All Stories

The empty, white cup sits alone on the table.

Having stained the inside of the unremarkable white cup with the black coffee she insists on drinking, she left it behind.   Uncollected, it’s a monument overflowing with her absence and filling the air with echoes of her laugh and mirages of her smiling face.

He glares at the empty cup, because she left him behind too. To sit alone marked by her presence but full of her absence.

The cup will eventually be collected and washed clean. But removing the stain she left on his own heart, is not as easy.

The air is wet. The ground is wet. The stones of the castle are wet and the bench I want to sit on is also wet.

The view from the wall is hazy because of the moisture in the air.  Below hammers and saws thump and buzz through the mist fixing things. But the river is still and the boats hibernate in dry dock, under the faded trees.

A few people stroll like philosophers, through the castle grounds. Thinking about their next step.

A train rattles over the bridge slowing down, changing tracks.

The world is a work in progress.

I want this job.

I think I want this job.

I want this, if they want me. But if they don’t want me? I wouldn’t want it.

Thoughts whirl like a carousel, round and round my head.

My mind is a haunted house where ghosts of past failure flock round me. Werewolves howl demands as they transform from ordinary colleagues to monsters of time-management. Mummies stumble about, unravelling all my hard work. Workaholic vampires suck every minute out of the day. Then there are the three witches, brewing, boiling and bubbling around the kettle.

“Elven Steel, you’ve got the job.”

Out of the kitchen window, a small terraced garden lies in the sun.

The backdrop is leaf-green and wood-brown, the performers are kaleidoscopic bursts of colour.

Hot pink, bright red, navy blue and white-violet pansies skip in between yellow sunflowers, that stretch like ballerinas. From terracotta pots burst purple stars, blood-red drops and pink and yellow carnations.  

Herbs march up stage-left and emerald grass glistens, in centre stage.

But down stage, lies a pot on its side, and there’s a lump in the middle of perfection. The helper has replanted the nut.

It’ll be a beautiful centre piece one day.

For many years, they walked up and down, back and forth. A migrating flock in the morning. A charging stampede in the afternoon. 

The younger creatures, in vibrant colours, were pushed along or encased in slings. Older ones were clothed in grey and navy-blue that hung off them like rhinoceroses’ skin, but over time the creatures grew into their colours.

Sometimes they changed their feet, and would kick up leaves, slide on ice, splash in puddles or skip in sunshine.

Then one day, quite suddenly, they stopped. No more morning songs or afternoon races. The walk to school had ended.

A man sits alone. Alone, for the first time in a decade. In a square, black, faux-leather arm chair, which came with the IKEA furnished rental. His new 50” TV blares on the wall but makes no sense for him.

Tonight, the only sound he hears is his left ring finger tap, tap, tapping on the whisky glass. He takes a gulp of the vintage liquid but doesn’t taste it.

Tap, tap, crack.

Pulling off the ring, he drops it in the broken glass, abandons the glass in the recycling bin, turns the TV off and goes to bed.

Alone.

Three children stand around a blanket, on which lies a baby.

Their toes stroke the satin edges as they watch the squirming, pink bundle, wriggle like a beetle on its back.

“We should get some toys,” says Mel, the eldest. Fetching a small yellow ball, he rolls it across the blanket to the baby.  A pudgy hand grabs inexpertly for the toy.

“How about some milk,” says Cas, crawling across the blanket and offering the baby her bottle.

“What’s that smell?” says Zar, holding his nose.  Running away, he quickly returns with scented wipes saying, “The baby’s done a poo!”

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?