The Groundbreakers

He sat, tense, as the very first to pilot this ‘airship’ as he and his brother had named it. With its strange wings and large propeller it was a cause of nervousness for those who had gathered to watch.

The press chatted mindlessly, worried that their cameras and flashflares might not capture this groundbreaking moment.

With his brother safely in the seat he walked the length of the grass runway and picked up the red flag at the very end preparing to give the signal. Breathing deeply he lifted and waved the flag about his head and heard his brother started the engine.

In the cockpit he stared at the simple controls and lifted the yellow flag to wave the he was about to set off. A quiet tension descended as the airship began to gather pace hurtling towards its first flight.

The brother’s eyes met at the moment they both realised that the great craft was not going to leave the ground. In one crashing moment both were killed in a scene that the cameramen failed to catch.

They were – the Wrong Brothers

The Party and New Glasses

She was smiling at him from her desk. Well at least he thought she was smiling, he hadn’t got quite used to his new glasses so some things were still a blur.

When he returned to his desk there was an envelope propped up on his keyboard. That was unusual enough but when he opened it and looked at the invitation he was amazed. In his life the only invitations he had received were to Birthday parties of class mates and these had dried up by secondary school. But here, here in his hands was an invitation and not just to any party but a party that was right up his street.

He memorised the time, date, location and other details and put it back into his pocket and sent an email of confirmation straight away. The woman at the other desk heard the tell tale noise and clicked on her mouse. She turned and smiled, well he assumed she smiled.

His ability to memorise things, facts, dates, information, had been obvious since early childhood. His passion for certain things could have been considered obsessive, well was by many people and his parents and grandparents.

But here, here was a party that played to his strengths and interests. He was sure he knew it all but he would spend the next two days before the party just re-reading his books.

On the bus over to the address that he had memorised, he ran facts through in his head. David Niven born 1910, Barry Nelson 1917, Roger Moore 1927, Sean Connery 1930, George Lazenby 1939, Timothy Dalton 1944, he had begun to lose interest around now but he could still remember Pierce Brosnan 1953 and Daniel Craig 1968.

From that it was easy, ‘On Her Majesty’s Secret Service’ was made in 1969 so George Lazenby would have been 30 when he made it. ‘For Your Eyes Only’ was made in 1981 so Roger Moore was 54.

He got off at the bus stop nearest to the house he was going to. He had all of the bus routes and timetables for the area in his head. Walking up the path he took the envelope from his pocket and looked at the writing on the outside. He was so glad he had decided to wear his old glasses tonight so everything was clearer.

He rang on the bell four times as was his way and, as he waited, slipped the card from the envelope to show who ever opened the door. He could hear a muffled shout and steps getting nearer.

The door was opened by someone wearing a rubber suit with buckles and belts and appeared to have a small tennis ball in his mouth.

He looked down at the invitation. With his old glasses it was clear. This wasn’t a Bond Age party.

A Story for Valentines Day

The door slid to and locked behind him. He stared at the wall in front of him and counted thirteen from the left and eight down. He didn’t need to count, his eye knew the position of his box from memory.

He took out a pair of cotton gloves from his pocket and stretched them onto his hands. Walking toward the table in the middle of the room he lifted a cotton hankie from his top pocket. He spread it on the shined wood table its surface aged and warmed with years of polish. In the middle of his freshly laid virgin white cloth a single key.

He picked it up carefully and smiled at its shining perfection. Taking a long single deep breath he moved forwards. Even before he got there he could see there was something wrong. Scratches around the keyhole. Scratches where there had been none. His eyes flicked at the boxes around his and quickly scanned the other walls. It was just his, just his that had been damaged.

He pushed the key into the lock with sound of pulsing blood in his ears. It wouldn’t turn. He took it out and put it in again, nothing. This time he counted carefully even though he knew he was not mistaken, thirteen from the left and eight down.

He turned quickly and looked up at one of the CCTV cameras monitoring the room. He gestured with his hands, the white gloves and anxious movements making him look like a manic tic-tac man.

Within moments the door slid open and two security men plus the duty manager entered. A few words spoken, profuse apologies, promises of an investigation and an angle grinder requested.

The sound of the disc cutting into the little door, metal on metal, rebounded around his ears, the sparks and smell demonic to eyes and nose.

With the door open the security man stepped away. The container was still in there, it didn’t look like it had been tampered with. He pulled at the little handle and it moved towards him. In his heightened state he couldn’t work out whether it felt different.

As he carried it towards the table the manager and guards withdrew echoing their earlier apologies and promises.

He waited until the red lights from the CCTV cameras had gone off and he knew he was truly alone. The box had not been tampered with, the keyhole unmarked. His little key turned and he lifted the lid and breathed a sigh of relief that seemed louder to him than the angle grinders efforts. It was there, it was there, IT WAS THERE

His heart. No one was going to get near that again

Or

His last Rolo

(alternate endings, depending on whether you want to think or smile this Valentines Day)

Shattered Dreams

It is worth remembering how fragile many of the things that make life worth living are. Hope, love, dreams, confidence, empathy, positivity are all moods and feelings that can be damaged and broken by the simplest things others say and do.

If we saw someone walking down the street carrying a fragile piece of glass few of us would go up and push, barge or trip them yet that is what we can do with people's feelings. Hopefully most people would offer to help, to share the load or to walk ahead and make sure that obstacles that could get in the way are cleared.

So perhaps we have to realise that everyone is carrying emotional fragility that we cannot see, cannot comprehend, cannot understand. We all have our load so we perhaps should change our behaviour to make sure our comments and actions are designed to support not to undermine.  

The Package

He peeled back the tissue paper carefully and lifted the fragile object from the protective box. It had arrived in one piece, safe. He let it rest in the palm of his hand and gazed upon it in wonder. He had ordered it online and never really believed it would come yet here it was.

He had subscribed to the service after a recommendation from a friend who could see he was struggling, finding it hard to communicate. He had dithered for weeks, although he didn’t know he had been, he didn’t know the word. Finally he had taken the plunge and for the last few months, every Monday, the package would arrive despite his doubts.

He stared at the strange carving, the rounded shapes and the straight lines and the astonishing flow. He placed it upon his tongue, closed his mouth and let it dissolve. That strange sensation as it filled the empty cavern and finally emerged through his lips.

That was the magical moment, the first time he heard his own mouth say it. ‘Beautiful’. That was the word that had been sent, ‘Beautiful’. He loved it.

Over the weeks he had built up new language, new expressions but this was the one that would change his life. This was the one he had been waiting for.

He picked up the two cups of tea and climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He pushed open the door with his foot and looked at her sitting upright in their bed. She stared back at him.

‘You are …. Beautiful,’ he said

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

Language can be the food of love

New Day, New Start

This was it, new day, new start.

He was putting behind the years of doubt, of cynicism, of anticipated failure. Today was the day he was going to turn his life round, a more positive him. He was no longer going to let the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune dampen his spirit and belief. He was new, reborn

For the first time in over ten years he was going to leave the house. He was going to take his inventions and patents to a solicitor and he was going to let the world decide whether he was genius of dunce, fool or visionary. Dear God, even his simple machine for creating electricity from dust had powered the house for six years.

The boots on his feet felt strange, the coat like a straight jacket but he was not going to be ‘broken’ this time. With his plans for the sun powered desalination plant and sketches for his ‘pop up’ environmental card construct’ homes amongst other ideas under his arm he opened his front door.

The sun hit his eyes, the air chilled his lungs and he took one giant step forward. He would not let life knock him back. Not today, oh no, not today.

Who knows what life and the world would be like today if the neighbour’s dog had not evacuated its bowels on his doorstep earlier that morning.

Sitting in his armchair seeing his plans and boots going up in a curiously scented fire he relaxed. ‘Same sht, different day,’ he thought soberly.