Short story

The birds fell, one by one

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The birds fell, one by one. At first Ian thought they were diving but they weren’t, they were falling, some blown backwards and then down as if a hand had cuffed them from the sky, others wings spread as if crucified, then tilting and tipping, their heads now heavy with thoughts of death and endlessness, then falling and falling, their wings now folded. He couldn’t see where their fall ended. It was too distant. The air shimmered.

He thought of stories that had started and stories that would never start. His story ended.

Your letters saved my life

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You sent me letters when I was waiting and flowers when I was dying. I was lying there waiting for something to happen, something to arrive, just something to happen, anything. Your letters stopped me cracking up. I’ve heard that said so many times. Your letters stopped me cracking up, cracking out, just… cracking. I didn’t crack, I didn’t smack, I didn’t hack my hand off with the boredom of the slow drawn out. Your letters saved my life.

Japheth Jones and the bullet

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It was truly a dark and stormy evening when Japheth Jones went out on his scooter. His mother was taking the damp clothes down from the line on the drying green before the rain set in for serious. Little did little Japheth or Mrs Jones think that the next time she saw him he would be in a hospital, a stray bullet in his chest. We all remember the story, but how is Japheth now? Here’s his story as told to our reporter.

“The doctors said the bullet was at my heart, not in it, but I preferred the more exciting phrase. That’s where it felt as well, as my heart beat I could feel it pulsing against the bullet, the bullet holding firm – more than nuzzling, less than pressing – against each beat. As if it wanted to kill me each beat, slowly, so slowly, continuing its slow slow flight now buried in my chest.

“I got used to it there and somehow felt safer because it was there. Maybe it was because it hadn’t killed me straight away – something so dangerous hadn’t killed me – that I felt somehow protected, like I had a real original lucky charm deep inside my chest. I often thought, when I thought about it, which wasn’t often, that if anyone was to make a voodoo doll of me and stick a spike in my heart they’d be surprised to feel my lucky bullet there protecting me.

“So it was five years I kept the bullet there and then we decided it had to go. Well, the doctors decided it had to go. Like I said, I’d got used to it, it was my lucky piece, it kept me safe and reminded me I was going to die – and that’s when you feel most alive, right?

“I used to think risotto was my lucky food, vermilion my lucky colour and Jehoshaphat my lucky cowboy name. I loved the comfort of the food, the clarity of the colour and the sheer chutzpah of being called Jehoshaphat. How could they not bring me luck?

“That’s what the reporters said, I was lucky they said, in the first days when they wanted to ask my parents all about it and then later me all about it.

“And sometimes I’ve felt like falling and sometimes I’ve felt like flying and sometimes I’ve felt like turning around and walking right back out of this situation.

“And then I fell and then I flew and then I fell again.”

And then he closed his eyes and sighed, wisely. Our reporter left, slowly, reluctantly, and may not return home.

There is always someone there

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There is always someone there. Someone you can convince yourself is listening as you throw your blackest thoughts into the blacker night, opening your fingers and letting the shiny black pebbles fall into the blacker water. Or as you shine a light, light a candle, shine a light into the darkness you feel is there. There is always someone there. I will be there.

The story started with the words

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The man sat down and thought of all the stories he could tell. Then he thought again and crossed out the words ‘the man’. That was not right.

He. He’d put ‘he’ instead. He sat down (again) and thought of all the stories he could tell. But but but. But if he wrote ‘he’, people would think it was about him. About the man. How about ‘she’?

She sat down and thought of all the stories she could tell. She was a normal person, unremarkable; perhaps for this she had never been described. Her stories though were many; too many.

She sat down (again) and thought of just one story, one she knew well, one she knew forever. To tell it though would be difficult, she (and he) both thought.

They sat down together and had no need for stories. They were their own story, the beginning clear and cloudy and the future curving softly grey before them.

My ghostreader breathed the words

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My ghostreader breathed the words in my ear as I wrote, read them onto the page. The voice, the almost-voice, the almost-my-voice gave me peace and confidence, echoing my thoughts as I wrote them. I thought, I wrote, I heard.

I can’t say when things changed, when the reading voice spoke earlier. It was gradual, slow, unnoticeable. Then one day it was clearly heard before the words were on the paper. I heard it and wrote the words. But they were still my words, though now in the wrong order.

And if the words are mine, the thoughts are mine. Stories that are true, stories that are made up. I imagined the stories and perhaps the voice. Straightforward stories and straight-talking voices. Perhaps.

Not every story needs to end with a twist. But now you’re doing as you’re told and my story will soon live.

When Death came to the queue for the new new phone

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When Death came to the queue for the new new phone, he was kind and gentle, and explained,one by one, that they wouldn’t be needing a phone any more, that they could leave the old one there, on the pavement, for someone else to take. They wouldn’t need apps or maps any more, no need to connect or wait for connection any more. Now they would be comfortable alone, still dreaming of together. Until the dreaming stopped. So kind, so gentle.