Drabbles

The continent of cloud hangs overhead, thick as an old grey duvet. It blocks out the sun and threatens rain. The Skylarks, Children of Air, are busy draining the build-up of water by flooding the towns below.

When the rains clear the sky is ready; like a blue canvas. White fluffy clouds, like sheep, are herded across the fields off cyan. Everyone is preparing for the Sunset Show, bringing in clouds to stage the perfect setting.

Placed to catch the setting sun, the clouds light up with rose-pink, crimson and violet colour.   

The Skylarks job is done for another day.

Freedom at last; to go where I want, do what I want.

But it must be within driving distance. It can’t be expensive. Have to get the chores done and be back for pick-up.

Qualified freedom is still freedom, right? I can go new places; see new things.

But new things are tainted by those missing them and the things I’m used to doing aren’t as fun.

Limited freedom is still freedom. I’ve time to think again; space in my head.

Even if it’s taken up with checking my phone; on call every moment.

Never really free; never really alone.

Out shopping, she bumps into a stranger.  Twenty minutes later he’s at the bus stop smiling, but not at her. Turning, she sees a poster. Her favourite show’s on at the theatre.

She calls a friend.

Ordering at the theatre bar, she asks for the unpronounceable drink her friend wants. Someone corrects her. Turning, she glares at him but then smiles with recognition.

“I saw you earlier?” he says.

She nods amazed he recognises her, “Why you here?”

“For the Avengers Movie.”

She laughs.

“My mum’s in the show.”

“It’s my favourite.”

“Still prefer the Avengers.”

“Next week?”

“You’re on.”

Three dark figures stand above the world, weaving their blood-red thread and cutting as they go.

Below them the gods sit high on clouds of needless existence and endless delight. They have their power. They have their word and they have their desires.  But even the gods are subject to the Fates above.

They are subject to their own natures; their desires which will force them down a certain path. Wrongs must be avenged. Power must be used, and desires must be satisfied, like the rain, the wind and the waves.

But mortals can change Fates. Choice is our nature.

Meeting up in time to catch the train, the girls joke that they get on the wrong one.

At the swanky hotel, they help each other get ready; making-up and straightening hair. Drinks are poured and talk begins. Photos are attempted, giggles simmer and laughter boils over.

Going for food, they complain when their friends’ meal is not cooked enough.

Together they discover new toilets to get lost in, views from the terrace and they dance into the early hours, smiling at boys who spill drinks.

Eating take-away, they’re still laughing. Falling asleep the girls’ night is over, and out.

The alert buzzes over the wires. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.”

The mariners are in trouble. An emergency threatens the lives of those that fare the sea.

Their two-mast ship, a great white schooner, used to skip along the waves. But now division tears at the decks and the wood creaks with the constant tension.

It can’t last forever.

The deckhands swop gossip, while the officers argue which port to lay course for. No one hears, or maybe everyone ignores, the warning call from the crow’s nest.

Nothing is getting done.

It’s too late.

The schooner is sunk.

May’s day is passed.

This is the day that goes as expected.

After months of planning almost everything works seamlessly. The only thing that goes wrong is fixed by plan B or C or D, giving you an opportunity to show off your organised contingencies.

The day is a success: You win the medal, make the deal, finish the project, solve the mystery, raise the money or put on the show!

Even the imperfections become anecdotes to laugh about later.

Taking off the twenty kilo-bag of organised worry, you rise weightless to the top of the mountain and enjoy the view of your success.

It’s a metropolis in my head.

Ideas whiz round, like inner city cars; thoughts about home and work, about the world and people and life and death and choices and love and how to pay the next bill and will the water keep running.

The ideas build up, like urban sprawl.

But then feelings flood my heart. A tsunami of memories and emotions wash away my carefully laid thoughts.

To drain the waters, I write them down.

Out in the world they can be more than an idea.

Out there they can be a smile, a tear, maybe even truth.

A crimson bird perches on a low branch. It’s feathers shimmer like flames dancing in a fireplace.

Stretching her wings, wider than a man is tall, the bird blazes with fire and the tree, on which she perches, bursts into golden flames.

Despite the heat of the gilded fire, you offer your hand to the magnificent bird.

Furling her wings and flames, she steps onto your wrist.

Her weight is nothing, but her strength is burning and like her claws gripping your arm, her fire rips into the shackles around your heart.

Then, just like the weight, she is gone.

At the line between day and night, the river pauses. Still, like glass and silver blue, it reflects a fairy tale.

The waters soften the yellow lights to gold, illuminating old stone buildings, which drop down into the watery valley, like giant steps.

At the foundations a church, with its upside-down spire pierces the dark waters below.  A silver mist swirls round the pinnacle, like a flock of fairies glittering in the liquid sky. And in the blackest depths there are pinpricks of light, twinkling below it all.

Time passes over the line and the world in the water blurs.