Touched the son . . . .

May 24, 2011 § 24 Comments

Saturday’s were always the same. Wait for my Dad to let us out of our bedroom, usually after he’d been to the toilet. Go downstairs – quietly. Sit on the sofa in silence, making sure our feet weren’t up on the cushions. Wait for Mum to come downstairs to see if she had a black-eye, I couldn’t look at her if she did – Dad would stare and frown at me. Dad had the bushiest eyebrows in the world, they scared me. Dad scared me.

Dad would sit in his usual chair beside the door to the stairs reading his paper. He was the gatekeeper to all of our nice things in our bedrooms. You see, I couldn’t have toys downstairs, it would make too much of a mess, plus Dad doesn’t like the noise children make. And I couldn’t play upstairs because the noise from the ceiling would disturb him while he did the crossword in the paper. I understood, he needed to concentrate. Sometimes I don’t know why Mum and Dad had children. There are three of us, me – the eldest, my younger brother and my youngest sister.

My sister is from a different man. Mum said that’s why my Dad was so angry all of the time and took his anger out on her. But that doesn’t explain why he took his anger out on me. Why I made him so mad and why he threatened to put me in a children’s home if I did anything wrong. It doesn’t explain why he would smack my face so hard it felt like it was touching the sun and shouted like he was trying to crumble the house to the ground, if I looked at him in a certain way. It also, doesn’t explain why I was locked away in the cupboard above the stairs and couldn’t come down, all day, to play with my friend. I could hear my friend laughing outside, playing with his other friends. Maybe I was a bad child and I deserved it.

If I could talk to my Dad, if he would listen, I would ask him what was wrong. I would tell him I loved him and I didn’t mean to be naughty. I would tell him, he could love me and I would loved him back for always. I would explain that I didn’t mean to make him mad, I used to have dreams about that.

I used to have dreams . . . Saturdays were happy days.

I used to have dreams . . . I was happy.


This piece was inspired by prompt “I used to dream” on the bekindrewrite site from their InMon XIII page. I have just started writing. I am using my blog to experiment and find my natural style. I would love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!

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Another trip to the coffee shop . . . .

May 19, 2011 § Leave a comment

I have done it. I have sat near a teen mom with her baby on her lap. My arse has hardly touched the seat and I’m already regretting my table choice. I can smell baby puke. The cries of goo-ga-goo-ga are spoiling the ambience and disturbing my inner peace. I want to scream back in it’s face. Shut up you are in public you little oik! Adjust your volume and change your attitude or I’ll steal your dummy.

After ordering her usual small black coffee, Margaret sat alone at her usual table in the coffee shop for the first time in her life. It had taken her two years to find the courage to come alone. It had been that long since her husband Ralph had passed away. The memories of thousands of happy conversations, of soft tender touches and of deep loving gazes into each others eyes across the table were still heavily prominent in her mind. A single large tear rose from the corner of her right eye, it was a tear of both joy and sorrow. Ralph had been a loving husband, a wonderful father and a caring grandfather. He is missed by all, but mostly by Margaret, his loving wife of 60 years.

How can life become so broken? I have dropped the glass bowl which contained the fragile fragments of my fractured existence.

A young boy called Hanson, I know that’s his name because his mum keeps shouting at him to behave, has just arrived with his mum and sister. It could also be mum and grandma – you can never tell tell these days, parents are getting younger and younger. A man in a black baseball cap and a black megadeath tshirt, he doesn’t look the type to be a fan of the band, is sat with a young woman on the comfy sofas. He is pouring the liquid from the tea pot for her, while she sits in her grey granny cardigan and multicoloured old granny specks like the ones Dame Edna Everage would have worn. It seems strange attire for a young woman. Another young woman is sat in the furthest corner surrounded by food and she has a large bag on the chair at her side with the slogan “Team Jacob” emblazoned on the front in large gold and red letters, obviously she is advertising her allegiance to Jacob over Edward of twilight fame. She is stuffing her face with crisps and cake. She doesn’t look any older than 20 but has the appearance of a 20 stone woman, I can’t help but wonder why.

Most of the coffee shop occupants are reading. Some are reading newspapers supplied by the establishment. Some are reading books they may have purchased from the book store which is attached to the coffee shop. One woman, sat to my left, has tears in her eyes. I can see bold letters printed on the front of the document she is reading – “Last will and testament of ….. “, I can’t quite make out the name. Everything in me wants to go over to make sure she’s ok, but I can’t …….

Thomas was sat quietly in the cafe trying to read his book but the babies screams from over his left shoulder pierced every ounce of his concentration. He couldn’t work out how or why a couple, who had a combined age of 100, could ring a baby into a quiet peaceful, reflective place like a bookstore cafe to eat his dinner.

“You have certainly disturbed the peace”, the woman chelped.

“ooh, open wide, arrrrrr …..” added her incompetent partner. Who was trying his hardest, without much success, to get the freshly-made baby food into the little screamers mouth.

After another anger filled sip of coffee, Thomas placed his mug down on the receipts on the tray as the saucer had filled with coffee and every sip from the porcelain cup produced several drips that found their way onto the pristine pages of one of his favourite books, only exacerbating the situation.

People watching is one of Thomas’s favourite pastimes but people hearing is not. He detests sounds which disturb his inner tranquility. Bolders breaking the surface of a summers lake.

Four-cough!

May 3, 2011 § Leave a comment

The incessant coughing of a plump stranger pierces the neurones of his focused mind – each cough sending pulses of lightening through each connected pathway and burning holes into his cerebral cortex.

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