17 – Bucket of Colours and some Grey
Nobody knows the man’s name. He just appears from time to time. Anywhere. It could be anywhere. Anywhere he is needed. He is a tall man. Very thin with extremely long unkept blond hair. His cloths very casual. Slacks, shirt and a very long coat reaching down to below his knees. Everything is colourful. Could be any colour at any time. Always happy. In fact he is always very happy. Laughs and smiles enormously. His world is so bright. So colourful. If you imagine you can collect a bucket full of all the brightest colours and throw them into the air you would quickly appreciate the view of the world through his eyes. He has happiness in abundance. Has the whole essence of the world flowing through his body filling him with a vibrancy that just simply exudes pleasure. There is no need to describe his face. Simply picture a face showing pure joy and there you have it.
He greets people with a rousing flourish slapping them on the back and leaving them with a feeling their day has been lifted. Everybody likes him but nobody knows him. He is strolling along the road. A road filled with extremely posh houses. The posh part of town. Everything so full of colour. He sees all the colours. And then he notices amongst all that colour one small patch of grey. Almost a hole in his landscape. The scene only he can see. Grey. A grey house with a grey garden and standing at the grey front gate a small grey child. He stops and looks long and hard at the so out of place scene. The child just standing motionless a look of abandonment on his face. The man reaches out but there is no response. He reaches out again with both hands. His hands hold the hands of the child. The child looks up and smiles. As though something is about to happen. One last look, a knowing smile and he leaves. He feels slightly subdued. As though some of his power has passed out of him.
He stops at a park bench quite near the grey house and sits down. Next to him sits a lady reading a copy of the local newspaper. He can see the headline. “Bodies of the Company Executive and his wife missing from yesterday’s power boat accident are recovered. The search is still continuing for their missing son.” The lady sees him looking and simply says “so tragic. They only lived around the corner.” He gets up and leaves walking slowly through the park.
The next day he walks down the same road with all the same posh houses. He comes to the place where the grey house stood. Now it is all colourful. The house is smart as though it had been painted no more than a month ago. The front door is bright orange. The gate where the child had stood is yellow. A vibrant very bright yellow. The child has gone.
He stops at the same bench. The same lady is there reading her newspaper. She welcomes him and shows him the headline which reads “Body of the young boy missing from the recent speed boat accident has been found.” She looks at the man and he can detect a tear in her eye. She looks at him and says “he was such a nice young lad. Only lived over there.”
This is clearly a very tragic event. But the man understands. He knows. He had felt the tragedy. He knows that although it is very tragic it is a consequence of living. Things can happen at any time to anyone. The real tragedy is getting lost. Detached from those you love. Those who care for you the most. Stranded because of a consequence of being separated. Lost. Needing help to be found. The finding that will return you to your family so you are able to continue where you left off. Be happy but just somewhere different. Maybe somewhere better.
Popular posts from this blog
The Hunt (For Remembrance Day) The stag lifted its head, suddenly alert, tensed to run but unsure. There had been a sound. The slightest cracking. The smallest snapping sending the minutest disturbance through the forest upsetting the natural harmony. Then dipping its head, turning sharply, rear legs pushing and away as the crossbow bolt punctuated the vacated space to thump, vibrating, into the ancient oak tree. The mist rising surreally from the ground, damp grey, all encompassing, born out of the transition from night to dawn and swallowing the bolting animal saving it from certain doom. “Too slow Billy, you're too slow.” This is Uncle Jack, a tall wiry man with long black hair tied into a ponytail, speaking in a harsh whisper as he relaxed his grip on his crossbow. “Why do you not listen? I’ve told you before aim and shoot. One motion, aim and shoot. The stag hears the forest Billy. Feels the air Billy, the ever present familiar smells. If it senses any change, even the sligh
24 – A Devil’s Bend and a Bunch of Flowers The blue car screeched around the bend, flew past the cyclist and disappeared up the road at more than enough speed. Dust kicked up off the country road. Dried mud from all those tractors. It pooled in the air in a long stream and followed in a trail blanketing the distance in a kind of haze. The road was narrow. The car passing close made the cyclist wobble, stop and get off his bike. He looked along the road following the passage of the car. It disappeared over a slight rise in the long straight section just before the sharp bend that was out of sight but he knew was there. He heard a loud screeching of brakes, a rolling bashing noise ending in a very loud crash. Silence except for a stuttering half-hearted horn that struggled to continuously sound. Holding his bike in one hand the cyclist just stared at the small cloud of dust that was appearing above the hump in the road. Gave a kind of that was inevitable shrug, mounted his bike an
SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT My stories can now be viewed on my new website https://www.martindixonshortstories.com/ which I hope will provide a better viewing and easier reading experience. THE STORIES ON THIS BLOG TOGETHER WITH NEW STORIES AND DIFFERENT CATEGORIES CAN NOW BE VIEWED THERE. There is also the addition of THE ADVENTURES OF RICKY DELANEY. A GUEST POST page gives the opportunity to read other writers works with a link to their website to read more of their stories. JUST CLICK ON THIS LINK https://www.martindixonshortstories.com/ AND GO STRAIGHT TO MY WEBSITE.