Hazel Eyes

Michael loved his collection. He laid some out on the table and stared. So many memories, so many varieties. He placed his fingers lightly upon them. Oak, Sycamore, Ash, Elm, Willow and many, many rarer ones. Each with a small paragraph written on the back that detailed where and when he had picked or found it, the variety, its taxonomy and importantly how he was feeling. He picked up the 'Madeline Spitta' and rubbed his finger across the veins of the leaf. 

This was the one that he had hoped would make things right. A leaf that bore his wife's name, but she had never shared his hobby, never shared his passion for Folium at all. In fact, in then end, she had left him and his collection for another man blaming his obsession. 

He closed his eyes at the pain of the memory and turned slowly. Sitting in the chair by the window, her hair lit by the sunlight, and looking at him with a smile on her face that made her green eyes dance was Hazel from the garden centre. 

He looked at the leaf he had chosen that morning, a leaf from a tree that bore her name and smiled. Tomorrow was the first day of a New Year, tomorrow he was turning over a new leaf.

He Hated It - He Hated It More Then Words Could Say

Charlie Barley and Patrick the Penguin' the posters said. 'Charlie Barley and Patrick the Penguin' was who they paid their money to come and see. 'Charlie bloody Barley and Patrick the bloody Penguin' ten long years on the road.

What had started off a childhood obsession had taken over his life. "I want to be a ventriloquist," he remembered saying to his parents so loudly, "and I will hold my breath until you buy me a dummy." And so they did.

Now, after fifteen years, he had grown to hate the dummy that had taken over his life. The dummy that got all the laughs. The dummy that was loved by the audiences. Yes, he had reluctantly got used to the idea that it was his wooden dummy they came to see. He might as well not show up for the all the attention he got. If he said exactly the same lines there was no reaction but in his dummy's voice you couldn't stop the gales of laughter.

Well it was going to change. After tonights show he had finally reached then end of his tether. He was not going to let that dummy make a fool of him again. Slowly he folded the figure into its travel case and dragged him outside. 

Once the crowds had departed he slowly poured white spirit over the box. Funny how not one of the audience had come over to say how much they had enjoyed the show. He knew why, without the dummy he was invisible. Well, when the match caught he would send his hilarious friend skywards in a puff of smoke.

Later, turning his back on the smouldering embers of his show biz partner, he seemed to have aged as he shuffled off. He had thought it would be a relief to be rid of him.

Entering his home he was greeted from the Kitchen. "It's fish for tea Patrick, I hope you don't mind." 

Instinctively he heard Charlie's voice come from his beak, "not fish a-bloody-gain." He could hear his penguin mate laughing in the kitchen.

A Christmas Carol (for anyone who remembers Dickens and the classic vinyl tile manufacturers)

"Marley is dead."
To begin with?
"There is no doubt whatever about that."

There was a massive cheer and a round of applause. Kieran leant over to his left and whispered in Ian's ear, "I always hate these Christmas party speeches from the MD." Ian nodded in agreement but maintained his smile, clapping loudly with his eyes focused on his ultimate boss.

"Marley is as dead as a doornail!" climaxed the speech to whoops and howls that deafened the ears. "Now you all go and have a great Christmas. And well done everyone."

Kieran had worked for Ebenz Floor Tiles for fifteen of its twenty years. He had seen the company grow from a two man outfit to the largest supplier of floor coverings in the UK and many parts of Europe. They were now outselling Marley tiles at a ratio of 5 to 1.

Turning to make his way to the free bar Kieran bumped into Christine from Accounts. Hers was a job of reckoning.
"Hi Kieran, Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas Christine."
There was an unfilled pause.
"I always think that these must be very strange events for you," she said slightly awkwardly, "I mean, you and he started the company all those years ago. You must look back and wonder what happened."
"Not really," said Kieran, "I try not to spend too long looking back, it's not very healthy being haunted by your past."

Christine moved away and Kieran shuddered involuntarily as memories caught up with him. Why had he gone to Graves Floors? Why hadn't he stayed with the company he co-founded? He knew the answer. He didn't feel he was getting the respect he deserved. He had developed a long lasting high gloss finish for tiles that meant you could see your face in it. It was unique and Marley's reflected face was ghostly by comparison.

He listened to all the conversations around him. It was the time when people could speak of little else other than what they were doing for Christmas and of course the choice of Christmas presents. Kieran snapped his way back from his floating ear and turned back to the drinks table.

He lifted a glass of champagne to his mouth and was about to drink when he was slapped firmly on the top of his shoulder.

"It's great to have you back," said the voice from the stage, "You should have never left us."
"Thank you," muttered Kieran.
"I hope you've got some great ideas up there," it said and Kieran found his temple being tapped by a stubby ringed finger."
Before he could reply his former partner had drifted on, smiling and 'pressing the flesh'.
Inside he felt his stomach turn. Unless he could get rid of the repressed anger then this Christmas would be same as the others. A life filled with anger and hate is no life at all.

He swallowed the glass in one long draught and immediately reached for another without looking. He felt his hand brush against someone else's and turned. Standing next to him was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. He felt his face redden and when he said 'sorry' he hardly recognised his own voice. The way her eyes stared at him made him feel that all his life had been stripped away and that his soul had been found wanting. If ever he wanted to run away it was now but he also felt the need to stay, to understand more about this person and why their presence had such a strange impact on him. He turned and picked up two glasses. When he turned back they had gone.

"Is that for me,?" said Ian.
"What?" Said Kieran his eyes rapidly scanning the room, "No, it's for...." But they were nowhere to be seen. He gave the glass to Ian.
"What's wrong with you Kieran. You look like you've seen a ghost."
"It's just that...... It's like ....... I, ........., I just can't explain it. Maybe that first glass just went to my head." But he knew it wasn't that. Something in those eyes had shown him that he had to let go of his anger, let go of his pain because if he didn't - well he had seen his future.

Christmas Day morning Kieran opened his eyes and felt different. The anger was gone, the hatred that had driven him had left. All the reasons he had created as to how it was others had let him down, ripped him off, shafted him had disappeared. He was left with the truth. It was he who had made the mistakes, he who had wanted, no needed, praise. He who had walked out and not just from the business but from relationships and friends too. Well it was going to change. He reached for his mobile and looked out a number he had not called for a very long time. The ringing tone started and he was about to hang up when a voice he long remembered and loved answered.
"Hello, who is it? Is someone there?"
His voice stumbled but spoke, "Carol, it's Kieran. Merry Christmas."

The Old House

He noticed it every day he walked down the road. It was older than any of the other houses or flats. It was out of place between the 60's and 70's architecture and those properties that had suffered recent renovations at the hands of DIY enthuisiasts. This house was from another time, it was aged but cared for and he noticed it every day as he walked down the road.

It wasn't just the house that he noticed. It was the face of a young boy pressed up against the window. He was there every day staring out, waiting for someone, for something. It was an odd look. Slightly dated with a hair style you didn't really see too often anymore. Unless it was one of those retro styles that were making a comeback but anyway, the point is, that the young boys framed face was there in the window at the same time every day that he walked down the street.

Nothing else on the street remained constant. New people moved in and others moved out. There were more cars and more noise. Sometimes it was hard to find space on the pavement for the number of people dashing about. But whatever else was happening the boys face never seemed to change, his stare cutting through the bodies and lives of those outside.

He would never know what made him pause that day. Perhaps it was the pram blocking the path but whatever it was it meant he heard the conversation.

"Such a shame."
"They should do something with it, it's an eyesore on the street."
"It does make you wonder why no one has ever built on it."
"Mrs Edgar says it was where the bomb actually fell. Most of this area was destroyed."
"I still don't understand why they don't build on it and finish the street."
"It's such a horrible story though isn't it. A young boy waiting for his Father to come back on leave. The Father staying in the pub instead of going straight home. The boy waiting in the house instead of going to the shelter."
"I'd have hated to be that Father, that's the sort of thing that would haunt you for ever."

The Fisher Man

His job was a strange one. When the other fishing boats came back to the shelter of the harbour for the waves were too rough to risk he would untie his craft and set out.

They would stand on the top the sea wall sheltering their faces from the freezing spray and mutter to each other about his foolhardiness. Then they would turn and walk down to the pub before the weather turned so bad it was not safe to be out.

Not one could understand what he was doing, not one could understand why he only went out in the roughest of weather. No one could give any answers because no one had ever spoken to him. He would only arrive at his boat when the weather was so rough, sky so dark and the sailors so busy with trying to moor their craft safely that no one had ever had the chance to speak with him.

In fact no one could even describe him other than he was like the shadow of a man who appeared and disappeared without a glance to them. Just once a fishermen saw his face in the lightening and that he had such a grey green pallor that he had been forced to look away. No one knew if that was true because he was a friend known to exaggerate after a few pints but by the end of any drinking session they all agreed that there was something about the stranger that made them uneasy.

Out on the roughest sea the man cast his net over the side and sat back to wait. This was a sea that would deliver. He glanced up at the sky as the moon cast a silver sheen across the tops of the wave. Dark clouds stole the light until all that challenged the darkness was the slight glow from his pipe marking the throwing of the boat from wave to wave.

Hours later, as the seas began to settle the man began to draw in his net. As it came on board it was clear that it was empty of fish. Indeed the netting was so strange in its structure that it was unclear what manner of creature it could catch. As he heaved over the end of the net he gazed at its emptiness.

As the fishermen returned to the Quay to check their boats they saw the man’s moored in its usual place. What they couldn’t see as the sun began to rise was the old man carrying his net to the graveyard on the hill. For only he knew what he had to do.

At the graveyard he lay the next on the grass and pulled it open. Only he could hear the sound of the wind, only he could see the feint silvery shapes, only he could see them finding their graves. Only he, for he was the fisher of souls. He was the fisherman who returned the drowned to their earthly resting place and he had done so for as long as men had been fishing.

He stared with sadness at the souls still caught in the net. For them there would be no resting place until the bodies were found and for some that would never happen. These would have to be thrown back when the darkness returned.

In My Life - I've Loved Them All

It was such a vivid and horrible dream of helplessly sinking deeper into water as the light at the surface dances and ripples away with the waves. The terrible tightening of the chest realising that the desperate flailing of arms and legs cannot fight the undercurrent. Finally, resignation as the darkness ascends and the water begins to fill both mouth and nose

Then suddenly back in bed. Safe, cosy and surrounded by the warming dappled sun through the curtained window. Gulping at the air before realising it was safe here in the pillowed bed. The door opens gently and a mother’s loving face peers round. Worried by the noise she had heard she is immediately reassured by the smile she sees. He smiles back.

Such perfect love, such a warming smile, the nightmare has almost faded away.

A breakfast is carried in followed by father with presents. As perfect a start to a birthday as there could possibly be. If only that dream was not still in the mind.

Sitting up and laughing, reaching out arms to cuddle them both. Softly and slowly the arms come together but there is nothing to hold. The darkness that follows behind them obscures the moment and then the scene.

Some time later the body is hauled onto the boat. “Fifth we’ve found,” says the boatman, “Don’t suppose there’s any survived in this water.”

As the body is rolled over not one person comments on his smile.

From day 126 to 131 (not the bus)

Day 126. I have spent the day lying on my back staring at the clouds. I am listless and cannot get over the sense that this is it. It has been so long and such a struggle to keep going but I now just feel like I am slipping away. Part of me is shouting don’t give up but a larger part just wants me to shut my eyes and let it end. But as always is the way the need to fight for life is strong and so I have bent a nail, tied it one of the tarpaulin ropes and put maggots on the end of it. I’m not sure I have done this right as the maggots keep crawling off the tarpaulin but I can’t bear the thought of piercing them on the nail. Oooooh, a cloud that looks like Geoffrey from Rainbow.

Day 127. I didn’t hear the ship approaching in the night but the waves from it’s bow caused my boat to rock so violently that I was awoken by being thrown across onto the rollocks or is it spelt rowlocks – I just don’t know. What I do know it that one of the oars caught me right in the bowlocks and I spent a good hour in a ball sobbing as the lights from the ship disappeared in the distance

Day 128. Last food eaten, last maggots turned to flies, last feeling of hope. The dull pain that haunted me yesterday subsided in the night but didn’t bring the relief I had hoped for. They say that when you die your life flashes before you. I suppose that is happening slowly to me because of the slow slide down. Such memories coming back. Some extremely annoying like finally remembering where I left the coat I loved. It was in the back of Keith’s car when he drove off back to Peckham. Too late now, he will have sold that car. I lay back, pulled the tarpaulin over me and shut my eyes. My head is full of bells.

Day 129. The bells sounded louder as I opened my eyes. People in white are rushing around me. I can see one of them speaking to me but I can’t hear anything. It’s like they are in a cloud, a fog. She is pulling back my eyelids and shining a torch. The fog is clearing. Suddenly I am coughing uncontrollably and a dry pain tears at my throat. A man with glasses and a strange moustache takes my arm. A sharp pain and then the mists begin to roll over my sight again.

Day 130. Someone is speaking to me. It is so odd to hear a voice after all this time. I am slow to understand the words but she seems to be asking me something. I try to speak. She calms me down with a hand to my shoulder and speaks slowly. “Don’t try to speak Bobby, you have been out of it for a long time now. “Where am I,” I hear my voice rasp. “E Wing,” she says gently. “We don’t know your real name but all the nurses call you ‘Bobby E Wing’.”

Day 131. The Doctors have just left. I am haunted by questions which they refuse to answer. They say it will come back in time but I want to know now. Have I been alone for over 100 days on an island or is this some Dallas like dream. Also, if I am not ‘Bobby E Wing’ then who the hell am I. I try to force my brain to work but it is like a damp outboard motor, it just won’t kick in. I start to choke and a passing nurse puts water to my lips. Sleep.

Arthur's Eyes

Arthur, who was ten years old, could not remember the morning it first happened but now he knew it would be the same every morning he woke up.

When Arthur opened his eyes first thing in a morning he did not see his bedroom. He did not see his curtains, he did not see his poster, he did not even see his dressing gown on the back of his bedroom door. No, Arthur could see a village.

It was the same village very day although never exactly the same view. Sometimes he felt like he was walking through the village, sometimes he was inside of one of the huts. He knew he was moving around the village even though he was lying perfectly still in his bed.

He had to lie perfectly still because the very second he moved in his head the village would disappear and he was back in his bedroom looking at his dressing gown on the back of his bedroom door.

As the days went by Arthur would try to lie as still as he could. In this way he could keep the dream going for as long as possible. His mother was beginning to get annoyed with him. “Why won’t you get up when I shout,” she said. Arthur said nothing, he knew she would only worry.

You see the funny thing about the village was that there were other people in it too. Arthur could tell that he was a child there because he had to look up to see the grown ups faces when they smiled at him or spoke. Over the days Arthur began to recognise people’s faces and particularly a small group of friends that he seemed to play with.

Soon Arthur began to look forward to going to bed so he could wake up in the morning in the village. His mother began to worry. “Why are you so tired,” she would say, “ I have never known you want to go to bed so early. Perhaps we should take you to a Doctor”, but Arthur just told her he felt fine and perhaps it was the excitement of being eleven soon.

Arthur liked his time in the village, he liked his new friends and he liked exploring the area around the huts. One morning a group of them went further out of the village than ever before. Arthur began to feel excited when he saw they were going towards a river. He wanted to run ahead but he knew that if he made the slightest move he would be back in his bedroom.

Arthur looked down and saw that he was carrying a large clay jug. As they neared the edge of the river he bent down to fill it from the water. But there, just before the jug  touched the surface of the water, he saw his reflection.

Arthur sat straight up in bed and he was back in his bedroom. He jumped from his bed and ran to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. He felt relieved when he saw his own face staring at him. His eyes were still blue and his hair was the strange dirty yellow it always was.

All day the image of himself that he had seen in the river haunted him. He was round faced with rich dark brown eyes and a magical smile. He just wanted the day at school to end so that he could get home, go to bed and wake up again the village.

He ate his dinner so fast that his mother thought he would be sick and when he said he wanted to go to bed when it was still daylight she was really worried that something was wrong.

Arthur lay under his duvet and tried to fall asleep. It was worse than Christmas Eve. It didn’t matter what he did he could not stop his brain from thinking. At some point in the night, and Arthur didn’t know when, he finally fell asleep.

When he woke up it was dark, at first Arthur thought there was nothing there but soon his eyes became accustomed to the light. He could see a woman lying on a bed. He must be inside the hut. The woman was moaning gently. He could hear a voice speaking which he began to realise was his. He could not understand what the voice was saying but he knew what it meant.

The woman was ill and he was saying that he would do the chores, he would go and get the water, he would make the food. He went out into the daylight of the village and set off down to the river. Arthur recognized the way they were walking from the day before. Every so often he could see the jug come into his eyesight as it swung on his arm.

Soon he was by the bank of the river bending down. Arthur concentrated as he bent low over the water. Yes, there he was again, that face that was his but yet wasn’t him. As soon as the jug entered the water the face shattered into a thousand lights and was gone.

With the jug filled they walked back to the village. The boy poured water into clay beakers and passed them to some other smaller children before carrying one into the hut for the sick woman.

His mother shaking the bed made Arthur move his head and the hut vanished. It was time for school again.

Over the next few weeks Arthur was fascinated to watch these brief moments of life in the village. It became clear that it was hard. There was not much food and everyone seemed to work almost all the time. The woman in the hut was no longer there and when he sat inside looking at the bed his eyes would fill with tears.

But something else was happening. The view of the village was getting fainter. It was as if a grey mist was descending over the picture. When he caught sight of himself in the river his eyes did not look the same. Sometimes he would fall over something he hadn’t seen.

One morning when he woke up he couldn’t see at all. It was just like a grey fog . That was the last time that Arthur woke in another place.

On the morning of Arthur’s eleventh birthday he was eating breakfast at the table when the post fell through the letterbox.

“Can you get that Arthur,” his mother shouted.

Arthur wiped the milk from his chin and went up the hall to the front door. He picked up the post and went back to the table munching on his cereal. A he sat down he  flicked through the letters taking out his birthday cards.

He almost choked when he saw on the front of one of the envelopes, a picture of himself. But it wasn’t him as Arthur, it was him as he looked in the village. Arthur suddenly felt cold and sick.

“Anything important?” his mother shouted from the kitchen.

Arthur shoved the letter in his pocket although he didn’t know why. “Nope, just birthday cards” said Arthur in as calm a voice as his body would let out. “I’ll open them later when I get back I’m going off to school now.”

“But you’ll be early, “ said his mum, “And I haven’t given you our present.”

“I know but I’ve got things to do. See you,” he said pulling the door closed at the same time to stop the conversation.

Arthur walked up the path and along the road as fast as he could. He was breathless and feeling slightly dizzy. As soon as he got to a bench he sat down. Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter.

He closed his eyes and held the letter in his hands. He knew that when he opened them that everything would be OK. It would just be a normal letter and he could relax.

Arthur opened his eyes one at a time. Only it was no good. The face staring back at him was his. What was happening? Arthur read the sentence under his photo on the envelope – ‘Will you give the gift of sight to Afram?’

Arthur opened the envelope and took out the letter and began to read it.

Dear Supporter,

Will you give the gift of sight to Afram?

Afram is just twelve years old. Ten months ago his mother fell ill and Afram had to look after his family. Four months ago Afram lost his sight to Juvenile Glaucoma. Now he cannot look after his younger brothers and sisters and struggles to survive.

A simple operation could give Afram his sight again.

Just £15 can fund the operation to help Afram and others like him.

Will you give the gift of sight to Afram?’

Arthur pushed the letter deep into his school bag and walked to school. He was quiet during the morning and his friends began to worry about him. At lunchtime he knew what he was going to do.

“Tomorrow,” he announced, “I am going to hold a toy sale, you can help if you want, because I need to raise £15 to give a boy in Ghana his sight back.” As Arthur explained about Afram the others all agreed.

After lunch they spoke to their class teacher who was only too pleased to help and during the afternoon posters went up in the school windows and letters were sent home.

The next day children brought their old toys and put them on tables in the hall. At first break everyone spent their money buying the things they wanted. Some children were so excited they accidently bought back the toy they had brought in themselves. By the time the sale was over the teacher asked Arthur and others to see the Headteacher.

The Head was very pleased with them and their toy sale had raised over £110. Arthur handed over the envelope from the charity and the teacher put a cheque inside and promised to post it that night.

Later that year, as Arthur was beginning to think about moving on to secondary school, he woke from a scary dream. Lying perfectly frozen in bed he opened his eyes. For a second he was confused and then he could not believe it. It was true. He was back in the village. He could see his brothers and sisters running towards him and some of the older people were grinning and laughing as he walked towards them. 

He could see the huts, he could see the trees, he could see the sky, he could see the woman come out of the hut in tears as she ran to him. He could see.

“Did you have a good sleep?” asked his mother when Arthur came downstairs.

“Not a good sleep,” said Arthur, “but a wonderful waking up,” and with that he smiled so broadly that his mother knew something special had happened