Wednesday 18 November 2015

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


Wednesday 11 November 2015

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