Drabbles

Once-upon-a-time, she met a man and saw the mind within the brain, the heart within the chest, the soul within the shell. She heard the song within the voice, saw love behind the smile and humour in the creases of his face.

But now she sees only the surface. Only the square not the cuboid. Without the other dimensions the image is unrecognisable.

Now his eyes offer no depth. Speaking discordant, hurtful words, a shallow smile wrinkles his face.

He’s not the man she fell in love with. He is a stranger.

But did he change or did her perspective?

Morning grass squelches like a moist flannel. Dew soaks through my trainers, but at least the sun warms my arms.

Waiting to shoot first sight, I spot a new guy. Younger than the usual crowd, he’s kneeling by the fence. Brown-blonde curls kiss his neck and a lightly-tanned face hides behind sunglasses.

Daring, I ask the ordinary question, “How long you been shooting?”

Glancing up, his face lit with a wide grin that warms mine, he says, “Got back into it a couple of weeks ago.”

He finishes stringing his bow.

A whistle sounds.  It’s safe to shoot first sight.

The music slows.

Wrapping his arm round my waist, he spreads his palm across my left shoulder blade and his other hand enfolds mine. Like scaffolding he supports me.

Our foreheads touch. Letting go of the breath I’ve been holding since the first chord, I start to move.

We step and sway to the slow rhythm.

Championed by the strength of his arms, the warmth of his hands and the smell of mint, I concentrate on not treading on his feet.

Only for a few minutes, but in that time, we are an island.

The music stops.

He sails away.

I built a house of cards; fragile, fun. But it wasn’t real.

I thought you were a King.

You are a Knave.

But thanks for playing. 

You made me laugh, when I thought I couldn’t. You inspired me to take a chance even though I had no ambition to win. You shoved me back into the pack, which pushed me to join Clubs again.

And even when you played the Joker, you were the Ace up Fate’s sleeve.

The only problem is while your final hand was Spades full of Diamonds, I was betting Hearts, and lost to the house.

She’ll see you at the top.

Sally spends minutes and hours, sometimes days and weeks, struggling up hill. If she stops, she’ll roll backwards and fall off, like a cyclist.

Sometimes she accepts help, rarely she asks for it. Mostly her vision is narrowed to the next bump.

Looking up sporadically, she sees others pedalling hard. A few friends smile, but most people are focused on their own ride.

Telling herself the view from the top will be worth it, and the free wheel down the other side will be glorious, she repeats her mantra, “Every mountain has a summit.”

The waiting is like a roller-coaster taking ages to reach the hundred-foot drop. Too much time to wonder about everything that could go wrong. Rationalising it, I tell myself thousands of people have done this and survived.

Hearing my name, my heart lurches over the drop. I hang outside my comfort zone. It’s time for my audition.

Minutes pass in seconds and it’s over.

Rationalising it, I tell myself its only endorphins surging through my body, but it doesn’t lessen my smile or the feeling of weightlessness. It wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t fall. I survived the drop.

What’s next?

Three fair-haired brothers gather round a table. Two slouch on the worn leather bench, playing on iPads. The third, sits on a chair and reads the back of the condiments.

“What breakfast do you want?” asks dad.

“Breakfast,” says the eldest.

“Which breakfast? Small, traditional or large?” asks dad.

“Breakfast,” says the youngest.

“Do you want, one or two sausages. How many eggs? How many hash browns?” A valiant attempt to elicit specifics from teenagers.

“Breakfast,” says the middle brother, having finished reading the back of the ketchup.

“Helpful, as always,” says dad, ordering with a sigh and a grin.

Looking out to sea, where the solid land meets fluid water and flows into open sky.

Horses’ race along the golden sand, birds wheel in the air and a boat crosses the invisible line, between the caught and the free.

Breathing in the briny bouquet, I listen to the gulls’ screeching symphony. But behind it all is the shush of a world changing.

This is the Edge where all things are free to be. Standing here, I wish to cross over, to be something else. To run, to sail, to fly, to be.

Here I am, looking out to sea.

You start with this little bundle of burrito. Then the legs and arms straighten, the melon head wobbles up right and before you know it Shrimp has grown into a four-legged octopus.

He walks, talks, asks awkward questions and repeats only the things he shouldn’t have heard. You credit him with his victories and take his faults as your own.

He grows into his name and out of his clothes, learns to read and write and each day swims further away.

But every year you can celebrate the arrival of the bundle, he no longer is – except when he’s asleep.

He’s driving away.

The rain hammers on the car window, obliterating the world outside. Leaning forward, the seat belt digs into his chest as he peers into fractured, wet, darkness and hopes to hell he doesn’t hit anything.

But the long hours of driving are weighing on his legs, his back, his arms, his heart and his eyes, which start to close.

In quiet blackness, he could find comfort, he could dream of what might’ve been and forget about what is. Forget about driving and driving and more driving.

He squints in compromise but continues to drive away, from her.