Drabbles

A wooden arrow, with yellow fletching, slants into the short grass; incongruous, like a single spike on a hedgehog.

A woman smiles.

This morning she was greeted by cool Spring air, scented with newly cut grass, and the affectionate insults of comrades. Two months away. She’d missed it all.

A whistle called her to the line. Her aim was straight, but her shots fell short.

“Every arrow away.”

Shrugging off her loss, she enjoyed the walk, the banter and her mentor’s advice.

“When shooting uphill, aim higher.”

She aimed higher and on the last end scored one point.

She smiled.

Flowers the colour of sunshine blossom on the end of long green stems. The many silky petals, curve inwards, like hands cupped together, holding a secret.

Bunched and sold the yellow tulips are bought and placed in a vase. The vase sits in the ground, at the foot of a brick monument.

A gift given.

Sitting among the shades is peaceful but on returning to the world never seems real. Is anything?

One ray of sunshine is given back. A way to remember.  

Carry the single flower, twice given. Carry it home, to where things still grow. To the living.

Apologies are noted, by the secretary.

Last meetings minutes are raised and agreed.

The Treasurer regales his audience with a tale from 1952.

Everyone’s waiting for item three: Should the club open membership to vegetable growers?

But it’s always been a society of anthophiles. To allow veggies in would change everything.  But it would bring in new members and many vegetables produce flowers. It’ll change the club’s focus. It’ll refocus the club.

The discussion circles, like a whirl pool.

The secretary stops typing.

Bernard falls asleep.

The Chair waits until the waters run dry.

But the winds still blow unseen.

Slip on your character shoes.

Not your normal ones. Character shoes pinch your toes, they click and clack on the wooden floor and the high heels make you stand straighter.

Your character shoes allow you to dance, because they were made to move even if you weren’t.

They come with a dress, make-up and different hair.  They’re your disguise.

Shining at the camera, they help you make people believe in your character.

Theirs are the only soles you show the audience.

But when rehearsals are finished, the show’s over and you pull off your character shoes, you still remember everything.

The rain splatters on the glass, like static on a radio. Feeling cool air from an open window snake across the room, I curse and snuggle into bed.

What was that dream about? It’ll come back to me.

The baby wakes with a burp and starts babbling. 

Holding my breath, I wonder how long peace will last.

When the screaming starts, I don’t think.

Kicking off the duvet, I roll out of bed and get on with my today: Toilet. Dress. Breakfast. Teeth. Shoes. Bags. School. Walk. Drive. Shop. Lunch. Nap. Play. School. Tea. Tidy. Bath. Bed.

That’s my today.

In the headquarters of the revolution, a clock ticks.

“We got the votes. We have authority to act,” says the leader, gripping her high-powered imported rifle. “Our time is now!”

Five-minutes to midday.

“Let’s go!” cries the leader, racing out the door.

Her followers cheer.

But as soon as she steps outside, she’s confronted by the enemy.  

Lifting her gun, she fires.

Water arcs across the courtyard, hitting a clown in the face.

With dismay, she looks at her gun. “What’s going on?”

The cheering has turned to laughter.

The clown dances closer and stage whispers, “April fool!”

This morning she’s marked her students’ books, done the washing, baked two cakes, played guitar at church and got the toys out for the grandchildren.

Red-hair frizzing from the heat in her busy kitchen, she produces another feast for her adults.

Chatter from the dinning-room is like a tidal wave; renowned for drowning out most people. But by the time it reaches the kitchen it splashes gently at her feet.

After carrying in the final dish, she perches on a stool.

The noise focuses and glasses are raised.

“To the model of multi-tasking. To mum!”

“To mum!” the chorus agrees.

Around a table as long as time, many gather to weave.

At one end, wooden spools clatter as red, white and blue threads are unwound. Nimble hands weave with skill and patience, uniting many strands into one design.

Work continues along the table, from fine embroidery to industrial machines.

Red dye is spilt, ruining the design. With help they patch it up, but a little further down the table, the patch is cut away leaving a hole. The threads become unravelled.

By rights each person pulls one. But no-one can decide on the next design, each wants their own way.

The enemy’s gathered an army.

Questions have been asked. Votes have been counted. Lines have been drawn. Sides have been chosen and defensive positions have been taken.

The future is fractured; everyone wants their own way. Entrenched in fear and doubt, our leader ploughs on, sowing a field of unknown crop.  

There’s no time left. We’ll borrow more and add to the debt.

The enemy’s coming. “Man the battle stations.” “Deploy the fleet.” “Build a wall.” “Throw out the non-believers.”

The enemy’s here. It slipped past the battlements, scaled the walls and sneaked into our divided hearts.

Change is imminent.

Walking along a rocky path, you pass between two mountains, protected from the world. But between one step and the next the walls disappear. There’s a thousand foot drop on both sides, the wind is strong, and the world below is spinning.

Ever seen the bones of your house, the skin of plaster ripped away, the wooden muscle torn down? The red brick heart is only inches below the surface.  

Once your home stood on solid rock but now you know it could crumble any second.  

Mountains can fall and storms will rage.

Life isn’t as solid as it seems.