Daniel was surprised to find he was dead. Not the fact of his death, because that was sure given the certainties of gravity, and the distance between the nineteenth floor of his apartment block and the concrete courtyard directly below his balcony.
No, his surprise was more like, “Wow! Continued existence”.
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Wyn paused – mid-shuffle – bringing the whole of his deliberation to bear on the weather forecast. ” … Storm Delme continues to gather pace, with winds of 60 miles an hour sweeping into coastal areas, bringing with it heavy squalls of rain …” His heart beat a little faster. Then he re-focused his attention on the considerable task of placing one foot in front of the other and inched his way from the kitchen to the hall, where his coat hung on a hook.
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I began as soon as I got in through the door. Packing first, then cleaning later. I pride myself on being methodical, staying cool and calm under pressure; not that this was pressure really, I had been here many times before. Deftly, I pulled my suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and began packing it with neat layers of clothing, toiletries and makeup.
Cleaning next. I pull on a pair of rubber gloves; every surface, every door handle and light switch had to be cleaned to within an inch of its life! It wouldn’t do to get careless at this stage of the game.
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So much for the boasts of virtual indestructability. Ground realities differ. Paul searched his memory for that specific web page. The photo that oozed seduction – a golden leather top layer and then 2 further layers, splayed like the pages of a flicked book. All fully breathable and heat conserving:
“This traditional snowshoe binding is composed of three layers of material riveted together. Each binding attaches to the snowshoe with two anchor points to reduce lateral movement of the heel, meaning the foot stays in line with the snowshoe”
I can just about remember starting to feel very hot indeed. I was on a fever ship left to burn and moan with the others. We did fever ships in history. Pocahontas was left to die on one in Gravesend, poor soul. Now me too.
Delirious. She’s got a fever.
That was Joe’s diagnosis. I heard it. He was talking to my friend May who lives next door.
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Lucy, dressed in her best clothes looked at her reflection in the mirror. I look dowdy she thought. My mother wouldn’t even wear these to clean the grate out, and would never wear them outside, even to do the gardening. She sighed heavily. She had been doing that a lot lately.
Steven, her husband of what seemed like five long years, shouted, “Get a move on, I said we would be there at 11.30.”
She sighed once more before pulling on her well-worn boots, and checked her reflection before hurrying down the stairs. They set off across the park. No matter how late they were Steven would never pay for a taxi or even get on a bus. She had thought in the past that his frugality was a good thing. Having lived with it she now knew he was just a very mean person, and she had had to live by his rules.
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Mia opened her large green eyes, twitched her delicate nose, stretched her sinewy long body. Smelling breakfast, she padded along the thick carpet into the kitchen.
As with every other day eating her food, a noise distracted her. Jumping up she raced to the window. Gazing out HE appeared, strutting along. Her heartbeat raced. How she longed to meet. He was so big and strong, seeing off any rivals who dared to encroach on his territory.
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The university park stumbled down to the sea, imitating the crazy lurching of the terraced houses on the same giddy hill. Sam scuffed about the paths round the flower beds, vaguely aware of daffodils in bloom.
He had a sharp, stabbing pain at the side of his stomach that wouldn’t go away. He was utterly miserable. Three years he’d stayed away from the town, but as soon as he’d entered the park – following the route he and Nicola had often walked – the sense of oppression had just welled up from within him. Memories from the past pushed up a bit like bulbs in the soil.
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My name is Stephen Sacks and I’m a complete faggot.
Oh, I know, I know, bluntness is discouraged these days and words like that reek of self-loathing but I’m not pussy footing around, tonight I aim for honesty.
I’ll tell you about a revelation I had last week which stoked the embers and relit my passion. I was at an outdoor pool party, held by my sister’s in-laws. A celebration over the fact they had stuck it out for fifty years.
So, there I was, meekly maundering by the barbecue when I became aware of somebody’s nephew, Johnny whatever, wafting by the swimming pool. And as that handsome youth, wearing nothing but tight trunks, beer in hand, talked to another Adonis, dear reader I felt the desire.
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“Can you picture her face?” My words tumbled out of my mouth as soon as my sister picked up the phone.
“Huh? Whose face?” Evelyn replied.
“Mum’s,” I said.
At sixty years old, I had just learned that most people possessed a superpower. They could visualise objects, places, events and people in their “mind’s eye”. I could not. Suddenly the darkness of my mind seemed blinding. What’s more, I felt the loss of my mother more acutely than ever.
Our mother had died six months earlier, after a long battle with cancer. Evelyn and I had nursed her until the end. Now there was a gaping hole in my life. It was Larry, my husband, who had suggested giving meditation a go.
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I first met Jose Luis Vercas on the concrete apron jutting out into the mouth of the Targus where the splendour of the Manueline Port of Lisboa ends and a wide expanse of river divides the city from Alcântara. He was short, but well-muscled and possessed of that curiously Portuguese combination of a mane of swept-back, black and wavy hair; and a forehead so high it begged to be labelled, “domed”. He said he too was a teacher, but offered no hint of subject or at what level he taught and, to be frank, my interest did not extend that far.
“Do you have it?” I asked in my formal Portuguese. He smiled and nodded – a slight movement of his head, causing a lock of stray hair to struggle free. Patting his messenger bag, he said in accent-free English, “It’s here.”
Continue readingYvonne opened her eyes to a blackness and silence that caused her breath to stop and her heart to stutter. She lifted her hands up to feel her face, OK, I seem to be alive at any rate!
Putting her hands down she felt around, perceiving a slightly scratchy covering, probably a blanket, and a cool stiff fabric, a sheet. I can’t be in that much danger if they’ve put me in a bed!
Yvonne turned and put her feet down until they touched the floor. It was warm and slightly slippery. She stood up and, waving her hands in front of her, tried to find a wall in what she hoped was a bedroom.
Continue readingResolutions? Don’t we all think of that in the start of a new year?
And, don’t we all fall by the wayside about three minutes later.
Stop drinking, stop smoking, eat less, exercise more……. That covers every resolution ever thought of, I think.
What about a new resolution then? Its quite simple really.
Its just “be kind”.
Our planet is in dire straits, and as the song goes, “a little less conversation a little more action”.
Continue readingJane almost skipped out of the clinic. She had been told by her consultant that she was free of cancer. Striding down the road, she passed the travel agents with its tempting array of holidays. Telling herself that she could do this on her own, she went into the shop and bought a train ticket to Athens and a ferry ticket to the incredibly small island of Halki.
A month before the all-clear, Jane received a letter from Stella who now lived on Halkii. Jane had opened the letter with shaking hands and felt slightly sick. Stella and Jane were the best of friends in the early 80s but in 1987 they had a row to end all rows, on a cliff top of all places! Jane told Stella she did not want to see her and Stella cut all contact.
Continue readingI had to move my bag to make room for him. It wasn’t as if the bus was even full. It being January 5th, I gave him a sardonic, “Happy New Year!”
“You a Swansea boy?”
“Pontypool,” I said.
“The Pontypool Front Row! Remember them?”
“Bobby Windsor, Charlie Faulkner, Graham Price,” I said.
“More of a Neath boy, me. From Resolven I am … you’d think I’d be one for making New Year’s resolutions, wouldn’t you? It’s in the name.”
I let the chug of the bus answer.
“The number of times I have given up fags and booze … Eventually, the penny drops, don’t it. No point making yourself miserable.”
I could smell the alcohol on his breath, just past mid-day.
Continue readingOrlando’s Café was a dreary downmarket affair, hardly Mr Barings’ idea of a meeting spot.
Pimply youths lazed idly behind the counter, a toothless black woman drowned in a million shopping bags and a blonde floozy hunched over her cup of coffee whilst her boy, one irritating snot nosed tyke waddled from aisle to aisle thumping anything with his fists.
Worst, a lovey-dovey couple, shared a Sunday with a single spoon, breaking off from time to time for a quick peck on the lips or an ear splittingly giggle which made Barings long for a shotgun.
Continue readingIn their 23 years of cohabitation, Mel and Ron had reached achieved an efficient level of consensus. Holiday, theatre and cinema choices had all passed without rancour. Co-operation in the upbringing of son Ben was effective (although Ben was unlikely to return to the family home once his college days had expired).
They had reached deep agreement over the marking of high days and holidays. Birthdays were briefly acknowledged, Christmas was not much different from other days in the way of festive food. New Year resolutions were beneath contempt – that is, until quite recently.
Continue readingHelen sat down with a sigh. It was time to think of a new year’s resolution.
Why do I do this to myself? she pondered. Each year promising myself to do something useful. My spare room is filled with things from years past. The cross stitch still unopened, the exercise bike which I generally hang my ironing on. Shelves stacked with books I never get round to reading, exercise videos that maybe were watched once, and I nearly put my back out with them.
Think I must have tried every avenue to a healthy life. It cost me a fortune in gym membership, even personal trainers. They all fell by the wayside. Even tried volunteering with charities, every time finding out I couldn’t give them the time required with my work schedule.
Continue readingFather O’Brien was already waiting in the confessional. Mary could see his shoes tapping expectantly through the gap under the curtain. But she wasn’t here for the usual forbidden tryst.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”
“Come into the Vestry, Mary,” Father O’Brien interrupted, breathlessly.
“Father, listen. I’m with child. Yours, of course.” She dissolved into tears.
Father O’Brien muttered a prayer. “Wait there,” he said, finally.
His footsteps echoed and faded as he clattered out of the church.
Continue readingLook at yourself man! Paunch soft enough for a bouncy castle, out of breath, and you smell like an outbreak of leprosy. New year’s resolutions: get fit, have a healthier lifestyle, use deodorants.
That very morning Atkinson jogged on the prom. After a hundred yards he thought cardiac arrest was imminent. The next day the exercise bike his girlfriend, Jackie, had bought him for Christmas was set up in the spare room of the flat. He pedalled furiously for thirty seconds, then coughed and spluttered so much he had to lay down.
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