A bagavard pushed a trolley full of his belongings, which looked to the average minded man as junk, across the main road. Stopping half way he decided to leave his trolley parked just as was and wander to an alley which housed future decor for his living quarters. Whilst traffickers, horned and verbalised their wait of his return a man on the sidewalk decided to push the trolley out the way to allow the flow of cars to resume. In doing so the trolley, whose load was bulging, refused to accommodate the man and toppled over sideways. This caused the bagavard’s belongings to scatter and run riot across the tar.
The bagavard returned just in time to see the panicked man clearing up his mess and rushed over spewing words of intolerance and grumbling at the man for what he did. Horns and shouts from around added to the man’s humiliation.
Eventually all picked up the bagavard started on his way with his bulging trolley and crossed the road. The impatient drivers drove away without a seconds glance in the rear-view mirror. The man who tried to help went home embarrassed.
Moral of this story…
Don’t drive home where you know bagavards push trolleys around, it took half an hour for this pandemonium to clear itself up!
Wednesday, 16 December 2009
Friday, 16 October 2009
The Visitor
The sight was unbelievable. He was here standing at the front door with the night behind him, like he had never… How could this be? Mother rushed to the door, screaming. Her hands covered her mouth at the same time, muffling each scream. Everyone came out into the hall to see what the commotion was and their faces showed the confusion I felt.
“Will you let me in?” The elderly man asked, waiting for a response. He didn’t seem like he had been living rough, his clothing was clean and he didn’t look malnutritioned. His grey hair was neatly in place and his beard trimmed nicely to his chin. He wore his favourite long coat. The one I thought looked as if it was made from a carpet. He looked exactly the same as I’d remembered him six years ago. Six years ago before he had died.
“Who are you?” One of my sisters asked quite abruptly.
“What do you mean? I’m your father”.
“But…” She trailed off.
Mother had stopped screaming and held his arm telling him he could come in. She didn’t care about logic. She had missed him for too long. Everyone else moved out the way allowing him to enter. Entering the living room we watched him sit down; watching him while he watched us.
Mother was rushing around him, getting him food. She kept yelling why are you all standing there, it’s your father! He has come back to us because he knows we need him. I was finding it hard to believe. I felt he could see this apprehension in me. The look was his but he definitely wasn’t there.
“I have some work to finish up so I am home until that’s complete”, he smiled at me, as if to reassure. I smiled back. It was nice to see his face again, albeit whoever ‘he’ was.
Everyone seemed to relax whilst father was eating. It seemed natural to have him sitting there and mother next to him, telling him what had been happening while he’d been gone After his meal he made a move to go to his bedroom. Nobody stopped him.
A lot had changed since the last time he saw his bedroom. All his possessions had been replaced after his death, apart from his twenty-one inch television. I wondered if he would be disappointed, thinking we had removed his presence by redecorating. It was no longer his room. I went up first, with father following and mother last, everyone else stayed downstairs. The bedroom door was open.
“It’s ok, I just want to lay down for a bit,” he did sound tired. Mother was still climbing the stairs. A mixture of illnesses and old age had consumed her since father had been away. She wasn’t able to walk much these days without putting pressure on her heart muscles. Father entered the room and closed the door. He’d never closed the door before.
When mother reached the top and saw the door closed she turned to go into her bedroom. She had moved into another room; this one had an ensuite, making life easier for her. I followed her in.
“He’s come back for me. He could tell how much I missed him and”, she stopped mid sentence. She looked at me for answers. I didn’t have them. “I don’t want him to go, promise me you’ll let him stay.”
“It’s not up to me. If i could make it true i would.”
“It’s him. I can tell.” She started smiling, “he’s come back for me.” She got up and started moving towards his bedroom, i followed.
Opening the door, mother went in first and started laughing. I froze in shock.
The pine double bed had gone, along with the matching wardrobe and chest of drawers. The beige and turquoise mixture of wallpaper, that i helped put up, was different. Infact the only thing that was the same was the twenty-one inch television. Somehow, I was standing in my father’s room.
Mother sat on the bed staring at father. He seemed bothered by what he was reading. In his hand he held a small note book, and shuffling through the pages he whispered something to himself.
“Are you ok?”
“I don’t have any paper,” he looked distressed. “I don’t have any paper to write the numbers down!” he looked helpless to the point that it worried me.
“It’s ok, write the numbers on the wall. You can transfer them when we find some paper.” Settling down beside mother, who wasn’t saying much, i watched father scribble on the wall.
His face was up close to the wall, as he scrutinised what he had written. He was mumbling to himself frantically. From where i sat it looked like he was in conversation with someone; or something. Then suddenly he stopped and slumped forward against the wall. He was looking at the floor.
I stood up and started walking towards him, stopping midway. Father had turned around and was looking at me. He was holding something in his hands.
I stared at him and the blood, pooled by his feet. His stomach had been slit vertically showing his insides. In his hands, the heart pumped at a normal pace.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“Pierce my heart with that knife.”
“What knife?” I looked down and in my right hand i was holding a small dagger. It was about six inches long, gold with silver detailing on the handle. The curved head had weird hieroglyphics inscribed on it. I looked at the dagger and without realising it started to move forward towards my father. I looked at him about to ask what was happening, when i noticed his eyes.
They had turned black. Unable to stop myself i pushed the dagger through his beating heart. Pulling it out again I stood back to watch.
“He talked about you a lot.” He staggered forward, dropping to his knees. “He talks about you still”. He fell to the ground and i watched his face dissolve to reveal bone. Smoke started to rise from his clothes which suddenly burst into flames. Before the fire spread I got mother, and still holding the dagger ran for the open door.
Stepping outside the room I felt the chilly night wind hit me. Holding mother really close, we stood somewhere outside surrounded by graves.
“Will you let me in?” The elderly man asked, waiting for a response. He didn’t seem like he had been living rough, his clothing was clean and he didn’t look malnutritioned. His grey hair was neatly in place and his beard trimmed nicely to his chin. He wore his favourite long coat. The one I thought looked as if it was made from a carpet. He looked exactly the same as I’d remembered him six years ago. Six years ago before he had died.
“Who are you?” One of my sisters asked quite abruptly.
“What do you mean? I’m your father”.
“But…” She trailed off.
Mother had stopped screaming and held his arm telling him he could come in. She didn’t care about logic. She had missed him for too long. Everyone else moved out the way allowing him to enter. Entering the living room we watched him sit down; watching him while he watched us.
Mother was rushing around him, getting him food. She kept yelling why are you all standing there, it’s your father! He has come back to us because he knows we need him. I was finding it hard to believe. I felt he could see this apprehension in me. The look was his but he definitely wasn’t there.
“I have some work to finish up so I am home until that’s complete”, he smiled at me, as if to reassure. I smiled back. It was nice to see his face again, albeit whoever ‘he’ was.
Everyone seemed to relax whilst father was eating. It seemed natural to have him sitting there and mother next to him, telling him what had been happening while he’d been gone After his meal he made a move to go to his bedroom. Nobody stopped him.
A lot had changed since the last time he saw his bedroom. All his possessions had been replaced after his death, apart from his twenty-one inch television. I wondered if he would be disappointed, thinking we had removed his presence by redecorating. It was no longer his room. I went up first, with father following and mother last, everyone else stayed downstairs. The bedroom door was open.
“It’s ok, I just want to lay down for a bit,” he did sound tired. Mother was still climbing the stairs. A mixture of illnesses and old age had consumed her since father had been away. She wasn’t able to walk much these days without putting pressure on her heart muscles. Father entered the room and closed the door. He’d never closed the door before.
When mother reached the top and saw the door closed she turned to go into her bedroom. She had moved into another room; this one had an ensuite, making life easier for her. I followed her in.
“He’s come back for me. He could tell how much I missed him and”, she stopped mid sentence. She looked at me for answers. I didn’t have them. “I don’t want him to go, promise me you’ll let him stay.”
“It’s not up to me. If i could make it true i would.”
“It’s him. I can tell.” She started smiling, “he’s come back for me.” She got up and started moving towards his bedroom, i followed.
Opening the door, mother went in first and started laughing. I froze in shock.
The pine double bed had gone, along with the matching wardrobe and chest of drawers. The beige and turquoise mixture of wallpaper, that i helped put up, was different. Infact the only thing that was the same was the twenty-one inch television. Somehow, I was standing in my father’s room.
Mother sat on the bed staring at father. He seemed bothered by what he was reading. In his hand he held a small note book, and shuffling through the pages he whispered something to himself.
“Are you ok?”
“I don’t have any paper,” he looked distressed. “I don’t have any paper to write the numbers down!” he looked helpless to the point that it worried me.
“It’s ok, write the numbers on the wall. You can transfer them when we find some paper.” Settling down beside mother, who wasn’t saying much, i watched father scribble on the wall.
His face was up close to the wall, as he scrutinised what he had written. He was mumbling to himself frantically. From where i sat it looked like he was in conversation with someone; or something. Then suddenly he stopped and slumped forward against the wall. He was looking at the floor.
I stood up and started walking towards him, stopping midway. Father had turned around and was looking at me. He was holding something in his hands.
I stared at him and the blood, pooled by his feet. His stomach had been slit vertically showing his insides. In his hands, the heart pumped at a normal pace.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“Pierce my heart with that knife.”
“What knife?” I looked down and in my right hand i was holding a small dagger. It was about six inches long, gold with silver detailing on the handle. The curved head had weird hieroglyphics inscribed on it. I looked at the dagger and without realising it started to move forward towards my father. I looked at him about to ask what was happening, when i noticed his eyes.
They had turned black. Unable to stop myself i pushed the dagger through his beating heart. Pulling it out again I stood back to watch.
“He talked about you a lot.” He staggered forward, dropping to his knees. “He talks about you still”. He fell to the ground and i watched his face dissolve to reveal bone. Smoke started to rise from his clothes which suddenly burst into flames. Before the fire spread I got mother, and still holding the dagger ran for the open door.
Stepping outside the room I felt the chilly night wind hit me. Holding mother really close, we stood somewhere outside surrounded by graves.
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