Dark in the summer

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“Shall we go to Francavilla in the summer?”
“Are there caves there?”
“Yes, there are caves there.”
“Ok then, let’s go.”
“But we can’t go now. We’ll go in the summer.”
“Can we see the caves in the summer?”
“Yes, that’s right. We’ll see the caves in the summer.”
“But we can’t go now?”
“No, we can’t go now. In the summer.”
“See the caves in the summer.”
“Yes, that’s right darling. We’ll see the caves in the summer.”

“Is it dark in the caves in the summer?”
“No, there are lights in the caves.”
“In the winter too?”
“Yes, I think so. In the winter too. There are always lights in the caves.”
“But it mustn’t be dark in the summer.”
“Well, sometimes it’s dark in the summer. It’s dark at night, you remember, and it’s dark in the caves if they didn’t have lights.”
“But they have lights in the caves?”
“Yes, they have lights in the caves.”
“In the summer.”
“In the summer.”
“It mustn’t be dark in the summer.”
“No, don’t worry, it won’t be dark.”
“Ok, let’s go.”
“Yes, we’ll go. In the summer.”
“See the caves in the summer.”
“Yes, that’s right, we’ll see the caves in the summer. Good night.”
“Good night.”

Mother Jarvie pushed her bicycle

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Mother Jarvie pushed her bicycle along the street that was now part strand; she could not have pedalled through the sheets of sand the night’s storms had lifted across the road, shingle spattering and cracking the windows of the fisherfolk’s cottages. The road was ridged with grey-gold sand, as if the beach were edging away from the roiling sea.

She pushed on, her thoughts lost in the sea, in the past, in the howling of the long ago storm when her Peter had been dragged to the seabed, dragged down and bounced against the sand and slicing sharp rock and spat out peaceful, drained, to the waiting beach one Sunday morning. When they slowly lifted the weed from across his thin white face, she fainted dead.

She pushed on. The sea would not stop her, the sand it had thrown would not stop her. Her arms burned, her back ached, pain filled her head from jaw to crown but on she pushed. People watched in silence from behind loose windows, sheltered from the constant wind. The sky was black.

She pushed on, in her basket the scraps of bread she would throw to the sea so it would never again take a young one. She pushed on.

First published https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/01/23/flash-friday-vol-3-7/#comment-25519
23 January 2015

The Janitor

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Bruno pulled the rake through the clodded sand. It stank of iron and ammonia but at least now the flies had stopped their gorging; now they no longer funnelled fatly up around Bruno’s face when he disturbed them. He sweated and choked in the smoky still air. He swallowed, hawked and spat, then swallowed again when he saw what his rake had dragged up. The lion’s tooth caught the light from the guttering torches around the arena.

He picked up the tooth and turned it over in his hand. It was jagged at the base so it was broken, it had not just dropped from the jaw of one of the older lions, the ones who were too tired to attack until starved and tormented with long stabbing spears. One of the traitors must have fluked a lucky blow before he met his divine punishment or perhaps the lions had butted heads in the ripping and rending of flesh, the cracking of bone.

Bruno slipped the tooth into his pouch. He would hand it in to his gangmaster when the sand in the arena was ready for the next day’s bloodletting. It might be worth an extra piece of bread. He spat and began to rake again.

First published http://www.flashfriday.wordpress.com 16 January 2015

Yesterday, dressed all in black

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Yesterday, dressed all in black, I ran round the Meadows in the rain, just keeping up with my pal in sunburst orange. It may have looked as if I were chasing him. The wind and my tight fitting black hat stopped me hearing what most hurriers by were saying but one couple’s words filtered through: “That ninja’s let himself go a bit, hasn’t he?”. They smiled at each other and never saw the katana.

Hope

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You know who I am don’t you? It was many years ago but you know who I am. I can see it in your eyes. You know I’m not just a regular house breaker with a gun and pliers and duct tape. Now you’re remembering the little boy hiding in the street as you drove away. And just now you’re wondering whether to move but you know it would do more bad than good. It would be slower. Yes, that was me hiding there all those years ago. Those years you have had but we didn’t. They were long years. Did you enjoy them? Did you savour each moment like a ice cube to a man in the desert? I hope you did.

Hope. Yes, I always had that. For all those years. I could not have survived without it. How does it feel not to have hope? How does it feel to feel like you do now?

You need not call me ‘Miss’

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Thomas always called her ‘Miss’ and every day Sandra wondered why. She had told him once, from behind a half-smile, that he could use her name. ‘Miss’ was just too great a formality. She longed for him one day to call her ‘Sandra, my darling’.

Thomas could not say her name: his voice might crack and break. ‘Miss’ told how much he missed her when she was not there. One day, one day, he would call her ‘Sandra, my darling’.

Time passed but still warm words did not. The air drew frost when Thomas breathed ‘Miss’ and slowly, slowly, the ice between them grew. Seasons passed but words were always winter.

Then she was gone; and then she was back. And now her name was ‘Madam’.

Rosanna and Carlino: Scene 1 – in the classroom

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Rosanna is a kindergarten English teacher in Italy. There are nine or ten children in the room, all doing different things until she calls them to her. She is sitting on a low chair and has a colourful book on her knees.

Rosanna: Children, come, come. Bambini, venite.

The children gather round and after some pushing and scuffling all sit cross-legged around her.

Rosanna: Look! Look! Who is? Who is? Guardate? Chi è? Sapete chi è?

Children: Shouts of ‘Sì’.

Rosanna: It’s the wolf! Look, it’s the wolf! Sì, sì, è il lupo. See his eyes! What big eyes! What black eyes! Che occhi grandi, no? Avete visto che occhi? Carlino had such eyes. Such deep black eyes. He looked at me and I was lost. I forgot he was the wolf. Che occhi….

The children look at one another as Rosanna’s voice tails away. She touches her eye with the tip of a finger. FADE