Drabbles

Shelia’s neighbour Neville is the devil. He has horns and a tail, even if they’re not visible.

She can hear them every time he stomps around the house, slams the door, vacuums really early or turns the TV up LOUD!

Only last week the devil was having a party, with his demon friends. They kept the kids up and Shelia’s husband works shifts. In the beginning, Shelia tried to talk to Neville, but you can’t reason with the devil, it’s not her fault the walls are so thin.

She just wants to be left in peace; to live her life.

The lead has broken his leg, the queen is stuck in traffic on the A61, the ticket machine has stopped working and the Mayor is arriving any moment.

The understudy is called, the queen is rerouted, the ticket machine is turned off and on again and the Secretary is sent to greet officialdom.

Halfway through the show the understudy rips the coat he squeezed into and the forest flats start to tip backwards.

Wardrobe have pins on hand securing cloth and the stage crew have feet in place supporting MDF.

And all the audience see is the show going on!

The children skip and jump, full of curiosity for the mysteries that lie round the corner: a huge pile of poo, a frog, a car, a stranger bringing news, a friend waiting.

Racing around the hedge, the children vanish from view. 

Heart rate quickening, Dad widens his stride to regain a sight-line. In those few breaths he imagines the worst.

Poo everywhere.

Children chasing frogs into the road.

A stranger loitering.

A friend waving them across as a monstrous SUV careers round the bend.

Slowing and sighing with relief, Dad finds the children examining spider webs whilst waiting for him.

The week after success, is like a rambler achieving the submit of a mountain only to find they have further to go. The rise in the distance looks like the long-sought trig-point, the next achievement, but getting closer it morphs into part of the blank endless plateau she walks along.

Reaching the top had been the only aim for so long. She’d enjoyed the journey, the single, rough, upward path meant there had been plenty of people to talk to.

But now exposed, on the plateau, her friends have wandered back to their own lives and she is without purpose.

Gertrude’s in love with Daniel. But she’s ninety-nine percent sure Daniel isn’t in love with her.

When they’re both in the office, her subconscious keeps track of him in the kitchen or meeting room or talking to the boss. He’s lit by a glow, only she can see and instinctively follows it, like a flower to the sun.

Of course, Daniel has no idea she exists. He smiles a greeting in the morning, nods goodbye in the afternoon and nudges her shoulder on the way to lunch.

Ninety-nine percent sure he doesn’t, so one percent torments her, keeping hope alive.

Standing on the side-lines, behind the scenes, they can see the wires and pulleys, like arteries and nerves, connecting the different parts of the theatre body.

Hearing the cast’s comments on their personal performance is like an internal monologue.

If the stage is the external and the actors, singers and dancers the dazzling smile, the shining eyes and the songbird voices, then the crew are the unseen organs. They light the face, mic the voice, keep the wings in order and the show soaring. They make their cameo appearance on the sleeve of the stage.

The heart of the show.

Above a wooden stage hang two gilded masks. Their faces are wound together by the thorn covered stem of a red rose. Flaking gold paint and fading crimson petals don’t dampen the message, which pulses like a heartbeat down to the boards trodden by so many storytellers.

“Tragedy and comedy,” explains the proprietor in his tie-less blue shirt, not quite standing on the domain of tricksters.

“And the flower?” asks one observant tourist.

“The rose, the third mask, is the link between them. Comedy turns into a tragedy because of Love. But Love gives hope even after the greatest tragedy.”

Walking up the high street, mum thinks of the to-do-list.

A voice whispers in her ear and a perfect little finger points out:  the fish wearing glasses in the opticians’ window; the real live dog on display in the grooming parlour; the man painting the the stationary shop and the plumber lifting up the pavement.

“Excuse me,” says the angel on her shoulders. “What’re you doing?”

“Turning off the tap,” says the plumber.

“Mummy there’s a tap underground.”

Little legs wriggle in appreciation of new knowledge and laughter rings in mother’s ear and calls up a smile on her face.