Care

He didn’t know if the vet would deal with it. This was a wild animal and he wasn’t sure whether domestic veterinarians would be interested but as soon as he had seen the little mole struggling in the park he knew he would have to do something.

The vet’s nurse lifted the cardboard box onto the table. The vet, who looked young enough to be playing in the park, leant forward and lifted the little mole from it’s temporary ‘hole’ and saw immediately the problem.

Trailing from the moles body was a fine, gossamer like, substance that looked a sort of brownie-pink colour under the fluorescent lights. She sighed, this was clearly not good. She reached round and took a book down from the shelf.

“Is it bad?” he heard himself almost stammering. How could he have care about this little helpless furry creature so quickly? “And what is that attached to him?”

The vet held up to the thin membrane and in doing so pointed to the picture in the book.

The vet spoke slowly. “I’m afraid this is getting a lot more common. You have a skin on your mole.”

The Old Book

It had taken six months to unpack all the boxes but as they settled back in their new sofa with glasses of red wine they finally felt that this was their new home.

“Make sure you don’t leave a ring,” said his wife as he placed the glass on the leather arm.

He automatically picked up the glass and placed it on the floor. As he did so his hand brushed against the old book. He lifted it to his lap and opened the cover. It smelt of damp and the page was mottled with stains.

“What’s that?” his wife moved closer to him on the sofa so it was difficult to find a comfy position for his arm.

“I’m not sure. It was at the bottom of the last box we unpacked. I thought it must be yours.”

“Nope, nothing to do with me unless it was one of my grandmothers.” She took a sip of her wine and sighed. “Well we’ve done it, finally we’re unpacked,” She paused. “Do you mind if I put some music on?”

“Nope, you go ahead. I’m going to look at this book.” As she got up to choose a CD He turned the page and involuntarily sniffed his fingers. They smelt of the past. He grabbed his glass and took a long drink to rid himself of the stale aroma but the earthiness of the wine almost enhanced it.

He began to read.

Chapter One

He didn’t recognise the song but he knew that the music was making it difficult for him to read. It was just at the volume that pervaded your mind and prevented concentrated thought.

He paused. This was strange language for a book that was so old. He flicked back to cover sheet. ‘Printed in 1895’. He was surprised but it was probably just his prejudice of the present.

“Is the music too loud?” asked his wife as she settled back onto the sofa.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said, slightly frustrated at his inability to say what he was really thinking. He turned back to Chapter One and started reading again.

Chapter One

He didn’t recognise the song but he knew that the music was making it difficult for him to read. It was just at the volume that pervaded your mind and prevented concentrated thought.

“Is the music too loud?” asked his wife.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said, slightly frustrated at his inability to say what he was really thinking. 

He closed the book again and put it on the arm of the seat. He rubbed his eyes and picked up his glass. He took a long drink and let the wine circulate around his mouth.

“Are you all right?” His wife was staring at him. “You’ve gone a funny colour.”

What a Pickle

His mother meant well. He knew that she cared about him, probably loved him, but unfortunately her dependency on alcohol hid that warmth and care quite effectively. Not that he could rationalise it, he was only seven. To him her behaviour was quite simply understood as ‘good mummy’ and ‘bad mummy’.

He knew that ‘good mummy’ tended to be around in the morning when she would hug him, kiss him and say sorry a lot. She would often cry when she was ‘good mummy’. ‘Bad mummy’ was there when he came home from school and some weekends. She would smell funny and speak in a weird way and sometimes she would hurt him.

This morning ‘good mummy’ was particularly sad about what ‘bad mummy’ had done the night before. She kept asking him to forgive her but he didn’t really know what that meant.

Finally she asked him if there was anything she could do that would make it better. After a long and deliberate pause he asked her. “Could I have a dog?”

“Oh Honey,” she said, “We couldn’t keep a dog.”
“A cat?” he asked quietly

“I’ll get you a pet that we can look after,” she said quietly and then tousled his hair and sent him off to school.

That afternoon when he got home he ran around the flat looking. “What are you doing?” his Mother slurred. “Looking for my pet,” he said with such obvious joy that it partly sobered her.

“It’s not here yet,” she said staggering to her feet. “I have to go and get it now. You stay here and remember not to let anyone in.” She took her bag and fell towards the door and out into the street.

He sat and waited. What he didn’t know was that she had bumped into an old friend who had taken her to the wine bar. It was four hours later when she lurched through the door with wrapped fish and chips under her arm. He ran towards her. She smelt bad.

“Where is it, where is it?” he shouted, his positivity and optimism not dampened by young years of disappointment.

She stared at him trying to remember what she had promised. Suddenly it came to her. She drew herself together and took the deliberate steps of a drunk trying to appear sober into the kitchen.

A moment later she stepped out into the hall. “Here it is,” she said placing a small warm object into his hand.

Kieran loved that pickled onion as much as he would have any dog or cat.

It's Only Words

God how he hated it and as he got older it had got progressively worse – losing words. He knew if he relaxed it would come back but he was so angry about not being able to remember it was impossible to calm down. He took deep breaths and suddenly the word he had lost came back – it was ‘found’.

The irony was …..was ….. was….. aaagh!

Where are the Dragons?

He sat back and placed the book on the arm of his chair. He sighed a discontented sigh as he stared into space. He had been born into the wrong time and he knew it.

He loved reading about the past. He loved reading about men and women who had conquered over massive setbacks and gargantuan odds to defeat the giant miseries of their times. The people who had cured diseases, created great machines, advanced the cause of human kind. The people who had slain their own personal dragons and in doing so made such major gains for human kind.

He had been born too late to be one of these greats and he viewed it with enormous sadness that his genius could never be tested against those monumental mammoths of misery that had stalked the earth in days gone by.

Slowly he sank back into his chair and turned on the television. The news was, once again, filled with stories of floods and famine, wars and disease, climate change and pollution. He turned it off and sank back into his reverie of the past. “Where,’ he thought to himself, “Where are the dragons of today. It was so much easier in the past when you could see them ”