“Paula! Come in! Sit down beside your old Granny Lizzie… I want to tell you some things.”
“Another one of your stories gran? Are you not too tired?”
“Tired? Not now. I’ll be dead soon, so even if I wanted to sleep, I’ve not got the time. You need to hear this.”
Mary closed the door behind her, the third chime from the grandfather clock was just a memory from her hall. She walked down the front path into the darkness. It was cold, so cold. Her gloved hand held them tightly; the reason for her torment.
Continue reading “An Easy Choice to Make by Hugh Cron – Adult Content”
They call it the valley creep. A mire of mist slithers down the river bottom then seeps its way through the narrow terraced streets, climbing as far up the hillsides as it can travel before gravity calls time. Those who live at the top keep their distance. Their view of the valley is always from on high. Any problems up there are easily resolved. Those at the bottom bought in when they were in search of something that the cities could no longer offer. Some came to find themselves in this old mill town, industry given way to dreams of creativity and reinvention. Some fall between the gaps, others slide into the canal after a drunken night out. In the little bunting bound park the bewildered born and bred meet those who’ve blown in to tighten their arms and pierce their veins. Once a film-maker raised in the valley came back with his camera to meet them. He called out all the suicides, the blame getting put on the steep valley sides that hide the sun for months of the year. When it snows the roads in and out become impassable. The sun shines too though, and when it does the place comes alive with trippers from the nearby towns. People sit on the low old bridge and eat ice cream. Today it’s neither sunny nor cold, just a grey valley day.
It shoulda been okay. Tommy told me it’d be fine. “You worry too much Davey. You’re as bad as a whinging woman. What about this and what about that. It’ll be fine.”
Well, I ask you – “As bad as a whinging woman” and him supposed to be my mate. My best mate. Anyway what could I do then? I had to go along with it didn’t I?
His heartbeat thunders beneath flesh, muscle and bone. He’s sleeping now, I can tell by the steady rise and fall of his chest. He doesn’t snore, but I can hear a quiet whistle blow from one of his nostrils.
The windows of the car are fogged over, our body heat battling with the cold of autumn meeting winter. It hasn’t snowed yet, but it’s getting closer. I enjoy the first snow of the season. It’s a fresh start, a blank page.
In a large detached house surrounded by high privet hedges at the foot of a low hill range there is a room filled with books. Some of them date from the 19th century. There are books about geology and Greek mythology, there are books about the flora and fauna of far off lands. There are books about subjects that no longer exist. Phrenology, mediumship, gruesome racial theories. There are books whose pages have crumbled to dust. There are books that have not been looked at since the day they were pushed into place on the high shelves that surround the walls.
He’d burned the titles of his hit songs into the planks that formed the stall where he kept his favorite horse, a high-stepping Paso Fino of no particular value beyond the curiosity of its unusual four-gaited step. A short length of pine tacked on the half-door of the stall bore the horse’s name in brass letters, Dominus.
Colin looked about. The stalls and tack seemed unfamiliar. He took a deep breath and smelled sweet feed and hay mixed with the sharper scents of leather and manure.
“What the hell?”
A horse whinnied somewhere across the corral and Dominus stirred.
I stop explaining aloud to my children that I am not lonely.
I used to tell them these things as if they would understand automatically. I’m not lonely when I lie down at night and fall asleep with five fluffy pillows surrounding my head. Or when I wake up, make my way to the kitchen—the red and white tile floor cold under my feet—and stare out across the green lawn and watch the birds eat from the feeder and sing into the morning light. Even when I eat almost every meal alone, I do not yearn for someone to sit beside me. Instead, I enjoy my breakfast, lunch and dinner outside on the patio and throw the remains of my meals in the lawn and look forward to watching the deer find the hidden treasures.
I give my children the simple answer now when they ponder and poke. “You know what the doctors said. I should spend this time how I want and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
London 1929, a society sticking to the rigid values of the past, but only on the surface.
Such charm he had, Leonard. Such charm, elegance too. Poise, like a woman. He’d observe out of the corner of his eyes; feline, almost feminine. Everyone liked Leonard, even when the opinions expressed could be cutting. Acute observation.
People believed him blessed, and sought out his company at parties. He was rarely alone. Despite advances from both men and women, Adele was the only woman Leonard took home, but they weren’t lovers.
“Did you remember to leave water for Samson?”
My wife is like a teacher in the movies, the ones who make important announcements right when the bell has gone and kids are already mentally unplugged from the class and pushing through the doorway. She will tell me to turn right after we have passed the exit, or ask about the dog’s water when we are a mile from home.
“Yes, a giant bowl beside his little round bed.”
literally stories 