All Stories, General Fiction

The Next Morning by Michael Bloor

He woke abruptly in the lonely bed. It was still dark. The dolorous memories of yesterday’s events knotted his guts and sent him to the bathroom. Downstairs, he fed the clamorous cat and chucked more fuel on the stove – autopiloting.

A pause and a deep breath to consider matters. He switched on the outside light and glanced out the window: as the forecast had predicted, it had snowed overnight, but it was that wet, sticky stuff. No danger of serious drifts on the roads. Last night, just to be on the safe side, he’d driven the van up the track and parked it in the lay-by on the main road. So he would be able to get into town alright. But he wouldn’t go into work, he’d just go into the hospital for the afternoon visiting hours. He’d missed too much work already, but he knew he couldn’t cope with colleagues’ kind and concerned enquiries.

He put some bacon in a pan on the stove and cut a couple of slices of her bread, taken out of the freezer the previous night. After breakfast, he had the strongest craving for a cigarette that he’d experienced since giving up some months ago. He had to get out for a walk. He pulled on his wellies in the porch, fed the hens and the geese, and headed down to the river.

There was pale gold among the clouds in the eastern sky. From the bottom field, he watched the snowplough go past on the road, followed a minute later by the school bus. It stopped beside the lay-by for young Alistair Forbes from Auchenerno Farm. He was fond of little Alistair, but that morning he couldn’t bear to watch him climb aboard. He turned quickly away into the trees.

His were the only footprints in the snow on the path down to the footbridge. He took pleasure in this – putting his imprint on the Earth. The trees were mainly beeches, with a scattering of rowans and scots pine: the smooth boles of the great beeches stretched upwards like a prayer. He was breathing more easily. He reached the footbridge, rested his elbows on the handrail and gazed downstream.

Her smiling post-operative murmurs came back to him. And the kind but empty words of the staff. He tried to concentrate on what he would say when he phoned his and her parents.

Downstream, where the river turned east, the early morning sun now flashed on the white foamed rapids. He looked below to the deep water beneath the bridge, to the inky complexity of the fluid swirls, upwellings, and the little stretches of tranquillity.  He treasured those patches of  tranquil water.

To his left was the spot where he would sometimes fish for trout, as a treat for her. Or as a peace offering. He realised that he needed to buy some flowers. On his walk back through the trees he would find and cut some rowan twigs still bearing berries, to mix in with the flowers. She had once told him with a smile that rowans were said to ward against evil.

Yesterday, he had only been afforded a brief time beside his daughter’s incubator in the Low Birthweight Baby Unit – his daughter still unnamed and weighing less than a bag of sugar. He was hoping he’d be allowed longer today. A foolish thought repeatedly snagged him: because she was so small that he hadn’t been able to tell whether she had fingernails. He’d be able to take a proper look today.

Michael Bloor

Image by wal_172619 from Pixabay 

12 thoughts on “The Next Morning by Michael Bloor”

  1. Mick–
    This is a touching piece. What isn’t said is very clear. There isn’t a wasted word, even the little details (his being the only prints on the bridge) tell.


    1. Thanks Leila. I’m a little hesitant of submitting flash fiction without a shred of dialogue -glad you thought it was effective. Also thanks to LS team for the header illustration – good choice!

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Hi Mick,
    The stories that we have accepted from you have been exceptional, they have been an easy yes! (HAH! I think any refusals have been a split decision!!)
    Have a look at the numbers and you will see that not many folks get over five!
    Strive for that double figures as less that two percent make it and you are half way there.
    No matter what, I always enjoy reading your work – And this was a belter!!! (There’s a gid Scottish word!!!)


    1. Thanks Hugh. Why wouldn’t I keep on submitting when the LS editors are so efficient and so considerate to authors?!?


  3. The protagonist is finding at least some focus and diversion in nature, watching the river flow, etc., the nature that brings new life into the world and also takes loved ones from us, in this case both at the same time. I like that part about him walking in the snow, “taking pleasure in putting…. his imprint into the earth,” an imprint which disappears with the melt.


  4. Harrison, thanks for your careful reading. Yes, the new day, the flow of the river etc was meant to chime with the new birth (though the mother survived the Caesarian – hence the need to buy flowers and pick rowan twigs). I’m very pleased with your interpretation of the footprints in the snow: I cant honestly remember now whether, when I wrote this, I wanted to convey the idea of the impermanence of our footprints on the Earth. But I hope I did – it fits very well with the flow of the river. Thank you!


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