Hello, this week I am sharing three very short fiction pieces - stories of spring. I hope you may enjoy. You can listen and/or read….
recent sketchbook pages - goldfinches
GOLDFINCHES
‘Write me a happy story,’ he said to his friend, who had just a moment since shared with him yet another sad tale. ‘I shall look forward to reading it, when I visit you.’ He had become her primary reader, or as she preferred to call him: a crusty old critic. He did not mind telling her if she wrote poorly and he often said he did not mind if she did, only he minded if she did not write at all.
She was watching his garden, the sun making its shadowy depths and greens yet greener. ‘How still it is today,’ she whispered, not moving her eyes from the window scene; she wished to remember this rainless day. Today felt like the beginning of something she might gladly lose herself within. His garden was unkempt, gloriously so.
She had been right to keep her eyes on the garden, for just then a flock of goldfinches appeared. They dazzled in the gnarly trees, sweeping into sight in a flurry of yellow, black, red. They tangled in around the bird feeders, swooped beneath blossoming trees and into shadows, appearing again, startling daredevils, in and through vines, then up and out. It was a sudden hello and goodbye. Just as soon as they were boldly present they were gone.
‘There,’ she said, ‘my beginning,’ and turned to him with a new-found smile, but he had left the room. He returned moments later with a pair of antique binoculars. ‘‘Oh damn they’ve gone,’ he said and she laughed. ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘no one died from such brief beauty.’ She noted his grey hair lit by the sun and in his spectacles a brilliant reflection, a sudden flash of goldfinch colours.
**
ALL THE PRETTY BIRDS
They had been walking uphill against the chill wind. The woman had her head bowed as if scared of the beautiful budding trees and the little boy was clinging to her dark skirt as if equally anxious. In a little while, he thought, we shall reach the top of the hill and we shall see for miles and miles. We shall see where all the pretty birds have flown, where they might be hiding and how far away. We are almost at the top of the hill, the woman told herself. Quite soon the sun will begin to set and the sky will lose its grey pallor; soon the sky will be pink and flesh, it will hold an abundance of angel wings and echoes. We will stand at the top of the hill and become like two figures in a painting, a little fearful of being brushed over, yet hopeful. We shall see where all the pretty birds have flown, where they might be hiding and how far away.
**
recent tiny sketchbook pages
**
A SPRING TURMOIL
It was a wild, sunny spring day. Was he making a mistake, now, pegging this week’s work shirts out to dry on a frail old washing line? He had moved into the tiny cottage just after the new year but this was the first time he had set foot in the garden. How absurd, really, to think he had just glimpsed at it now and then, like viewing a painting left by the previous owner. A dark little painting made sweet with spring pinks and greens everywhere. As he attempted to peg his third shirt to the line he was blinded by a storm of drifting blossom. The windy weather was what his grandmother would have called a spring turmoil. Trees creaked in the wind. There was a bulky fallen branch on the lawn but it was so covered in ivy and primroses, it must have been there for years. Last night he had seen a fox standing on the branch, a glow-in-the-moonlight beast, surveying its kingdom.
Voices were coming from beyond the fence. Two elderly sisters lived next door. From what he could hear they were bickering about a dead bird, whose cat had got it and where to bury the poor thing. Before he could duck, escape back into his cottage, he was seen, beckoned to the neighbourly fence. Two rosy-cheeked women smiled up at him - their garden sloped down from his.
‘It’s impossible,’ they said together. The slightly taller sister explained: ‘It’s impossible for either of us to get a spade into the ground. We depend on our man but he only comes once a month. We’ve had to cut back.’
And then, to pretend he might know what he was doing with a spade. He found himself standing in a much larger garden, brimming with sweetshop coloured flowers. He recognised tulips and wallflowers. Flowers were not completely alien to him, he remembered sowing snapdragon seeds with his grandfather. Now he was digging a grave for a half-eaten bird that looked like it might have been a tit or finch, who could tell. The sisters were bickering again about a suitable marker for the bird’s grave. It was either to be a cement gnome or a lilac cutting. He hoped he would not be asked for his opinion on the matter.
**
Thank you for reading. All writing is my original work, copyright 2022. A small book of tiny stories will be appearing some time….. soonish.
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Sketchbook pages from 2014
Utterly delightful! You have a marvelous reading voice, one that brought your stories vividly to my imagination. I do hope that you will post more of these and I so look forward to a book of your stories! This is a lovely gift to start a new week.
How lovely to be read stories on a grey Sunday afternoon. I had tea and malt loaf while I listened, and am smiling to hear your voice xx