The Balloon

By the time she had managed to slide the knife in and remove the object that was preventing the drawer from gliding out she had forgotten what she wanted to get.

She shook as she carried the overfilled draw and placed it onto the small table next to her armchair. It was one of those jobs she never got round to but now it was forced upon her.

She slowly lifted out the collection of mail shots, letters, cards and other paraphernalia that had found its way into the dark recess examining each with care. The top layers were recent and the vast majority she threw onto the open fire in the hearth.

As the more modern strata were slowly disposed of she began to come across photos. Holding them between her fingers she began to look through a haze of tears. There was her husband when they were young, before his illness, when they were together. Here, one of Christmas with the children when they were little. Each photograph chipped another tiny hole in the dam of dementia keeping back her memories. The photos she placed to the side along with the letters she must have kept from her one ‘true love’.

The bottom of the drawer was a collection of safety pins, string, thimbles, badges and pens. Not worth keeping but not worth getting up to throw away. At the back was a single balloon.

She lifted it carefully out and brushed off the dust and lint. How long could that have been in there? She couldn’t remember the last time there had been balloons in the house. It must have been for one of the children’s parties. She lifted it to her lips and began to blow.

‘You silly old fool,’ she thought as she struggled to start its inflation. ‘It’s probably perished. It’ll go bang in your face,’ but she kept blowing.

When it had taken a reasonable shape she knotted it with her trembling fingers and liver marked hands.

Looking into the balloon she could see the reflection of the room behind her. Slowly she realised she could hear the noise of a party which she put down to increased blood pressure from all the effort.

Well, she did until she could see the reflection of her husband standing behind her with her children either side. Behind them were her parents and sister and brother. As she focussed through the tears she could see herself in the middle of them all as she had looked many, many years before.

She saw her husband reach out for her and closing her eyes she drifted away to meet him.

The balloon fell from her still fingers and bounced towards the fire before popping with a loud bang.

Moments later the young couple from the upstairs flat were banging on the door shouting ‘Mrs Glaze, Mrs Glaze are you all right?’

It was the police who forced entry and found her in the chair. Glancing around the room the younger policeman took in the scene as the young woman from upstairs quietly sobbed held close by her partner.

The young policeman saw the remains of the balloon on the floor and picked it up. ‘I think we can assume this as the bang you heard. The shock must have frightened her to death

Bernard

Bernard walked to where the land and the water met and looked out. This was it and he knew it. He was at the edge. He was, quite simply, totally sick of all the bills and he just couldn’t take any more.

He knew what they all told him, knew their advice. ‘Be positive’, ‘focus on the good’ but he just wasn’t going to listen to the self-help ‘quacks’ any more.

He breathed in slowly and shuffled into the water. He looked down to see his feet changing colour as they submerged, reflections played across the tops. He moved further forward stopping only to pause when the water was half way up his body and he could feel a small sense of buoyancy, of support.

He lifted his feet and in one movement dived his head under the water. Within moments he had surfaced again his mouth filled with weeds that he began to swallow whilst feeling disgusted with himself. 

He turned to see the bank. There they all were, his family and friends just sitting there watching from the land and looking like little coloured rugby balls. 

God, he hated being a duck

Let’s Not Be Risk Averse

He stared at the pallid corporate faces and clicked to slide four. He had done this presentation to middle managers within this organisation for over five years. He recognised their types without even having to think.

‘The Head Nodders’, showing their agreement and attempting to engratiate themselves with the presenter. ‘The Serious Faces’, pulled to show how hard they were concentrating and taking it in. The ‘I know all this, did it at business school,’ sitting back in their chairs glancing round smiling to intimidate the others.

This presentation was all about taking risks, thinking differently, encouraging new ideas and new approaches – ‘Let’s Not Be Risk Averse’. A sentiment echoed in all major corporates. ‘We need new ideas, we need our staff to innovate, we want innovation, we don’t fear risk.’

Of course it was all bollocks and he knew it. The large corporates were totally risk averse. They wanted safe predictable profits. Let the smaller companies take the risks, ‘if it works we can copy it or buy them out’ was the mentality.

Slide ten of the PowerPoint clicked on. He turned to look at the words and read them to the assembled

Why not go out on a limb? Isn’t that where the fruit is? ~Frank Scully Reader

Yes, risk taking is inherently failure-prone. Otherwise, it would be called sure-thing-taking. ~Tim McMahon




Many great ideas have been lost because the people who had them could not stand being laughed at. ~Author Unknown

He turned back to them and stared. In the silence they stared back at him. Who was he giving this lecture to?

He reached for the mouse and clicked out of the presentation mode. He opened up his email account and started a ‘new message’, filled the ‘To’ box with the name of the Chief Exec and ‘cc’d’ the Head of HR.

As they watched he typed his resignation letter and pressed send. Thirty Middle Managers all tried to understand the message behind this action, how it fitted in the presentation. Even after he had taken his jacket and left the room they sat, waiting to be told the presentation was over. They weren’t going to take a risk.

The Gun

His heart was beating too fast. He took deep, slow breaths to try to try to slow it down and steady his shake. He stared at the gun, inside he was a mixture of hate and fear.

This was something he had to do. He had to keep this quiet, he couldn’t risk her finding out, the consequences were too terrible to consider and he couldn’t go through all that again.

It was as if in slow motion as his arm reached out and his fingers curled around the gun’s handle. His finger brushed the trigger and he paused. He had one go, one attempt, if he messed this up there was no going back.

He turned. The room was quiet, deathly quiet as though it was preparing itself. Finally, when he felt he was ready, he picked up one half of the china dog and ran the nib of the glue gun carefully around its broken edge.

Holding his breath again he put the gun down, lifted the head of the hideous dog and held it tight against the neck. He left it as long as he could before removing his hand and seeing the complete dog in his hand.

He stared at the hideous ornament his eyes focused on the join. It was almost invisible, his mother would never know. He was safe. Finally he breathed out and swore to himself that he would never play football in the front room again. No, he was never going to put himself through this again. There would be no more little 'accidents'.

He placed the ornament back on the shelf within the slight ring of dust that marked its original position. Finally he smiled, turned and saw the slight whisp of smoke coming from the scorched top of the wooden dining table where the hot glue gun sat weeping and accusingly.

The Hill

They sat near the door holding hands. They were silent, comfortable in each others company. Childhood sweethearts now long retired with a life of warmth and love behind them.

As the bus reached their stop and they began to stand he held her arm to help as he always had. Stepping off the bus they thanked the driver. Some of the younger passengers raised their eyebrows with the thought ‘why thank the driver, it’s just her job’. They were from a different age.

Slowly they walked down the streets they had known from their childhood. Memories flooded of their young selves. As they turned the corner they heard the noise of the playground. The evocative sound of primary school children with their unfettered joy, lives with little burden other than who is playing with whom as they once had been.

They sat on the bench and talked of their past as they gazed out over the field opposite the school with its contoured hills. The woods at the edges where they had spent so much time, at first innocently but subsequently experimenting and learning about each others bodies. Seventy years has passed but their fascination with each other survived.

The sun arced in the sky moving their shadows. Parents arrived to pick up their offspring. Conversations filled the air, arrangements made, gossip exchanged but all halted by the sound of the school bell signaling the end of the day.

Then the rush as the young and excited run to find their parent and the noise level jumps as days are explained and hopes for going to a friends house for ‘tea’ are negotiated.

The younger ones have already crossed the road and are rolling down the hill accompanied by giggling and shouting. Parents shout for them to come back and don't be so silly

Within an hour all is quiet, all the youthful energy departed and the last teacher gone.

‘Where did it all go?’ she says

‘The children?’ he asks

‘No,’ she smiles squeezing his hand, ‘the years.’

She opens the catch on her worn handbag. He looks down and sees the envelope from the hospital that first brought them the news. Alongside it is the bottle which she removes and turns to him.

‘Ready?’ she says

‘Ready,’ he replies.

Counted out into each others hands the little white tablets shared evenly, an echo of their lives.

Moments later they look into each others eyes. She sees him smile, a smile she has known all her life.

‘What?’

‘Do you know I wouldn’t change a single moment,’ he says and then his smile breaks into a broad grin.

‘What now?’ she asks with the affection brought from years of knowing what a grin like than means.

‘How about it, one last time, one last time, just as we began?’

‘You’re a silly old fool, she says standing and taking off her coat then laying it over her handbag. ‘A silly old romantic fool and I wouldn’t have you any other way.’

At the top of the hill they lay down and held each other. Then rolled, rolled down the hill their eyes locked together and giggling. Giggling as the years and their lives drift away.

The Door to the Past

'And this,' the voice said, 'is the door to the past.'

'I'm frightened to go through,' she said

'You are already in there,' it said with a comforting tone.

She knew that voice but couldn’t place it, but she knew she felt warmed by it.

She stepped through the doorway and saw herself at her birthday party. She couldn’t remember her age, five maybe six? She saw herself laughing as she opened the present. She remembered what it was before her young self had got the wrapping paper off. It was that doll.

The party faded and a new vision, it was her aged fifteen with Chris her first real boyfriend. Oh my god, she almost blushed as she remembered what this was. It was her first real kiss. ‘Please don’t fade away, please don’t…’

Too late, now it was her driving her first car. Wait, that was quite recent. She could hear her friends giggling in the back and Karen sitting next to her shouting ‘Selfie’

Before it could fully fade the voice spoke again, ‘back through the door now.’ Over the fading noise of her friends she remembered how she knew that voice, it was her mother. A bright white light blinded her eyes and she was confused, her mother was dead.

She heard a male voice shout ‘clear’ then a jolt and then the sound of a single note

The voice spoke again