his lips from side to side.

Jane waited impatiently, and began to perspire. She wasn't used to having her work critiqued, especially by someone she found attractive.

Finally he put the notebook on the table, leaned forward, and met Jane's gaze with his crystal blue eyes. "Jane," he said, "I like your idea. There's a lot of potential here."

"You think so?"

"Sure. But you need some dialogue. Your characters have to talk to each other. That's what makes a story come alive for the reader, and helps to move it along."

Jane sighed. She rested her elbow on the table, propping her head on her hand. "I've never been good at that stuff. Can you tell me how to make it better?"

"I think I can offer some suggestions," he said.

Jane listened attentively, trying not to notice Joe's rippling muscles.

"When you were a kid, did you have an imaginary friend?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Are you kidding?"

"No, I'm not. Did you have an imaginary friend that you talked to, in the privacy of your room?"

"Um, yeah," she stammered. "Her name was Stacey. But I gave her up when I was six."

"Too bad," he said. "You could have learned a lot from her about dialogue."

"Huh?"

"Did she answer you back?"

"I guess so."

"In other words," said Joe, "You said something, and she answered you back in her words. Those words were yours, too. You carried on a conversation with yourself. You suggested a scenario, and your imaginary friend played along."

Jane raised her brow inquisitively. "So, Joe, who was your imaginary friend?"

He smiled. "I still have them. They play the parts in the stories I write. My neighbors must think I'm crazy, sitting in my apartment talking to myself."

She giggled. "You talk to yourself?"

"Sure, I do. When I'm writing, I act out any scene where the dialogue seems to be going slowly. It's okay, writers are allowed to be eccentric."

Jane laughed. This guy was a riot! "Okay, I'll try it. I'll rewrite this scene, and you can read it tomorrow."

"Great. I can't wait to see what you've done." He picked up his backpack and left.

The next day, Jane found Joe in the lounge, and handed him the notebook. "Look," she said. "I did just what you said, and my roommates thought I was out of my mind. I have to admit, though,it was fun!"

Joe grinned. He opened the notebook, and began to read.

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