Author: Alexander Fawn

Billy’s mother is sat at the desk marking up her students’ English papers when her son runs in.

“Mum, we gotta big problem.”

“Yes darling,” she didn’t look up, “I’m sure you mean we have got a big problem.”

“We sure have, Tommy’s come out of the tree trying to get the ball.”

“Not come out, sweet, I’m sure he fell out.” She carried on marking.

“Yes, he did,” he looked ashamed. “I should of known this would happen.”

She pulled another stack of papers towards her. “No pet, you should have known; you should have known this would happen.”

Billy sighed. “Anyway, me and Tommy, we was …

“Were, Billy. Tommy and I were…”

“OK. We were kicking the ball and it got itself stuck in the tree.”

She scribbled something down and said, “I’m sure it didn’t get itself stuck, my love.”

“Yes, well, it’s in the tree near to the fence.”

“Not near to the fence darling. It’s just in the tree near the fence.”

“Yes, that’s the one, and I wanted to climb up by my own.”

“Oh dear! Not by your own, on your own.” She opened a drawer and rummaged for something.

Billy looked back towards the window. “I should of gone up there myself.”

“No dear, you should have gone up there yourself.”

“I know, it was very high and I really didn’t wanna go up and get it.”

“Sweet heart, you didn’t want to go up to get it.”

“But, Tommy didn’t gimme a choice.”

“He didn’t give me a choice, would be better, don’t you think?”

Billy mumbled “probly”, and went across to the window to look out.

“Probably!” she said under her breath.

“He ain’t moving Mum.”

“Isn’t darling; he isn’t moving.”

“He’s completely dead.”

She searched through one of the piles. “No need for completely, my love. If he’s dead, he’s dead.”

Billy started to leave, saying “I won’t have anybody to play with no more.”

She sighed. “Not no more, sweetheart; not anymore.”

She sat up and said “Honey, I’m really busy here, why don’t you go out and play with Tommy for a while?”

 

To well deserve the bliss it brings,

With so many to thank for their art,

They gave words and ideas their wings.

For those who find joy in verse and rhyme

Picking favourites is based on taste

And none should be dismissed in haste.

∼ 

Blake has blessed us with his aphorisms,

With art so rich in mysticisms.

∼ 

Browning’s dramatic monologues so entertaining,

With high praise and low complaining.

∼ 

Byron, a baron of the Romantic Movement,

With love poems needing no improvement.

∼ 

Carroll gave us Alice’s story,

With imagination mandatory.

∼ 

Frost with his insight into rural life,

With nature’s stories running rife.

∼ 

Hardy from the naturalist movement,

Using realistic style,

Created lifelike images that just beguile.

∼ 

Kipling the reporter telling soldiering stories,

With tales of man’s ruins and glories.

∼ 

Poe providing the macabre,

Full of mystery;

Battling the woes of his personal history.

∼ 

Tennyson, Poet Laureate in Victoria’s reign,

With an abundance of verse

In mythological vein.

∼ 

Wordsworth, the romantic poet with ballads galore;

His lyrical themes with such great rapport.

∼ 

Wilde, with trials as a social misfit;

An Anglo-Irishman with a cutting wit.

∼ 

Poets are precious

Without ranking assigned.

Let us be well deserving

Of what they leave behind.

She woke up to a new, glorious day.

Glancing lazily across to the sun streaming in through the crack in the curtains told her she had slept in. But it didn’t matter, did it? No; it didn’t matter. She would just lie here a little longer, smiling up at the ceiling. She remembered times when she had felt this good, when she was a young girl, playing in the park with her friends. Now she was claiming back those lovely feelings at the age of forty, or was it forty-one? It didn’t matter.

She sat up and stretched. She would go down and make a late breakfast. She could do that, and she could make the eggs the way she wanted them. Just the way she wanted them. She wouldn’t dress yet either. She needed music as well; some of those old numbers that she never got a chance to listen to.

A few minutes later, she stood on the back step in her dressing gown, breathing in the late morning air. It filled her lungs with new life. She went back into the kitchen and hummed to her favourite music as it drifted through. She started to cook breakfast when suddenly she paused with her spatula hanging in mid-air. It had flashed briefly through her head; that moment. Then, just as quickly, that moment, the moment that had given her so much pain, so many sleepless nights, just faded. It simply went, leaving not a trace of guilt, not a trace of regret, nothing! She was just left with a sense of calm acceptance, joy even.

All that was behind her now; all gone. In fact, as she stood there, she could go through it step by step with so much clarity that hadn’t been there before. That night in the bathroom, holding a cotton-ball and dabbing her latest bruise. It was so painful yet the incident was hours before; before he went out. She could see herself now, crying, staring into the mirror, then… that moment. That moment when she had let it all out. The shout and the glaring eyes, and the curse that would send him straight to hell… and the face looking back at her from the mirror that she had never seen before.

It had been days after the evening of the accident that the full significance of that moment came home to her. It was in the police report. The eye-witness’s statement that gave the details of how he had staggered out of the pub straight into the path of an oncoming truck. A statement that included the time; the exact time. The very time of that moment.

She smiled now at the silly feelings of guilt that had plagued her right up to the gathering of friends and relations after yesterday’s funeral service. They all said how sad it all was, but they knew the truth. Each one of them knew what he was like. But now, there would be no more rows, no more violence. There would be no more being told how foolish and worthless she was, no more being screamed at when she didn’t have his tea ready when he came home, no more being punched when she tried to explain herself, no more hiding broken things, evidence of his brutality.

She finished breakfast and left all the dishes in the sink. She could do them later. She could do them when she felt like it.

She stepped out into the garden. All the colours seemed so bright, the sky seemed to be extra blue somehow, and even the clouds looked whiter than she could remember.

She had woken up to a new, glorious day… and a new life.