I expected there would be, but there is no deliverance watching my school collapse into clouds of dust, each an unresolved memory. I imagine swinging the wrecking claw but it’s too late; I’m still that child.
At the school gates, now the site entrance, a thirty tonne tipper grunts under its full load, impatient to exit. I get the nod and trample the grit of tyre tracks that vanish in arcs onto the road.
I let a funeral cortege pass. In the polished black I see him again; Dad, the lollipop man; hair as white as my hard hat; his lip stiffer as the mocking children cross. Seems I’m starting where he left off but I don’t measure up.
I step in front of a double decker because its driver will understand. I raise my ‘STOP’ sign on its pole and put the queue of irate commuters from my mind knowing another labourer delays the opposing traffic behind me.
Stillness.
Then a pneumatic hiss in stereo. Doors clatter open. Someone jumps off the bus. Shrieks as a cyclist avoids him. He strides toward me; the revving engine. His malice minds my sign, the high visibility jacket, the family resemblance but sees my father.
“Want to hear a joke?” he shouts, reprising our pasts.
I squeeze the pole like I squeezed my Mum's hand.
“You!” he roars, crossing me, laughing, staring at the past when I see the unavoidable present in his eyes. He sees me, I’m sure because he never sees the tipper coming.
I am stunned. What’s this I’m feeling?
Showing posts with label Prompt 16. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prompt 16. Show all posts
Monday, 17 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'Mum's Heritage' by Sue James
Mum had all the ancestry charts laid out across the dining table again.
'Did you know that my mother's side goes right back to Ireland?' she asked me when I called in.
'Nope', I told her.
'Well it's true, my family probably go right back to the potato famine on my mother's side'.
The week before she had told me that my father's great aunt had poisoned three husbands with arsenic. Nice. She'd been obsessed with this for months, digging up her 'heritage' as she calls it, finding out all about her roots. The trouble with Mum is that she is far more interested in what went on in the past than in what is going on in the present. She didn't listen to a word I said, sitting there all day long with a cup of black coffee at her elbow. She thinks I'm stupid and didn't know about the bottle of whiskey she poured into the coffee. At night she skipped the pretence, drinking the whiskey neat from the one remaining cut glass tumbler. I can't tell you when I last saw my mother eat food.
She draws charts and maps and plans and she can tell you who is related to who from way back when. She even tried to explain it all to the Bailiff while he wrestled the table from underneath her. I kept on trying to tell her but she refused to listen to me. Now she has all her maps and drawings covered in plastic. She lives out there in the shelter of the tower block rubbish chute. She doesn't seem to mind. She has her heritage to keep her company.
'Did you know that my mother's side goes right back to Ireland?' she asked me when I called in.
'Nope', I told her.
'Well it's true, my family probably go right back to the potato famine on my mother's side'.
The week before she had told me that my father's great aunt had poisoned three husbands with arsenic. Nice. She'd been obsessed with this for months, digging up her 'heritage' as she calls it, finding out all about her roots. The trouble with Mum is that she is far more interested in what went on in the past than in what is going on in the present. She didn't listen to a word I said, sitting there all day long with a cup of black coffee at her elbow. She thinks I'm stupid and didn't know about the bottle of whiskey she poured into the coffee. At night she skipped the pretence, drinking the whiskey neat from the one remaining cut glass tumbler. I can't tell you when I last saw my mother eat food.
She draws charts and maps and plans and she can tell you who is related to who from way back when. She even tried to explain it all to the Bailiff while he wrestled the table from underneath her. I kept on trying to tell her but she refused to listen to me. Now she has all her maps and drawings covered in plastic. She lives out there in the shelter of the tower block rubbish chute. She doesn't seem to mind. She has her heritage to keep her company.
Sunday, 16 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'Am I ugly or do I look like Daddy’s cheating ex-wife?' by Kate Miller
Ouranos or Father Sky was the son and husband of Gaia, Mother Earth in Ancient Mythology.
Ouranos and Gaia had twelve sons and six daughters. He locked he eldest of these – the giant ‘Cyclops’ and the ‘Hecatoncheires’ away inside the belly of the Earth. They were the ugly ones – the children he despaired. Sometimes I think Daddy doesn’t like me.
‘Why does not daddy have favourites?’
‘... Because you remind him of your fucking mother.’
Ouranos and Gaia had twelve sons and six daughters. He locked he eldest of these – the giant ‘Cyclops’ and the ‘Hecatoncheires’ away inside the belly of the Earth. They were the ugly ones – the children he despaired. Sometimes I think Daddy doesn’t like me.
‘Why does not daddy have favourites?’
‘... Because you remind him of your fucking mother.’
Write-In 2019: 'Rear-View Mirror' by Mileva Anastasiadou
Today’s the
big day. I may be young, yet I know she’s the one. Today, I’m
determined to confess my love.
“I love you,” she tells me. I look at her speechless, unable to utter a word.
“Answer me, damn it!”
I can’t answer. I run away instead.
I wake up in cold sweat. My mind wanders free for a while, my body still under the blankets. Another boring day begins.
Coffee, paperwork, meetings, until work is finished. She makes the place tolerable. Today’s the big day. My chance to finally tell her all about the love I’ve been hiding inside, since the first day I saw her at school.
“Forgive me for running away back then,” I tell her.
“I still love you,” she whispers in my ear.
Yet I’m still in bed, enjoying the hazy state between dreams and awakening. I love mornings, when time lies ahead, promising, like an empty page. I try to lift my hands, but they feel heavy. I finally manage to wipe the sweat from my face. It feels wrinkled.
I can’t be that old. It can’t be too late. I reach for the alarm. As I open my eyes, I watch a tiny little box falling onto the floor. Pills are spread everywhere.
“Are you ok, Mr. Smith?” asks the nurse.
I turn around to face her. Time flies so fast. Until it’s all behind and looking into the rear-view mirror feels like looking ahead. Until the page is already filled, yet the big day hasn’t even happened yet.
“I love you,” she tells me. I look at her speechless, unable to utter a word.
“Answer me, damn it!”
I can’t answer. I run away instead.
I wake up in cold sweat. My mind wanders free for a while, my body still under the blankets. Another boring day begins.
Coffee, paperwork, meetings, until work is finished. She makes the place tolerable. Today’s the big day. My chance to finally tell her all about the love I’ve been hiding inside, since the first day I saw her at school.
“Forgive me for running away back then,” I tell her.
“I still love you,” she whispers in my ear.
Yet I’m still in bed, enjoying the hazy state between dreams and awakening. I love mornings, when time lies ahead, promising, like an empty page. I try to lift my hands, but they feel heavy. I finally manage to wipe the sweat from my face. It feels wrinkled.
I can’t be that old. It can’t be too late. I reach for the alarm. As I open my eyes, I watch a tiny little box falling onto the floor. Pills are spread everywhere.
“Are you ok, Mr. Smith?” asks the nurse.
I turn around to face her. Time flies so fast. Until it’s all behind and looking into the rear-view mirror feels like looking ahead. Until the page is already filled, yet the big day hasn’t even happened yet.
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