Prior to her fracture Martha had regularly dragged her grandson into the garden to stare at another mess of prickly ugly plant life. Alexander did not admire such stuff. Our little fellow’s al fresco delights were a gloopier variety, often stripy-shelled, all proper-slimy like a giggling gob stuffed with sticky toffee pud. When Alexander realised his gooey pals got smashed to bits by Grannie M’s nasty boot he spent several days collecting heaps of remains then generously decorated the garden path with shell and suppuration.
From the safety of the shed he screamed for Grannie and watched the fun begin.
Many thanks to Dale Rogerson for the inspiring photograph
We’ve missed our last chance to leave. It’s freak weather they’ll talk about for years and all the world’s satellites are frozen to death so there’s no phoning home. Out front the world is becoming a soft-focus ice-cream cake.
The house captures us in its warmth. We have a blanket and a scarlet silk rug laid in front of a burning grate wide enough to roast two champion Charolaises. Melting amber light strokes your perfect cheekbones. We have Frankie’s ruby wine.
There’s no-one in the place except you and me. Just have to make the best of it I suppose.
Many thanks to J S Brand for this week’s photo prompt
The year I turned sixteen Mother Zigzag hired him for the night reception. Daytimes she stuck him way up top to the far left, well away from me but I soon sniffed him out. He was beautiful. Smooth white fur. Long elegant ears. And the most deliciously twitchy nose. I nuzzled his soft neck and licked his aromatic paws from noon to sundown. True love crosses all boundaries.
Zigzag underestimated people. Only saw as far as her own limits. When she came upstairs shouting I scooted, my tawny brush held low. My afternoon delight wasn’t the only shapeshifter on the menu.
A few leaves float from Adam’s truck as he pulls away. Mother’s met him twice and on both occasions she’s been vile. “A common workman,” she says. “Get yourself a professional. A doctor. A lawyer. Sensible people treat professionals with respect.” I smile and suggest Mother and I take a walk around her garden. Her agreement’s guaranteed—she loves that ugly great nutrient-thief of a tree out there. “What the hell is an arborist anyway?” she says as she limps outside. Her mean mouth drops open as she realises an arborist is also someone a sensible person treats with respect.
My heart aches for my beloved. Her ideal shape. Her sparkling accessories. Inside her warm body I was regularly pleasured by her soft skin. I thought financial crap was my wife’s strength but okay I get that the state of the house screams money trouble and maybe it’s been falling apart but I didn’t notice. The wife says we must economize so my beloved has been replaced by a bad joke. The wife seriously believes I am willing to drive this ridiculous little car. The wife doesn’t understand me. She has broken me. I am in mourning for my Bentley.