He told me he was feeling surrounded, hemmed in, corralled.
It wasn’t always like that he said. Where once he’d been one of a few houses, nowadays there were houses all round him.
Every week he observed a new house being pegged out on the land around him.
His view out his back window had gone. There were three houses there now.
The people were okay; it wasn’t them, but the feeling of being crowded in.
It was peaceful thought, no rowdy children, no noisy neighbours. He was glad he’d built a sturdy fence around his place.
He couldn’t blame people wanting to live where he did. It was a beautiful place, though not as it once was, but that was progress he said.
He was learning to live with change, after all the local shops were still there and he appreciated access to the butcher, the baker, and candlestick maker.
The small boy visited his elderly neighbour each day.
They would sit on her garden seat admiring the goings on of nature around them.
The old lady was a font of information on all topics, garden and the universe. In later life the boy was to appreciate the lessons she taught.
But would happen most days the boy would grow hungry and would ask the old neighbour if he could have a sandwich.
To get one he had to spell bread.
It took him a few goes and eventually with her help he mastered the word. She always had a loaf of white bread on hand and would butter it generously and smear a light coating of fish paste, roll the bread over and hand it to him.
This ritual went on for some time, he became an expert of spelling bread and eating it.
One day he asked her for a sandwich and she again asked him to spell bread.
Having done so she then handed him the butter knife and looking at it he stepped back as this was a new routine he wasn’t so sure about.
He protested as he hadn’t ever made the sandwich before to which she said: Shhh! It’s your turn now.”
Jim’s mother was asking him if he was ready for school.
He came out of his bedroom, his uniform all neat and tidy and stood before his mum.
She adjusted his tie and then helped him put on his face mask. He’d grown used to the new mask she made him wear. He was used to it, the way it enclosed around his face, and he was pleased that he could breathe easily through it.
The mask was necessary these days as the virus threat was well and truly a part of their lives. Everyday, there were reports of virus mutation, and the wearing of masks was mandatory.
Jim, stood still as his mother made sure the mask was fitting snugly. The new mutations could get into not only one’s mouth and eyes, but evidence was growing of the virus infiltrating the body through the ears.
Jim looked out at his mother through the mask, a clear plastic-like covering over his face, the mask fitting neatly under his chin in which a filter had been fitted to allow him to breathe easily.
This was life nowadays; his mother often told him of the days of her youth when masks were not something anyone bothered with, viruses were about but not life-threatening as they were now.
So, it was off to school, a place in the centre of the town where the students met in front of computer screens, the teachers in some remote location, and it was difficult to tell where they actually were.
Today was a special day as the Principal in Chief was to address the students. The big central screen would be revealed, and they would sit to attention while the Principal in Chief addressed them. Jim found it boring most days and anticipated falling asleep at some stage.
Knowing what the day had in store for him, he set off. His street was a short distance from the school, and he walked along passing abandoned houses, their occupants long dead from the virus, the yards showing neglect as the population had dwindled considerably in the past year as a particularly virulent strain of the virus had taken hold.
Jim and his parents had been vaccinated and so were relatively safe from the virus, but there was no telling when a new mutation might appear, and so Jim was required to wear the mask as a safeguard, as was every other kid in his school.
It was a way of life; Jim knew no other, it was how things were.
The shops in the main street were also decimated, boarded up, falling down only the general store remained selling all that was required. Choice had long disappeared.
Jim turned into the main gate of the school, his mate Bill waiting for him, and they walked into the classroom discussing their latest video game achievements.
It was never easy being lumbered with the job of an evil witch. Her mother had told her that one daughter, in the family, had been ‘blessed’ with the task of evil witch over the ages.
After all, her mother argued someone has to do it; someone has to balance out the good witches, which, as mother put it, were a dime a dozen these days.
To make things worse, she had been named Alice, and whoever heard of a wicked witch called Alice. There were all Grizellas, or Gertrudes or Lucindas, never an Alice. She couldn’t believe she could be in any way convincing being Alice, the wicked witch, it just didn’t work.
Never the less once her mother had given her the handbook for Evil Witches, she was left with not much else to do but get on with it.
So, she dished a liberal share of plague and pestilence, conjured a storm or two and one of her favourites, if there was such a thing, was the sudden wind storm just as picnickers were settling down to a nice afternoon out.
In her travels around her territory, she came across some folk who were more than deserving in bad luck or just plain maliciousness.
One such body was Henry Haughty a land owner on the edge of town. Henry, she observed, treated his staff poorly, cheated on his wife and beat his children. He was a nasty piece of work, and ordinarily, as a wicked witch, she should have embraced Henry as one of her own and praised him for his evilness.
But Alice had a soft spot in her heart and saw that Henry was indeed evil, and it upset her that his family and employees were so mistreated.
One day she witnessed Henry being particularly nasty, and that tipped Alice over the edge.
Henry’s wife awoke the next morning, dreading the day ahead, and found no Henry but instead a large ugly toad looking at her from the end of her bed.
Henry’s wife, Agnes, didn’t like toads, disgusting warty creatures that they were, and took to it with her millet broom sweeping it from her home and into the family cesspit.
It was a quiet day after that, and Agnes celebrated with her children their first day free from Henry.
Alice seeing what had occurred, felt there was something good about what she had done and wondered if it would be ok for her to throw in the occasional good deed after a hard day of fire and mouse plague.
She was sure her mother would have something to say, but hey, Alice thought, it’s my life, I can live it my way.
Having reached that conclusion, she set out with a basket of poisoned apples to see if she could something about the insufferable Snow White who was doing far too much good at quelling the exuberance of the seven dwarfs. As it was, people were gossiping, and it was time Alice put a stop to it.
When Charlie Fuggs, the wizard, felt the need to replenish his supplies of all things magical and potion-like he’d go to the town pond, nowadays overgrown and emitting a smell that could send your hair grey.
As a wizard he was a bit of a failure. When he’d first come to live in the town the place was a shambles.
He’d concocted a potion to turn the town from ruin to perfect. It worked well, for a while.
Sadly, the potion wore off and all hell broke loose.
After three days hiding inside he ventured out to find the place was, as he first saw it.
Disheartened he searched for a water hyacinth as he knew it would bring some magic or if nothing else settle his nerves, mixed with some happening powder and a pinch of luck.
There’s a bend in my mind. Or is it a mind in my bend.
Either way it’s confusing.
Words used to come freely, gushing out sometimes and unable to control them I’d let them go and they’d saturate my page.
There’d be a jumble of letters, some forming words and others sitting there looking puzzled knowing not what to do with themselves.
When I was younger my mind was as straight as an arrow.
I knew where I was going and where I’d come from.
Now I am older I am not sure where I am.
Things start being forgotten. The butter isn’t in the fridge, the sugar is where the coffee used to be as its gone walkabout along with the salt and pepper.
Is it any wonder my writing is suffering?
I blame the bend. I don’t know where it come from, I didn’t invite it in, it just turned up one day and settled in before I knew it was there.
Now there’s a curve in everything.
As I write at this moment I’m not sure where I will end up, as if to end up somewhere might well be an achievement. Trouble is if I do achieve anything will I recognize it?
Up ahead I see the bend beckoning me, like I should feel enticed, captivated by the charm it is trying to bestow on me.
Then again it could be an element of me advancing through life, uncovering the true me, whoever that might be.
I think I’ll go with the bend, see where it takes me after all, what’s life without a bend or two to negotiate?
It was known near and far that Alice Thomas was a quiet one. That was until she spoke and then she wasn’t. Crowds were known to gather, silence pervaded the town square as she argued the issues bugging her the most.
Her voice had a strident tone to it. Many were pleased she was the quiet one as her voice grated and her manner abrupt and though she lacked many of societies graces there was always a point to what she had to say.
Today her gripe was the garbage system, or lack of it.
The council wanted to halve the size of the general waste bin. It was nothing more than a cost saving venture by them and she wasn’t standing for it. Within minutes she had warmed up her vocal chords and she was giving the counsellors everything she had.
We knew nothing was going to change and so did she but that didn’t deter her from letting fly.
It was Sunday morning, the town square was buzzing with morning groups, the cafes were full, the sun was shining and Alice Thomas was holding court in the middle of the square.
If nothing else she was a source of entertainment, she was a reason the town square was so full of a Sunday morning. People liked to be entertained and Alice did that.
It took her twenty minutes to get out her grievances and then satisfied she’d had her say, gathered up her small wooden shoebox and wandered off. She didn’t acknowledge any responses, she didn’t engage in further discussion.
She longed to get back to her quietness.
Alice shut her front door and breathed a sigh of relief that her morning was over. There were times when she questioned just what she was doing. She was the most introverted person she knew, not that she knew many people.
It was like a force greater than herself took over and she followed along as it led her to the square. Her behavior was most un-Alice like.
It took her some time to settle herself and several cups of tea.
This morning’s effort had taken it out of her and it was well into the afternoon before she felt her old self returning.
It was times like this when she felt the humiliation of standing in front of others that Alice was glad she had no phone. Therefore no one would be calling her. It was an important aspect to her maintaining her quietness. Though there would be sure, as happened each time, to be some mention of her in the paper the next day.
Realizing her fairy god-mother was standing in the corner with a smile that radiated love and understanding, Alice felt resolved to a life that was not all her own.
They lived in the perfect house in the perfect street of a perfect town.
But they were unhappy despite being told they had no reason to be.
Their every want was granted, their every mood satisfied and at the same time they suffered a nagging feeling for more.
They weren’t the only ones. In time they learned of others who experienced similar needs. Their neighbours also had a perfect life. They greeted each other with the epitome of graciousness.
It came as a surprise to everyone when it all blew up.
Contentment had met its demise.
Suddenly long held resentments surfaced, neighbours stopped talking, rumours spread, affairs long suppressed came flooding into the social consciousness. Chaos flourished.
Charlie Fuggs at number 23 Petunia Street wondered why it had taken so long.
As a wizard he liked chaos, he created chaos, he smiled as he watched his despicable neighbours get their long due comeuppance.
We found a welcoming seat in the middle of the cemetery and were happy to rest upon it.
Crisp, my aged companion had dragged me out to the burial ground as she had a fascination for such places.
“I don’t want to be buried,” she said, “look at all these headstones, neglected, forgotten and going to ruin. We can’t even read the inscriptions they are so weathered.”
I could see what she was getting at.
“Cremate me and throw my ashes anywhere you want, even in the garden if that’s convenient,” she announced.
“You won’t be forgotten,” I said to her.
“I will you know, people forget, generations come and go. Who were these people? No one knows. I doubt if anyone cares now.”
“I see your point. I have had similar feelings.”
“I’ll spread your ashes over the vegies patch. Perhaps that way you can grow a decent tomato.”
Morpethroad 