Thérèse

In the dusk is a sea monster, bulky, black and rubbery, glistening in the remnants of the light. It is almost still, as if waiting for a prey.

            A fellow waves the crowd on board, taking the last of their money. At this the youngest of our crew, Paul, averts his eyes. It’s superstition: if he doesn’t look maybe this voyage might be uneventful.

            More ragged travellers arrive. The fellow squeezes them on, extra bucks for him and his criminal smuggling network. He doesn’t care if he’s endangering people. He gives one of those on board a GPS, saying in English, ‘north west’.

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Memories

It was upsetting to see Great Aunt Amy preparing for the funeral of Ted – her husband of 50 years. We took it in turns to make sure she had company, but it was difficult not to interfere when her behaviour seemed quite bizarre at times.

‘When I called round, Amy had her photos all over the place. Understandable that she wanted to be with her memories but they looked so disorganised. I took her an album  on the next visit, but she just put it to one side. ’

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Fall of Duty

Mike’s up before me. This doesn’t usually bode well. I check my phone. It’s precisely one minute until my alarm. That’s good. Bonus points for switching it off before it buzzes.

The children won’t be up for another twenty minutes. I say ‘children,’ but they’re practically adults. I shudder. Adulthood means uncertainty and danger. I ensure my slippers are perfectly aligned before stepping into them, then take my morning tablets in the correct order and rhythm. It involves popping the foils and swallowing each in turn, to the beat of ‘Another One Bites The Dust.’ My stomach stops churning.

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SOME THINGS ARE MORE PRECIOUS

In the solicitors waiting room pondering. My grandmother has passed away but we didn’t know as my mother had an acrimonious fallout with her years ago.

The door opens, I’m waved in, sitting in the only available seat. My aunts and uncles glower at me.

The solicitor, Mr Packson, a young man, says, ”We are here to read the will of Agnes Florence Whitely of 56 Millpond Road, Whisley. ”

Grunts of impatience  from people.

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The Things That Are Precious

Two men sitting at a bar. One man looks sad, then other is an angel.

The old man sat in a high-back chair just along the bar from where I nursed a warming beer. I hadn’t noticed him when I came in, but he seemed like he’d always been there, like a decorative feature hired by the owners to add colour.

“You look like they’ve salted that beer,” he said, his voice the timbre of oak barrels and Marlborough Reds. He hunched over his shot glass, not looking up, a heavy coat draped on the back of his chair, one sleeve dusting the floor, the other tucked under his dirty overalls, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing thick forearms.

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Trapped

Mum’s crying again. That’s how my days go now, thinking she’s talking to her comatose son, but in reality I’m right here, locked inside my own body, fully conscious but unable to move or speak. I braced myself for her routine onslaught of confessions as she wiped the tears from her eyes and adjusted the stiff hospital chair.

“Oh, Danny, it’s just so hard,” she began, her voice cracking. “I’m working night and day, and when I’m not working I’m cleaning. I love Mark dearly but I wish he would just once take something off my shoulders.”

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Dreamland

There is one sensation that stays the same through all your days, from the day you are born till the day you die – it’s waking up from sleep. Just before you open your eyes, you float in the nothingness, feeling like you can be anywhere at all, and everywhere at once.

I walk the darkness. I explore it, and I can choose where I’ll eventually wake up. All my days are scattered here, just waiting to be picked.

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Schrödinger’s Baby

She rests the plastic stick upside down on the sink as carefully as possible, as though disturbing it might disrupt the chemical reaction of hormones in the pregnancy test and somehow change the result. Then, just as gently, she lowers the toilet lid and perches on the edge.

Five minutes. That’s all she has to wait. It scuttles by like a mouse when you’re having fun, but she knows how leaden time becomes in this particular situation. She’s been here too many times. She’s tried distraction – scrolling mindlessly through Instagram (bad idea. Baby photos and smug pregnancy announcements everywhere); counting the mosaic tiles on the walls (4,820); and muttering prayers. She’s even tried watching the test continually, waiting for that second pink line to bleed through the stark white window, on one occasion even convincing herself that she could see it. But it was just a trick of the light. No matter how she passes the time, it always ends the same way. Tears. An argument with Gav, because he never says or feels the right thing. Another month stretching out like a desert before her.

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An event they’re not likely to forget

Everyone said Christopher was in a good mood in the week leading up to the presentation. This sullen, moody boy, often muttering to himself now walked with a spring in his step, wore a smile on his lips and went so far as to ask people about their day.

Odd because, rarely in the three years working for the company did he speak in full sentences, usually making do with nasally monosyllabic grunts and somehow, he now spoke in full paragraphs with a happy tone.

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LIMBO LIMBO

Young Tommie Lewis was the apple of his mother’s eye, always a dainty boy with short dark hair, a  little snub nose, large spectacles and a skinny build. School days were hard for Tommie. Sports day he would run, his arms and legs spinning as fast as he could, but he always came last. Nobody ever picked him for football. He usually sat on the sidelines wishing he could be first at something. In the juniors gymnastics became the bane of his life. Once he was made to climb the monkey bars. Getting to the top he froze. A teacher had to climb up to fetch him, handing him the rope to lower himself down. Poor Tommie just slid down the rope, causing blisters on his hands and legs; his mother played merry hell. So Tommie was forced to join the girls away from hazards.

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Hiding Place

Was the ferry late? She checked her watch. It should be coming around the head by now. That sense of foreboding again, as if her body were being gripped by a huge fist.

            She’d been calmer across at the Tesco mini-store, looking for cars with Irish number plates, reading which county each was from. One or two accents floated over: your man was from Cork, your other, might that be Kerry? What’d brought them to Wales? Had any of them had to flee like her?

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The Obmil Annals

What with the encircling memories crowding in, Engineer Ozob completely forgot to recalibrate the composter. The consequences, cataclysmal, are well-documented in the journals recently unearthed, an appropriate descriptor, given the tons of earth mixed with meteor fragments that had entombed the Obmil Annals. 110 year-books, carbon-dated 5630 AD to 5740 AD, then silence.

The previous evening, prior to Ozob’s dream, Deputy Toidi had reported, “Composter one’s out again.” with that smug look that said “You must have it done it wrong again.

“I’m onto it. Good timing; a new rubbish cloud is orbiting.”

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Selling Success

The shop’s door opened with a gentle “ding”. A teenage girl walked in, looking around, getting used to the cluttered dark room. On shelves, all sorts of unusual items were put for sale: a wooden pigeon, an engraved locked box, a teddy bear; unsophisticated at first, each one contained a special purpose.

“The all-knowing glasses? Is it like Wikipedia?” she stopped in front of round glasses in a golden frame.

“Nearly”, the shopkeeper replied,” but you can’t have Wikipedia transmitted directly into your brain.”

The girl laughed. She kept walking until she found a shelf with sealed empty bottles. Just looking at them already felt unusual, like nostalgia.

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A special kind of purchase

The little bell above the door tinkles cheerily, and she moves through the beaded net curtain behind the counter to see who her latest customer is.

He’s looking nervous, fidgety, and like he’s bothered someone has seen him enter. She’s dealt with this type before. Probably after the… ahem, special merchandise that isn’t available to regular customers. He’s picking things up and putting them down again, trying to look nonchalant and utterly failing to pull it off. She needs to be careful how to approach him, so that he doesn’t startle like a baby deer and gallop off. That produces a smile that she has to work to suppress, the idea of this guy scampering anywhere would be worth watching just for entertainment value alone.

“Can I help you?” she asks, brightly. “If there’s something you’re looking for, we have additional stock out back, if you know what I mean.”

A look of relief washes over his face.

“Yes,” he mutters, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m after.”

“So,” she responds, “what are you looking for, what’s your tastes? No need to be self-conscious here.”

He looks confused, then starts.

“You mean,” he says, “adult material?”

She nods.

“Oh, I think I’m in the wrong shop. I’m not after that.”

Ah. Oops. Misjudged him.

“I see,” she says as he turns for the door. “You mean the stuff in the other back room. You’d better come through.”

*

Two minutes later, they’re squashed into a too-small space rammed with miniature, carefully labelled wooden boxes, each containing a tiny vial. Within each, a cloud of viridescent gas swirls and pulses. He reaches for one, then stops, shakes himself.

“Who are you after?” she asks.

They both know what this means; one of the city’s residents is going to die tonight. Whoever owns the box controls the life expectancy of the individual whose label adorns the outside.

He mutters a name, and she steps away through the stacks to find it.

A moment or two later, she returns, reverently holding one on a small silver tray.

“You know,” she says, “the price?”

He nods, mute.

Her eyes glow gently as she holds it before him, his gaze transfixed. “So,” she says, “do we have a deal?”

“Don’t you want to know why?” he asks.

“I don’t ask questions.”

He nods again, then carefully picks it up, turning it back and forth. The life inside swirls like liquid in a half empty glass, but something is wrong. She’s seen all human emotions when people come in here; anger, fear, disgust, even lust for revenge, but his stare is flat, dull, almost lifeless. She tries and fails to repress a shudder. He seems inhuman, even to her.

Finally, he looks up.

“This one,” he says, “is me. We do not have an accord.”

He smashes it on the floor and, as the life force evaporates, he drops to his knees, finally free.

Address to Fellow Magistrates Upon My Retirement.

Friends. Looking back on my years as a magistrate, I can offer the following insight into human nature: honesty boxes are a gateway drug to a life of petty crime. The whole concept of the honesty box is an oxymoron;  a temptation to the weak. They create the conditions for dishonesty.

In a wonderful, imaginary world, humanity  would show basic decency and charitable intentions towards fellow citizens; we could all be trusted. Magistrates would rarely be required. And, in truth, many do strive towards this ideal. But  life is full of people taking more than their fair share of sweeties out of the communal jar.

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