Saturday 24 December 2016

A Christmas Tail

He’d been following her for about two weeks. He had begun to map her routine and knew the bus that she took to get back from work.

He had started to wait for her near to the stop she got off. He had started to follow her home at a distance, a sort of test. A couple of times she had turned but he had looked away apparently uninterested and she had looked right through him and walked on.

There was one occasion when he had decided to make his move but just as he approached he had been picked up by some woman and it took all his efforts to get away. By the time he had his target was gone.

He was great at following, one of the best and people would pay big money for his skills but he knew that this was the last one and tonight was going to be the night.

He walked at a distance behind as she made her way from the bus carrying a number of bags and parcels. He made sure that she could not see him and that no one would interrupt his journey this time.

Finally he saw her open her front door and step inside. Once it was shut he waited a few moments for people to pass and then quietly walked up her path. He didn’t want to make a scene so he scratched gently at the door.

Inside she was putting her shopping away when she began to hear the noise. She walked into the hall and knew it was coming from the front door. She put the chain on the door and turned on the outside light. When she felt safe she opened it and glanced out, there was no one there.

As soon as she had opened the door wide enough he had snuck in. He ran down her hall into the kitchen and positioned himself.

She shut the door, shrugged in confusion and then turned to continue her unpacking. It was then that she saw him, his sharp penetrating eyes staring at her.

‘Hello,’ she said in a kind, singsong voice, ‘how did you get in here?’ He took it as his cue and walked towards her weaving between her legs and purring at the same time. She bent down and scratched behind his ears. In response he rolled over onto his back.

‘Who do you belong to?’ she asked while scratching his stomach, ‘someone is going to miss you, especially on Christmas Eve?’


He purred even harder – he knew he wasn’t going to be lonely this Christmas.



Thursday 24 November 2016

Our Road

Theirs was a typical road, a typical terraced road with certainly nothing special about it other than it was where they lived. OK the road surface was pitted and marked and the paving slabs cracked and uneven in places but it was their road.

Of course they complained, of course they wanted it to be better – they wanted their road to be repaired, lit better, have better services. And why shouldn’t they want that? It was their road

Then one day the people heard there road was going to be extended, new houses built but, and it was big but, as part of that work there was to be a new road surface, new paving, new lighting and extra money for local services paid for by the new homes. So, although they had their doubts they agreed and the new houses were built.

Then for a while everyone was happy. The older residents loved the improvements and although the people in the new houses ‘weren’t quite like us’ they seemed all right. And of course they were, because being different doesn't automatically create a problem if you try to understand and get along with each other.

But then it started. It was subtle at first. Just odd words, odd phrases, the introduction of them and us. Then the local newspaper started saying how much 'better off' the people at the new end of the road were.

Voices got louder – ‘moved into our road and start using our streetlights’, ‘walking on our pavement and wearing it out’. Soon the cry was heard regularly – ‘we want our road back’. The memories of how the road used to be had grown hazy, new stories of how ‘great’ it was were propagated. Life, quite simply, had been much better in the old days, before …….. well, just before.

And so a meeting was held and a plan hatched. Not everyone was for it, in fact it was just a handful of votes difference but it was decided that the plan would go ahead. They would set fire to the houses at the top of the road.

Now of course there were those whingeing voices that kept saying ‘but these are terraced houses, the fire could spread down to this end’ but the louder voices just kept saying everything would be ok, better in fact as they would get all the light and paving and services, oh and more.

But doubts persisted in some. The fire could destroy everything. They just wouldn’t accept they had lost the vote. Finally, the leader of the plan explained that everything would be ok because the wind would blow up the street and keep the flames at that end only. Voices of opposition saying you couldn’t control the wind were denounced as pessimists.

And so the plan was actioned and the fire started. The blaze, grew and grew and soon some of the old residents in the middle of the street began to mutter that the fire was getting awfully close. In fact it was getting too close and licking at the roofs of their houses.

‘What happened to the wind you promised?’ they shouted to the leader of the plan.

‘We never said there would be a wind,’ he answered with liar’s eyes.

Soon the sound of streetlights cracking was heard. ’You said we’d keep the lights!’ some shouted.

‘We never promised you lights,’ he answered with liar’s voice.

Slowly it became clear that the whole street would be destroyed and by morning all that was left was the charred remains of their homes, cracked paving, broken streetlights and pot marked surfaces.

As the residents turned to their leader they saw him getting into a lovely new car. ‘Now don’t you worry about me,’ he called out to them, I’ve been invited to move to a beautiful new town with people more like me. But look,’ he said pointing, ‘You’ve got your road back.’


And indeed they had



Monday 7 November 2016

Sharpened

He slid open the drawer and smiled. Waxing the runner had removed any friction and the way it glided pleased him more that it should. He stared at the tiny green baize compartments and a smile returned to his face. In each small cushioned rectangle was a treasure, his treasure, well, a treasure to him – his collection of pencil sharpeners.

When others at school had collected rubbers from the gift shops and school trips his passion had always been sharpeners. Even now, at an age when most had stopped their collections, he still searched online.

He had never understood the passion for rubbers. Why collect something that was created to remove, to hide, to cover up your mistakes and in doing the very act lose a bit of itself?

No, pencil sharpeners were infinitely preferable. They could take the blunt and give it a point, return precision and purpose to the run down. Bring life back to the broken.

In many ways pencil sharpeners were the perfect metaphor for his life. He slid the drawer back and locked the cabinet. His mind sharpened he was going to act.


Today he was going to, he was going to, he was going to try to leave the house. Well, we all have our point to prove.


Tuesday 25 October 2016

Button Love

He’d been chewing on his button again. He knew he shouldn’t his mother had shouted at him enough, his father slapped him.

‘Stop chewing your buttons, you’re ruining your clothes and we don’t have money to buy new ones!’
‘Stop chewing on your buttons, it’ll make your teeth grow funny!’
‘Stop chewing on your buttons, you’re not a baby any more!’
‘Stop chewing your buttons, you’ll swallow one one day and choke!’

Shouting, shouting, SHOUTING. Originally it had been his parents screaming at each other that made him reach for the solace of a button. But then it was his older sister joining in the arguments, making things worse.

So sodden material pressed against his cheek, the hard comfort of the button in his teeth, a snotty running nose and crying eyes got him through the painful noise.

And now, as an adult faced with his problems he still reached quietly for the quiet emotional prop when he was alone. This time as the tears ran down his face, as breathlessness turned his face purple and desperate retching wouldn’t work one childhood shout returned to haunt him.


‘Stop chewing your buttons, you’ll swallow one one day and choke!’

Saturday 22 October 2016

The Patient Patient

He sat, slumped in plastic chair with his spine slowly taking the shape of the uncomfortably formed backrest. He flicked disinterestedly through a glossy magazine filled with celebrities he didn’t know getting married to celebrities he didn’t care about. It was worn, torn and dated but about the only thing to focus on other than quite how long he had already been waiting.

‘Mr Grey, Mr Grey?’

He sat upright and placed the magazine on the seat next to him. He began to rise as she caught his eye.

‘Ah Mr Grey,’ she said ‘We shouldn’t be too much longer. Would you like a magazine?’ She pointed to a small table that resembled the produce of a paper shredder.

‘Any clues how much longer it might be,’ he asked realising his voice sounded as though he wasn’t sure he would live that long.

‘It really shouldn’t be that long now. Let me make sure we’ve got all your records.’ She turned and walked off towards the office.

He sat for a moment then glanced at the clock. He found it hard to work out quite how long it was since he had first sat down. He flicked his eyes around the room. There was no one left from when he had come in. That said many people who had arrived after him had been seen and left.

He got up and stretched. He wanted to do something that would make them register he was still there, still waiting. He walked slowly towards the magazine table and placed the one he had read back on top. He then stared at the fish tank trying to see if there was anything else in there except gravel, weeds and water.

Beyond the tank he noticed an alcove with what appeared to be a comfy chair in it. To give purpose to his change of position to anyone who was observing him he picked up the same magazine he had read and strode over to the chair.

In a moment he realised that this padded chair was infinitely more comfortable than the rigid hard plastic he had endured for god knows how many hours. The muscles in his back seemed to relax as he sank back and opened the tatty journal. Here, half hidden from the others he could at least find peace.

His next moment of clarity was being gently woken by the cleaner. At first he couldn’t make out what she was saying but a glance to clock and the realisation it was light outside explained her look of surprise.


‘Ah well,’ he thought settling back, ‘they open again in half an hour.’