Drabbles

Three long-time souls sit on wicker chairs, round a metal table, under blue parasols.

It’s Saturday morning. Discussing the weather; they agree it’s sunny but cold. Discussing their drinks; they agree they’re too full, as usual, no room for milk.

Sipping, they slurp over hesitations when retelling their stories; the ones they still remember.  

Clothed in their grey and beige they wait. The ultimate will happen. But now they enjoy the moment, watching a young world blur round them.

Finishing their drinks, they discuss the shopping they need; same as last week, same as next week and on, and on.

Glimpsing a ruby sky, I race to the top of the ruined castle.  

A freezing wind paws my hair, howls in my ears and licks my face, like an over-zealous guard dog.  But my focus is on the masterpiece painted across the western horizon.

Clouds the colour of roses, edged with scarlet, wash like waves across the normally blue sky and the river below turns the colour of merlot.

It’s as if the canvas of this world has been torn. Magic seeps in, giving hope for tomorrow.

Mesmerised, I wonder what you’re doing. Are you watching the red sky too?

“One-minute left,” she mutters, pushing through the boredom.  One more minute. Then she can escape the odour of sweat, have a cooling shower and consume guilt-free pudding.

One more minute of frizzy tentacles, tickling her face. One more minute of salty moisture sliding down her cheek. One more minute reading subtitles out of sync with the colourful pictures. One more minute to know if Sophie and Mark from Shropshire find a Pointless answer. One mor…done!

Wobbling to the changing room, her friend points out, “Now you only have to do another seven thousand, seven hundred and ten minutes this year.”

In a dark room, she waits.

It’s been 365 days, but she wonders if he’ll make it. After all it’s just an arbitrary day, made important by numbers standing upright on the mantel piece, floating in foil and hanging from the walls.

She wonders if he even cares. It’s just an arbitrary day, made special by ritual; of blowing out candles, giving gifts and expecting someone’s presence.

He won’t remember.

A knock at the door.

Heart lifting like the helium balloons and face warming like the candles on her cake, she holds her breath and opens the door.

“Happy Birthday!”

Inside a regular, red-brick house hangs a calendar; an icicle, dripping away the new year.

The air echoes with bells striking midnight, voices singing Auld Lang Syne and the murmur of sleep from upstairs. But the remnants of last year still wait to be tidied up; empty bottles huddle together, streamers have wound themselves into multi-coloured tangles on the wooden floor, and board games, half out of their boxes, pull silly faces from the table.

The calendar hangs above it all. Its clean pages like the first snow, ready for new footprints; waiting to be filled with this year’s choices.