All Stories

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.

A black Discovery swings through the narrow stone pillars, into the restricted off-street car-park. The privileged driver steps out in leopard print heels, perfect rouge lipstick and a black faux-fur coat. Clacking up the steps, a designer bag hanging from her elbow, she glances at the hoi polloi.

A woman stands at the parking metre, dressed in a blue hoodie, jeans, running trainers, a woolly hat, no make-up and is carrying an unnamed canvas satchel.

Each shivers at the thought of what the other is wearing. Smirking in the comfort of their own clothes, they both turn and carry on.

Surrounded by people too fit to be at the gym, her squishy parts squirm.

She still comes, mostly to rant
with her friend about life. A bi-weekly entertainment (or annoyance) for the few that don’t wear headphones or yell loudly when swinging kettle bells.

“I’ll get the gym ball,” says the friend. But slipping from her hands, it bounces into the man bench pressing her weight. His mates laugh, drowning out the swearing coming from the treadmill.

Apologising, her friend retrieves the ball but then lying across it dives head first at the rowing machine.

Eating cake would’ve been safer.

Perching on a green road sign, a shadow-black crow observes the passing cars. The sign gives them the choice to go straight, turn right or stop. The drivers choose which tarmac path to take.

There are red cars, blue cars, black cars and silver cars. There are absurdly big cars and little cars, wide cars and tall cars, many seated cars, sleek cars, muscle cars, practical cars, lorries, cranes and tractors.  All pass under the beady eye of the crow.

All pass the green sign telling them where they can go.

But then stretching out her wings, she flies away.

He wants to see her, to speak to her, to text her, but he can’t. Not whilst he’s driving away from her.

She’s a lead weight; a bullet in his chest. He should get her removed, but the resulting bleed-out would be fatal.

She’s in his dreams; smiling, laughing, sitting beside him. He wonders what it’d be like to hug her and… a horn blare and the image jerks sideways.

Instinct turns his hands, straightens his spine, opens his eyes. Squinting at the dark road, he tries not to think of her.

But he can’t help these near fatal thoughts.