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Sunrise, Sunset

The sunsets were dazzling, every day that I was with her. It was as though all the difficulties in the world faded from our perception on those days and we were filled with only delight.

When she left, on that cold November evening, that life ended, seemingly forever for me. I found a life that was only bleak and numbing. A life that has remained that way for the last 17 years and counting.

Until yesterday, when she returned at last. Even though she was broken, I could work with that and, once more, the sun rose each morning.

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His Father’s Son

The ring of empty seats that surrounded him was an indication not only of the nits he was supposed to have in his wild red hair, but of how they all shunned everything about him. He had gotten used to being ignored by the others. It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced ridicule and loneliness in a classroom.

As the fire alarm bells rang, Miss Dufour put in motion the well-rehearsed drill. It was not Friday at 11 am after all, it was Tuesday.

They didn’t do drills on Tuesdays.

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On The Other Side

She could hear the seagulls crying. Or were they laughing?

They could hear Gilly crying. Or was she laughing?

It’s all made up, for each of us, man or beast, by our subtle perceptions. We make the most of what our senses tell us. That deciphering of sensory stimuli that protects us through our lives, sometimes helpfully; sometimes not.

In Gilly’s mind, she was wearied of seeing both sides. One for her reality and one for the individual clients she worked with every day.

Her mind was made up. She would taste the dark side. She would cross over.

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Living in the Moment

The problem with going through life one day at a time, each in order, was that Michael had no past pleasures to enjoy, nor any hope for the future.

Gurus might tell you that this is the only way to live – ‘in the moment’ – but he found it isolating and shallow. He found no depth to his life.

It was without worry and without regret, of course, but it was without the magical moments of memories.

It provided no possibilities that his world could improve and that there might, sometime, somewhere out there, be other humankind left.

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Repayment Time

When I was born, the only person who knew, other than my mother, was the Earl.

He kept us well fed and hidden in the warm barn for several days, respite from the worst of the winter.

I was ever grateful and if he hadn’t, I would not be at the auction. I would not be buying that very barn, as well as the Hall and the grounds. I would not be able to repay the old gent by clearing his debt.

I would never have survived to let him stay there, warm, for the rest of his days.

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Blood Bank

As I left the donor centre, annoyance rose inside me. So many people had told me that a white car was not going to work and how I’d argued. But here I was, spitting on a clean handkerchief and wiping another mark off the door panel. As I stood, I sawthe something under my windshield wiper. A shiny white card, with writing on it.

Like all bits of advertising that get stuck on my car in car parks, my first instinct was to throw it away. For some reason this time I didn’t, but placed it on the passenger seat.

As I would find out later, it was one of those decisions where your life shifts in an instant.

 

 

Thank you for giving blood today.
As a regular donor,
we want to specially honour you.
Come along here at 10 tonight,
and go to the first floor

I’d always been very proud that I committed to donating, so this was wonderful. I would be recognised for my contributions at last. I had no doubts that I would be there.

Over the rest of my day, I forgot about the date I had that evening. Work was busy and it was not until I packed my bag and saw the card that I thought about it again.

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The Value of Short Stories

Previously published at  The Writer’s Fun Zone by Beth Barany

As a business writer, I came to writing articles late in life. Eventually, from 2004 to 2013, I wrote over 400 and posted them out there in the world — on my own blogs; on other peoples’ websites, and on article banks. They have been read by over 630,000 people (at the time of writing). If you’re so inclined, you can read them here. 

During that time, I wrote – and then stashed away – a little anecdotal book about Leadership, called “Conversations with Juliet” and published it in 2015, as an e-book and a real book on Amazon.

I don’t know when it occurred to me, but at some point, I realized that as much as I enjoyed writing for business, my articles and books were often built around incidents or people that I came across. I did not need to be burdened by the context of business anymore. I did not need to show off my perception or ideas by writing for business, as I had enough work already.

So I began to toy with writing fiction.

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Pastrami Days


Michael saw the meat fall as he bit into the thick sandwich. He’d thought he wouldn’t be able to get it in his mouth. The pastrami on rye, wasn’t quite. It was more pastrami on table.

The sandwich was huge and it was the size of it that took him back all those years.

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They’d been on a last-minute trip of a lifetime to see the sights of the Big Apple. For Jess, though, it was more than that, for she was starting her new life as well. The New York office job at Cantor Fitzgerald was an opportunity she could never pass up on, he knew that, but he worried he would lose her when she started there, across the wide Atlantic.

It had happened to him before. When Helen went to university a year before him, he realised that there would be strains, but he never thought she would end it with him. Girlfriends in far off places would always cause him some anxiety.

Their last meal at Carnegie Deli on 7th Avenue was a treat they’d waited for. A New York icon for visitors and locals alike, the kitsch entrance lobby was full of pictures of the stars past and present who had eaten there and it only precluded the glass cases of huge desserts they both drooled over in anticipation.

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Last Writes

I position myself to shoot. The target bobbles into vision in the scope and I’m ready. I suck air in deeply and slowly, then squeeze on the last out breath. That’s how I always did it back in the old days.

Never failed me. Gently does it.

I once heard that lunacy was defined as ‘a population of one, believing themselves right’. I don’t know where I heard that – or even if I did. Maybe I made it up. My thinking around this little situation is perfectly sound – to me – and that’s all that matters. Maybe it’s a little selfish, but I am doing a service to so many. The fallen. The innocent. The unprotected.

And looking after myself as well, of course. In this case, everyone’s a winner, in the biggest sense, except him, of course. Even his family and friends loathe him behind the scenes, so I’ve heard. So they can be on my side and, in their quiet moments, raise thanks to their God above, too, now that it’s done.

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The More Things Change

I slip silently from the 300 thread silk sheets we brought with us. He doesn’t move at all. It’s early yet and I can barely see what I’m doing. The darkness in my eyes still getting in the way. I stumble a little and find support in the bathroom door. And I find the chair where my things ended up. At least some of them did.

I look back at Johnny, and smile as I think of the night. Our night. Together.

It’s always the same amazing same with Johnny and just thinking of it makes the rest of the world go away. The world with all the imponderables of the changes that will surely come now.

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