101 Words

His full name was Von Clyburn Duke of Fairfield but most knew him only by his nick name, Clyde. He was bitten by a poisonous snake and blew up like a balloon but he survived. He suffered three hundred stitches from a fight with an opponent twice his size but he survived. He was shot and the bullet went clean through him but he survived. He was the father of four but he survived. He was a friend to everyone he met as people sincerely enjoyed his company. Clyde is no longer with us but the memories of him have survived.

The little cake on the kitchen table was big enough to cut in two to share. There was a single lit candle on it and I watched as the flame danced and provided the only light in the room.

‘Here’s to another year my love’, I announced too loudly as I toasted with my large red wine. No one toasted me back. It wasn’t just another year, it was the third year I had toasted our anniversary alone. Draining my glass, I ate my half in one go, as you used to, and climbed the stairs to sleep away my grief.

He climbs. Before him the hills roll uninterrupted to merge with a silent, empty sky, the black clouds like bruises. Between each rise deep valleys lie lost in shadow. He reaches the summit and stares down into a gloom that hangs thick as smoke. Within the greyness darker patches promise hope. Hurrying, almost tumbling down the steep slope, he makes his way towards them. As he draws closer the promise turns to ash again, the patches taking on substance becoming buildings, ruined, spoilt, empty. He wanders through the desolation then begins the climb up the next hill to the next valley.

Fulmar sighted along his rifle for what seemed a long time. He lowered it, shaking his head.

“I can’t tell. Might be German. Might be American. I just can’t tell.”

The lieutenant wiped his face. Command decision time.

“You think you can hit him? I mean, with one shot?”

“Piece of cake,” said Fulmar. “I just can’t tell from the helmet whose side he’s on. Once they get dirty it’s hard to tell.”

“You think it will give away our position?”

“You’re asking me, Lieutenant?”

The lieutenant stared down the road for a long time before answering.

“No. Take the shot.”

Every day he chooses the same window seat. Sitting apart, he watches the bespectacled librarians ignore him. Sometimes he hunches over the desk pretending to read Shakespeare or Chaucer. More often, he does The Sun crossword, hiding it between the pages of The Times.

After a month he plucks up the courage to slip me his number. I catch his eye; the scarlet blush illuminates his translucent skin.

‘You’re not like the other librarians.’

I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m the cleaner. When he’s gone I crumple the paper into the bin with all the other broken hearts.

Dear Writer’s Block:

It’s not you, it’s me…

I’m ready to settle down, ready to commit. You still want me to dance the dance…wanting to have written rather than to write.

Oh, it’s been fun…dabbling in lyrics and poems, drinking a little, laying down a few words, talking about all my great ideas.

Now it’s time to make my mark. Yes, it’s risky and maybe a bit pretentious, too. No, I’m not a kid anymore, and that’s just it. How old will I be when I’m sixty if I don’t do it?”

So, this is goodbye. You’ve been written off.