Bits and Bobs

I carry a notebook with me most-times, so I can write things down, should they come to me or should I overhear something good. I sometimes find things written in them that make me smile or that make me laugh at myself (such MELODRAMA!) or that I haven’t quite finished or that haven’t really been started. Here are a few bits and bobs...

Short short story:

This story is so aimless it can’t be bothered to be told; it’s too busy faffing about sharpening pencils.

Overheard on a bus:

Girl 1: “You got a boyfriend?”

Girl 2: “Nah.”

Girl 1: “Are ya a lesbian?”

Girl 2: “Nah.”

Girl 1: “My sister’s got two boyfriends. Do you want one of them?”

Girl 2: “Nah.”

Unwashed and full of love...

Your anger whipped your scarf around your neck and you out of the door. I couldn't bear it; for you to leave like that. “If you go now, I don’t want to see you ever again,” I called out after you, soap opera-like, as you started down the stairs. Only what I really wanted to say was, “Please don’t go. Please stay.” Your footsteps stopped abruptly on the wooden steps. I held my breath.  You came back. You simply said, “Well I want to see again.” You sat down next to me. We talked it all around in circles again and all I could think was that I should have said “yes,” back then in the spring, in the newly opened candlelit bar. I should have let you be with me then, unwashed and full of love.

All the postcards never sent

He wrote the postcard without thinking very much. It said, "Mary, Now I am away from you, I know I want to be with you when I am home. I am on one knee and I am asking you to be my wife. Tell me your answer when I come home. Love always, Derek.” He posted it into the yellow post box and went into the cafe. He had a stiff drink and it was then that he started to think about love.  Was his love good enough for her? Would he be the best husband? He was no good at catching spiders, he knew that. No...he was no good with spiders. It simply would not do.

He went back to the post box and waited. When the postman came, he gesticulated wildly until the postcard was safely back in his pocket and he went back to the cheap hotel alone.  He kept the card in his bag and carried it across France, Italy, Greece and all the way home, where he watched Mary marry Bernard. He helped Bernard choose the ring. He was the best man, but Bernard was better; he was good with spiders. Mary had four children. Derek framed the postcard and kept it on his mantelpiece; his trophy of loss, of all the letters never sent. When Mary died she smiled and thought only of Derek. When Mary died he posted the postcard.

Where did you get that coat?

“My mum gave me this coat. She saw it on a scarecrow and thought it was too good for a scarecrow. Italian wool, see? So she took it and had it cleaned and gave it to me.”

“So your Mum stole that coat from a scarecrow?”

“Yes.”

I can hear the sky moving above me. Roads drifting under cars. Land falling down through the rain. The page is moving, not the pen. Earth rotates under motionless train tracks.

Overheard on a bus:

Boy: “Do you know how thunder is made?”

Mum: Silence.

Boy: “I do! I’ll tell you. We got told it in school today. It’s when the clouds get so high up that they crash into space: BANG!!”

Mum: Silence.

First Warmth

Sitting side by side on the bench

By the sea.

Not speaking, only pressed their faces together, cheek to cheek, eyes closed

Moving now and again, just to be closer.

And it was the first warmth of the summer,

But they were migrating to colder climes,

Into a forced winter

Without love.

They were so warm.

Why didn't they stay?