Back in the day, he’d never have thought about walking to the shops, walking was boring, no, he would have run. He could remember the wind whipping through his hair, the sound of the air against his ears as he picked up speed, the sheer joy of running.
Now, he walked, he walked not because he wanted to, but more because he had to. Since Sarah had passed the world had lost its sparkle, lost its brightness somehow, each day just seemed to be like the last, one continuous treadmill taking him closer and closer to his own, eventual death and his eventual meeting with his wife.
He looked up at the clouds that formed above him, he knew now that he should have stayed at home, that he should have resigned himself to an evening without tobacco, but, with so little left in his life, his routine became everything, and if he didn’t go, then he might as well just give up altogether, and Sarah wouldn’t want that.
Forty years ago this would have been a five minute walk, and he felt such a fool for kidding himself that he could still do it. Each step was a struggle for him now, not only for his legs, but his chest also, and he wheezed as he tried to speed up. The leaves started to dance on the floor before him, caught by the energy of the coming storm, and they twisted and jumped before him in mockery for his age.
Even the birds had stopped singing in fear of the approaching storm, though it took him a moment to realise as his hearing aid wasn’t working very well today, the poor woman in the shop had to repeat the cost of his items three times, and in the end, he’d just held his shaking hand out and she’d taken the right amount, thankfully, no one had seen the tear of defeat running down his cheek as he left.
The first drops of rain hit his face and re realised he’s made a huge mistake in coming out, but it was his routine, it was all he had left. The thunder rolled as he started his slow walk home, his stick holding his steady against the winds, it was his routine, and he’d had nothing if he didn’t try.
Saturday 28 April 2012
Saturday 14 April 2012
ADRIFT
The waves slowly rocked the boat, lulling Michael slowly back to sleep. He didn’t know how long he’d been floating now, from his position the sky looked the same, and one moment merged quickly into another.
His lips felt dry and he tenderly licked his lips, trying to moisten them with what little liquid his tongue could spare. It almost hurt to swallow now, and as the sun beat down on him, his thoughts turned to easier times, to drinking with friends and to food, and he hated himself for doing it. All he could see now was burgers and hotdogs, as his thoughts turned to the BBQ’s of last year, of eating in the garden with friends, of laughter, or joy and he punched the side of the boat.
This old thing had become his home, his refuge, its deep sides allowed him to lie flat and avoid the worst of the winds, but with no hiding place from the sun, lethargy had taken over quickly, draining the energy from his arms. The oars lay across the boat above him and he reached up to touch them. They felt warm, but oddly comforting despite the heat above.
Trying to occupy his mind, he picked at the flaking paint on the side of the boat, finding some simple pleasure in it, as he whittled away at the white sides as his nails pulled at the edges. The boat rocked and he rolled slightly in his position, if his attention had been higher, he might have wondered what had caused it, but after what felt like a lifetime adrift, he failed to care.
It was a moment later when he hit land, feeling the solid thud of stone against the outside of the boat, using what little strength he had left, he pulled himself up on the oars and looked over the side. A small island lay before him, lush green grass and the thought of possible food woke his mind, to feel solid ground below his feet was his primary thought and he started to clamber over the sides.
“Boat Number 24, Please remain inside the boat at all times.” A voice called loudly from the other shore. “And to be honest son, you might have more fun if you actually tried to row.”
His lips felt dry and he tenderly licked his lips, trying to moisten them with what little liquid his tongue could spare. It almost hurt to swallow now, and as the sun beat down on him, his thoughts turned to easier times, to drinking with friends and to food, and he hated himself for doing it. All he could see now was burgers and hotdogs, as his thoughts turned to the BBQ’s of last year, of eating in the garden with friends, of laughter, or joy and he punched the side of the boat.
This old thing had become his home, his refuge, its deep sides allowed him to lie flat and avoid the worst of the winds, but with no hiding place from the sun, lethargy had taken over quickly, draining the energy from his arms. The oars lay across the boat above him and he reached up to touch them. They felt warm, but oddly comforting despite the heat above.
Trying to occupy his mind, he picked at the flaking paint on the side of the boat, finding some simple pleasure in it, as he whittled away at the white sides as his nails pulled at the edges. The boat rocked and he rolled slightly in his position, if his attention had been higher, he might have wondered what had caused it, but after what felt like a lifetime adrift, he failed to care.
It was a moment later when he hit land, feeling the solid thud of stone against the outside of the boat, using what little strength he had left, he pulled himself up on the oars and looked over the side. A small island lay before him, lush green grass and the thought of possible food woke his mind, to feel solid ground below his feet was his primary thought and he started to clamber over the sides.
“Boat Number 24, Please remain inside the boat at all times.” A voice called loudly from the other shore. “And to be honest son, you might have more fun if you actually tried to row.”
Wednesday 11 April 2012
THE MACHINE
With a satisfying click, the last piece of the machine slipped smoothly into place, and John stood back with some level of satisfaction as he surveyed his work. It was hard to believe that he'd finally got to this point, to finally seeing his creation in reality and he felt a wave of peace and joy wash over him.
Since the idea came to him almost two years ago, he’d been unable to shake it from his head. At the start he’d thought he had gone mad, but the more he studied, the more he researched the idea, the process and the underlying principles the more he’d realised the pure genius and simplicity of the design.
The odd person he’d contacted about his idea had scoffed at him, laughing at the absurdity that some normal person could crack the puzzle. That an uneducated individual without the experience and knowledge only gained through decades of research could dream something so, well, so basic that could resolve the problems of the world in one go.
At first he’d been upset at the rejections, but as time passed and the idea continued to work in his dreams, he realised that divine intervention must had been behind it, and who was he to stop the idea of God, how was anyone able to question the idea’s of the almighty?
It hadn’t been easy, but neither, he reasoned, had building the Arc, but Noah hadn’t quit so John hadn’t either, when his wife left him, he failed to notice for three days, and he only noticed then because the washing basket was full and there was no more space in the sink.
The fact she’d left release him from the normal relationship wastes of time, allowing him to focus 100% on the project and although he felt weak from lack of food, and smelt slightly wiffy now, he was, all the same a satisfied man, the image from his dreams stood before him on the living room floor. People would remember him for this for centuries, years from now, children would walk passed his house and point with awe at his windows.
With one final walk round the machine, he reached forward and grabbed the handle and pulled...
Since the idea came to him almost two years ago, he’d been unable to shake it from his head. At the start he’d thought he had gone mad, but the more he studied, the more he researched the idea, the process and the underlying principles the more he’d realised the pure genius and simplicity of the design.
The odd person he’d contacted about his idea had scoffed at him, laughing at the absurdity that some normal person could crack the puzzle. That an uneducated individual without the experience and knowledge only gained through decades of research could dream something so, well, so basic that could resolve the problems of the world in one go.
At first he’d been upset at the rejections, but as time passed and the idea continued to work in his dreams, he realised that divine intervention must had been behind it, and who was he to stop the idea of God, how was anyone able to question the idea’s of the almighty?
It hadn’t been easy, but neither, he reasoned, had building the Arc, but Noah hadn’t quit so John hadn’t either, when his wife left him, he failed to notice for three days, and he only noticed then because the washing basket was full and there was no more space in the sink.
The fact she’d left release him from the normal relationship wastes of time, allowing him to focus 100% on the project and although he felt weak from lack of food, and smelt slightly wiffy now, he was, all the same a satisfied man, the image from his dreams stood before him on the living room floor. People would remember him for this for centuries, years from now, children would walk passed his house and point with awe at his windows.
With one final walk round the machine, he reached forward and grabbed the handle and pulled...
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