Original Sin

Faith, yes I had faith: I believed in heaven and hell, I believed in good and evil, I believed in the Almighty and the Dark one, I still do. The only difference is, I don’t believe anymore, I know. The thing I liked best about my weekly trips to church, was the rousing antics of the choir. The way their voices soared in perfect harmony, their bodies swayed to a beat of their own making while they clapped in time to the hymn. There was something innately sanctified about the whole experience.

That day, when I stopped believing and started knowing, began like any other. I dropped my daughter, Ashley, to her swimming club while I went to K-Mart to do some shopping, it was our Saturday morning ritual. I was waiting in the parking-lot, as always, when a bundle of hysteria dashed across the expanse of concrete toward me. Her hair was still wet from the pool and flapped behind her as she ran. Ashley pulled the door open and dived across the back seat, while I started the engine.

“Dad, I beat Tracy Johnson!” she cried excitedly, as she pushed her head between the front seats.

“No Way! Tracy Johnson is unbeatable, you said so,” I teased, as I pulled out onto the highway.

“Not any more. I got my turn just right and beat her good.”

I turned my head, looking at the delighted cherub face beaming at me and wondered, not for the first time, what I had done to be so blessed. If I had been facing forward I would have seen the delivery truck stop, trying to take a turn he’d overshot. My foot would have automatically sought out the break, but I wasn’t looking. Instead, I drove straight into it doing over sixty-five. The last thing I remember is my little girl’s happy face, smiling up at me.

When I woke, I was alone. Nobody sat at my bed-side, waiting to welcome me back, so I swam into the darkness once more. I drifted in a world of half-seen shadows and disjointed voices until I heard my ex-wife calling me. I opened my eyes. Something was wrong, I couldn’t get my vision to focus. She told me there had been an accident, that I had rear-ended a truck. She told me that I had head injuries and then she told me I killed Ashley. Words cannot describe what I went through after that, but I deserved every second of it.

I got better, in every way but my sight. The fuzziness got worse and worse. The doctors said it may be connected to my brain injury, but I know better. I was starting to see people as they really are, I was looking into their souls. I know it’s true, because when I got home and took my first look in the mirror, what stared back was my true self. A blood drenched scull with black empty eye sockets, filled the mirror. Bloated white maggots wriggled in the empty nasal cavity and dead teeth stood like crooked headstones in my hanging jaw bone. It was the face of murder that I saw.

So now, I sit in this church, with my eyes closed, and listen to the wonderful voices reach up to the heavens. I know God can hear, because when I look at people, I see the sins they carry on their souls, not the skin on their bones. Yes, I know there is a heaven, but I also know that I’ll never see the inside.

I open my eyes, and stare at the collection of gowned gargoyles, clapping taloned appendages, as their horrific distended mouths, open and close in song.  

Sand, Sea and Sculptures

Hey…everyone needs a holiday from time to time. Me more than most. For a start, I'm thousands of years old, and only getting older by the second. Is it any wonder I get a bit cranky? I'd like to see you stand perfectly still for years, or even an hour. Go on, give it a go, and tell me that doesn't suck.

Here is a flash history course for you.

Pompeii was a Roman city. It was completely covered by a pyroclastic lava flow in the year 79AD. One-thousand-seven-hundred years later, someone found unusual air-spaces in the condensed lava. The spaces happened to be the only earthly remains of the unlucky Pompeian residents, who died when the lava hit. Some clever-clogs filled the spaces with plaster, and when it hardened, they produced near perfect replicas of people in the moments they perished.

Some of these casts are on show in the Garden of Fugitives, which is where you can find me. So, day after day, people shuffle past me, taking snaps of my nakedness to bring home to the kids. It pisses me off.

Today, I was standing around, like I do, when a bunch of day trippers appeared. Tagging on to the end of the line were two girls, (and I am being generous with that description), who looked like they’d just been thrown out of a night club.

"This is boring, Trish, can we go?" said the blonde one with the over-sized sunglasses and the undersized hot pants.

"I paid twenty-five euro for this bloody trip, there had better be a wine bar soon," said her friend, who was clearly hung-over and having difficulty walking in her cheap flip-flops.

"Trish, would you look at that one," said Blondie, pointing directly at me.

"Ugly little fucker, ain't he," said Flip-flop, chewing gum like a ruminating cow.

“He looks like he’s taking a hard dump," said flip-flop, who clearly thought she was hilarious. The blonde one snorted a laugh, saying, "Hard dump, good one Trish."

What a pair of geniuses, NOT!!

By this time, the rest of the group had moved on, leaving just Blondie and Flip-flop in the garden. Flip-flop searched her handbag, pulling out a phone. "Jump over the rope and I’ll take a picture."

Please, no!

"It says, Do not cross,” said Blondie, pointing at the sign hanging from the guard chain.

It’s amazing. She actually could read.

"Feck it, go on," said Flip-flop.

Faced with such blinding logic, who could argue? Clearly not Blondie, who stepped over the chain, nearly splitting the seat of her hot pants in the process. She bent down and put her arm around my shoulder, the smell of vanilla perfume would have knocked me over if I weren’t made out of stone. Flip-flop snapped off a few shots.

"Grab him by the micky, Sarah."

"Jesus, I can't," said Blondie, in mock horror.

You better not.

"Go on Sarah, you've played with mickys older than that one before."

"Mucky cow!" countered Blondie, but shockingly her head vanished between my legs.

Seriously, get away from my penis!

"It's bloody tiny," said Blondie, grabbing a handful of my crotch.

"Give it a rub and see what happens," laughed Flip-flop. Then, with a snorting laugh, the blonde moron started to vigorously rub my ding-ding. 

Flip-flop nearly dropped the camera she was laughing so hard, but I didn't find it one bit funny.

I warned you!

"It's starting to get hot." said Blondie, not laughing now.

"Are you surprised, Sarah? You could start a fire rubbing it that hard. No wonder you can’t keep a boyfriend for more than five minutes.” Blondie pulled her hand away from my crotch but kept the other one on my back.

"No, I mean it's getting really hot, have a feel," she said, and then did the exact thing she shouldn't. She grabbed my penis again.

When I caught her hand and pulled it away from my nether regions, she screamed. When I spoke, her eyes rolled back in her head, and Flip-flop fell on her ass. Seeing as I'd started, I did what a demon does best, and flash fried the two of them. The smell of charred skin hung over Pompeii once more and I was forced to scuttle back to the underworld.

So, there you have it, the story of how my holiday was ruined. The boss has actually barred me from going back to Italy anytime this millennium, and there's not that many places a little stone demon like myself can go unnoticed. Bloody tourists.

The Party's Over.

The weak light of dawn creeps into my eyes, chasing monsters from the shadows of my dreams. The smell of corrupted earth fills my nostrils, and silence lays heavily on my ear. My head feels swollen, straining at the inside of my skull, while something rotten slithers through my guts. I wish for sleep to take me once more, but it too has betrayed me. I lift one heavy eyelid and regard the world through a bloodshot iris.

Tiny dust devils are born, only to die in an instant. Nothing else moves in this wasteland of excess. I am alone, the last of my kind. From sky’s edge, to sky’s edge, the earth has been ripped apart, and now its bones lie bleaching in the sun. I blink painfully and feel guilt and desolation, in equal measure.

I’d known this place as a rolling sea of green, vibrant with life and goodness. That was until, the lust filled heart of man had focused on it. At first, they came gently, bearing plans and dreams. Then came more, each adding their own portion of want, to the demand already placed on this delicate oasis.

The riggers, the builders, the gaffers and crew. The stage men, the roadies’, the teckies came too.

From all corners they arrived, erecting an altar, from which the Gods, of a modern era, could speak to the masses. When the monument was complete, the lush valley was scared, but still it survived. Nature adapted to its new appendage with practiced ease. Sadly, that was when the flood began, a flood of the most toxic substance ever know.

Man! 

  

They came in their thousands, an unstoppable tide of greed, and I came too. A beer, a burger, a song, a band, a lover- one is just never enough. We gorged ourselves on all, and consumed until we were bloated. The party raged, and no matter how much we had, we cried out for more. Nothing could satisfy our desire. That was, until we ran out completely.

We ran out of hours, and alcohol, we ran out of bands, and songs, while the ground beneath us ran out of life.

I rise from my dusty bed and look at what I’ve left behind. Not a blade of grass, not a leaf on a tree, has survived our madness. A toxic lake of piss, which will never see a fishing line, a land, pummelled to oblivion by a million stomping feet. Was it all worth it? How dull the vast steel stage looks, now it’s lost its magical coat of light.

I guess the party’s over, and I’m the last of my kind.

Soon, I too will be no more. 

The Choo-Choo

“We’re going up to Dublin on the choo-choo!” he said to himself, in a sing song way, which sounded like the tune, “I do like to be beside the seaside.” It was amazing the way a train journey changed his personality. Firstly, he would never say train, it was always the choo-choo, and second, all his words seemed to come out in melody.

He danced from one foot to the other, in his highly polished shoes, while waiting for the platform steward to open the gate. He always insist on being right at the front of the queue, so he could get the exact right seat.

The steward, in bright orange bib, swung the gate open with a squeak, and Bernard thrust his ticket forward excitedly, before rushing down the platform, leaving me racing to keep up. He bobbed up and down as he skipped along the train, counting the carriages. He always wanted to be seven from the back, because that was the one which was the perfect distance from the engine, apparently. He also insisted on sitting in the seat, exactly half way between the wheels. I once asked him why it had to be the middle seat, and he informed me the reason was simple, sitting over the wheels rattled his bum.

When Bernard had selected exactly where the middle of the carriage was, I had to stand outside on the platform while he went in and took the seat at the window where I was standing. Once he was in just the right place, I was allowed get on.

As I walked up the carriage, I could see Bernard’s bum, wiggling in the air, while he performed the last of his excited rituals, checking the underside of the table for gum. I was about to slide into the seat opposite him when he frowned at me. I'd forgotten to check my side of the table. I ducked my head under, and scanned for sticky lumps of masticated confectionery.

“Nothing there,” I said, finally taking my seat.

“Good. No chew-chew on the choo-choo,” he said, smiling at his own joke.

Soon the train jolted forward and the wheels squealed, as we inched along the rails, beginning our journey. Bernard turned to me, and said in a more normal tone of voice, “we’d better go over the monthly figures one more time before the briefing.” 

I retrieved the sheaf of printed figures from my briefcase and wondered, not for the first time, how he'd ever become the Managing Director of a multinational company. 

Thirty Pieces of Silver

Thirty Pieces of Silver.

Introduction

“Go on, let me have just one. You know I’m good for it.”

“Get out of my face, Scobi,” said Dave, elbowing the greasy haired scumbag out of his way. He had just gone to the bar for a beer and the little shit had latched on to him like a limpet. Dave pushed through the crowds of drinkers, making sure he had a firm grip on the neck of his bottle. It was bloody wild in here tonight. The music was pounding, and the place was packed with students, just the way Dave liked it. He bobbed his head in time with the driving base, as he made his way to a ledge overlooking the dance floor. He’d a nice mellow buzz going after doing a couple of lines earlier, after all, he was working.

“Please, Dave,” said Scobi, still following him, begging like a hungry dog would beg for scraps.

“Not a chance. You still owe me for the last lot, and I got my arse kicked for giving you that,” said Dave, knowing that there was no point in looking for any money right now. What ever Scobi had was already shot up. Tomorrow, he’d pay Scobi a visit tomorrow and remind him properly about the money he owed.

“Come on Dave, you can’t leave me hanging, brother.”

Dave turned on the little dark haired guy, watching as he danced the junky shake, his body being torn apart by the hunger flooding his veins.

“I’m not your brother! Get the fuck out of my face before I do something I shouldn’t,” Dave snarled. Scobi knew when to cut and run, which is exactly what he did.

Dave rested his elbow on the ledge and took a swig of his beer. He watched the dancers go wild to the music. He could see some of his regular customers already covered in a lather of sweat, eyes closed, ripping up the dance floor. Glow sticks made magic arks in the dark, and the night club lights pulsed in time with the music. Another bottle landed on the ledge alongside Dave’s and he looked around. A shifty looking guy had moved in beside him and was watching the floor with a smile, just like Dave.

Dave knew the guy had not ended up there by accident. This was his spot, and everyone here knew where to go if they were looking for a little something to get a buzz on. Dave kept a watch from the corner of his eye. Dave said nothing, he just waited. He didn’t recognise this guy, and Dave knew just about everyone. The guy caught Dave watching him and he gave him a grin.

“Alright, Buddy?” the man said.

“Alright,” answered Dave. The man nodded and smiled like Dave had just told him a joke and leaned in.

“Have you see Charlie around the place tonight?” the man asked, with a knowing look.

“Charlie?” said Dave, playing dumb, but knowing exactly what the man was looking for.

“Yea, Charlie. My buddy over there said you would know where he was, if he was about.” Dave looked at the guy closer. He didn’t look like a copper, and he didn’t talk like one either. Even though he had a few deals of heroin in his sock he was not going to deal class A to a complete stranger.

“Na man, Charlie stayed home tonight, too many Love Doves out and about.” Love Doves were a type of ecstasy tablet popular at the minute. They were white with a little dove printed on them.

“Too bad, but I guess if doves is all that’s out, doves it will have to be. How much for a couple?”

“Twenty,” said Dave turning away from the dance floor so his back was to the ledge. He crossed his hands so his palm was hidden behind his arm. The guy nodded his head, and also turned so he was shoulder to shoulder with Dave. Dave felt a folded note slip into his hand, which he quickly made vanish. From a hidden pocket inside his jacket, Dave fished out two tabs, by feel, and slipped them into the guy's hand still folded behind his arm. The whole transaction took less than ten seconds. The man winked, and popped one of the tablets in his mouth, before vanishing into the crowd. Dave watched the guy go but soon lost him in the throng. He didn’t like selling to people he didn’t know, it was risky, but hell, drug-dealing was a risky business.

At the end of the night, the street outside Zoe’s was littered with drunks and spaced out teenagers. Dave nodded to the security as he walked away from the building, they all knew him but pretended they didn’t. The envelope he passed to the head of security once a month assured his business would not be disturbed, as long as he was discreet. Dave had drank a half a dozen beers and taken about four lines during the night, he wasn’t drunk, but far from sober. His stomach was screaming for a Kebab, so he was wandering towards the top of the street when he spotted the guy from earlier. He was leaning against a wall chewing on a burger.  The guy smiled and waved to Dave.

“Hey, man, got any more of them little birdies?” he said, through a mouthful of chewed beef.

“Sure buddy,” said Dave, walking over to the man. “How many do you want?” he asked unzipping his jacket. That was as far as Dave got, before two big guys rushed around the corner, grabbing Dave and dragging him down the alleyway. 

Dave tried to shout, but one of the guys drove a fist into his solar plexus, knocking the wind, and the noise, out of him.  The guy that had bought the drugs earlier followed along behind, still eating his burger. He nodded, and they went to work on Dave. By the time the pickaxe handle appeared, Dave couldn’t feel much of anything. He was starting to black out when the guy finished his burger and stopped the beating with a quiet word. He hunched down so that Dave could see him using the one eye that was still in his head.

“You tell Jimmy that he’s not keeping us out of this patch any more. You got that?” the guy said. Dave tried to nod his head but was not sure if it actually moved at all, instead he blinked his remaining eye.

“Good,” said the man, but something made him come back. He rifled through Dave’s jacket and found the hidden pocket and emptied it of tablets, as well as taking his wallet and the deals of heroin he had stuffed inside his sock.

“Oh, and tell him to keep a leash on Pit-bull Byrne, or we’ll put that doggy down, for good,” said the guy, pocketing the drugs and money before walking away, like he hadn’t a care in the world.

The Spinning Wheel

The summer is here in earnest.

The roads are jammed with tour bus's, the rain has warmed up a bit, holidaymakers fill the gift shops, and thousands of students have moved back in with Mom till September. Speaking of students, it's amazing some of the jobs they'll do, to raise beer money.

One of my regulars came into the pub tonight with a story of one such wee girl, which I though had to be shared.

My customer, and his family, decided to spend a little time wandering around Killarney today. The weather was lovely, so they paid a visit to Muckross House, and its Traditional Farm. For some reason, they ended up tagging onto the end of a Australian group, as they were guided around the farm. In one of the the little cottages, a girl of about nineteen sat spinning wool into yarn, on a traditional spinning wheel. She was dressed in a floor length skirt, traditional blouse and even had a shawl draped over her shoulders. Someone should have asked her to take out the nose ring, and hide her I-phone, it kind of ruined the image.

As the gathered crowed watched the girl play the wool through her fingers, and peddle the spinning wheel, someone from the back shouted out a question.

"Is that Merino wool your using there Miss?"

The girl stopped her peddling and gazed at the crowd with limpid eyes.

"God No!" she said. "We only use Kerry wool here! Sure, aren't those the sheep outside the door."

The Australians, and my friend, erupted with laughter, while the girl stared at them dumbfounded.
We can only hope she's studying accountancy in college, rather than animal husbandry.

Captain Hobson

December 18^th 1923 - 8.45am

Captain William Hobson sheltered from the wind whipping off the boiling ocean. The, San Francisco Airport, was little more than a glorified shed in a field. Hobson watched his DeHaviland biplane twitch in the gusts, where it was moored on the runway. He lifted a cigarette to his lips, cupping the glowing tip in his palm, and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. The door of the office opened and the clerk appeared, clutching the east bound mail sack in his arms.  

As sack was passed over, the clerk looked at the boiling clouds above their heads.

“Are you sure you should be making this run, Willy?” he asked.

Hobson shouldered the bag, his flying cap flapping in the wind, “As long as I get going now. A buck says I beat it to Cheyenne.” He tipped his fingers to his goggles and jogged toward his waiting aircraft.

Hobson stowed the mail in the co-pilot’s bay, before hopping into the pilot’s seat. A ground engineer stood by at the propeller. When the fuel-line was primed, Hobson gave the signal and the engine coughed into life. Black smoke belched from the engine, but soon cleaned up. Hobson gave the signal to pull the chocks, but instead of doing that, the engineer climbed up to him.

“Captain, can I ask you something?” he yelled over the roar of the engine.

“Sure, but make it quick,” said Hobson, pointing at the huge bank of black clouds appearing on the horizon.

“Can you slip this into the sack,” the engineer asked, pulling a small parcel from inside his jacket. “It’s for my boy, back home. For Christmas,” said the man, guiltily. Hobson looked at the package, he could lose his job for doing what the man asked. He also knew that the cost of Air Mail was far beyond most, even him. Hobson took the packet and tucked it into his flight suit, and said, “Safer in here than in any sack.”

  

The engine revved and the chocks were finally pulled. The flimsy craft took to the sky with a wobble, before turning away from the thunderheads.

***

Seven hours into the journey, Hobson was completely numb with cold. He was constantly forced to change altitude, to break up the ice forming on the flaps. The cloud hung low, making every direction look the same. He had to put all his trust in his instruments. He tried to keep track of his progress, but it was a hit and miss operation.

Whenever a break in the cloud appeared, he tried to confirm his position with landmarks on the ground. Rail tracks were a God send; they were the road signs of the sky. Still, many planes had vanished without a trace, it was like the pony express all over again. Flyers were never sure if they’d see home again when they aimed their propellers at the sky.

When the engine gave a cough, Hobson craned his neck to see the exhausts. Black smoke…again. The smoke cleaned up and the engine purred smoothly. Twice more during the flight the engine spluttered.

By the time the plane rumbled to a stop on Cheyenne airfield, day was turning to night. He Killed the engine as the engineers secured the wheels.

“She misfired a few times, I think it might be dirty fuel,” he told the mechanic.

The man shook his head, and said, “Tight Bastards,” to nobody in particular. Hobson knew the company tried to save a few cents by buying cheap fuel. Why not? Airplanes were insured, and pilots were easily replaced. That would all change if it were fat management asses strapped into these things, rather than him.

He trudged toward the office with the mail sack over his shoulder. As he kicked the door closed behind him, Jack appeared, holding a steaming tin mug of jet-black coffee.

“You beat the storm,” he said, handing over the mug.

“It’s a nasty one, won’t be going back until it passes.”

“Yea, got to talk to you about that,” said Jack, taking a sip of his own coffee.

“There is no way I’m flying back to San Fran through that,” said Hobson, knowing damn well that was just what Jack was about to ask.

“I don’t want you to go back, I need you to go on,” said Jack.

“I’ve a package in the back that has to get to Chicago, before tomorrow.”

“What’s so important that it can’t wait a few hours until the Chicago guys get here?”

“No idea. All I know is that the order came straight from the Whitehouse, and she won’t tell me another thing about it,” Jack said.

“She?”

“Yea, she,” said Jack, pointing to the back office with a frown. Standing in the door was a woman with flaming red hair and a black case manacled to her wrist.

“Evening Ma’am,” said Hobson, half rising from his chair.

She gave him a stony look and said, “Are we ready to leave, Captain? Time is of the essence.”

Hobson settled back in his chair, and sipped his coffee. If it was really that important, they wouldn’t have sent a woman in the first place. “You can just take it easy there, Missy. We won’t be going anywhere tonight. Not in the weather that’s coming.”

“You don’t understand, Captain. My instructions come from the very highest authority, from President Coolidge himself,” she said raising the case slightly, making the chain clink as it moved.

“Well, I don’t work for Coolidge. In fact, I didn’t even vote for the man,” he said, sitting up straight in his chair and glaring at the pretty lady.

She glared for a long moment before saying, “Can I talk to you outside for a moment, Captain? Alone.”

“Sure,” he said, following her swishing skirts. Once the door closed, she turned toward him, her face was ghostly in the dim light of the office window.

“What I’m about to tell you, Captain, is a matter of national security. In this case are the details of an assignation attempt, on the life of Price Hirohito of Japan. This will have dire consequences for our country so we must notify the Japanese authorities. There is a transmitter in Pittsburgh and that’s where I have to go. If I fail, a war may be triggered. Do you want to be responsible for that?”  

“No of course not,” he said, shocked.

“Excellent! Ready the plane, we leave in fifteen minutes, “ she said, striding into the office, closing the door behind her, leaving him standing in the cold.

***

Fifteen minutes later, the biplane was ticking over on the runway when a slight figure appeared in the gloom. She was wearing a flying suit far too big for her and clutched the case to her chest. Once she was settled in, Hobson gave the thumbs up to the ground crew, and the blocks were whipped away. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he raced the engine and pushed the tiny plane into a forbidding sky, and this one was completely dark.

It wasn’t long before the storm caught up with them. The gusts slammed them from all sides. They were thrown around the sky like a scrap of paper. Lightning bloomed while he fought to keep them on course, but they were soon lost. All he knew for sure was they were headed east.

When the engine spluttered and died for a moment, he knew they were in big trouble. He pumped the fuel and the engine roared again. He knew they had to get down and get down quickly. The woman in front turned around, her eyes were huge and terrified.

“What’s happening?” she shouted over the roar of the wind.

“We’ve got to land, the engine is going to die,” he shouted, noticing for the first time that she wasn’t wearing a parachute.  

“Where is your chute?” he asked.

“Jake didn’t have one,” she cried, clutching the black case to her chest and sinking lower into the seat.

“Bloody Hell! You better hold on so,” he said, trying to control the plane, as the engine stalled once more. When they fell through the bottom of the clouds, Hobson spotted a huge flat area of white, about ten miles directly ahead. It had to be a lake, and with any luck a frozen one.

“There is a God,” he mumbled, as he aimed for it. Lower and lower they sank, until the trees were skimming the undercarriage. They were only just feet above the surface of the lake when he saw what looked like thousands of tiny mountains, dotted across the top of the ice. He pulled back hard on the stick and pushed the throttle all the way open. The woman in front of him screamed and gripped the side of the plane with vice like fingers.

As they rose high into the sky, she shouted, “Why didn’t you land?”

“That ice has broken, and refrozen in shards, it would have sliced us to ribbons. You’ll have to jump,” he said, unclasping his parachute and tossing it into the woman’s lap.

“I can’t,” she cried.

“You can and you will. Get a grip of yourself woman,” he shouted, leaning forward to prise her fingers from the side of the cockpit. He told her how to get into the straps, and how to pull the rip cord, as she fumbled around in the seat in front of him. All the time he urged the plane higher and higher into the sky, making sure the chute would have enough time to open. The woman had just secured the last clasp when the engine coughed fatally. He reached inside his flight suit, drawing out the engineer’s son’s parcel and stuffed it down the woman’s collar.

“What was that,” she screamed as he struggled get the dying engine to fire.

“A last delivery,” he said, and with a flick of the joystick, he rolled the plane upside down, dumping the woman out of her seat. All he could do now was pray she pulled the ripcord.

He franticly searched for a place to land but knew already it was useless. Once more he aimed for the frozen lake, this time he couldn’t escape the razor-sharp teeth of ice. He prayed it wouldn’t hurt too much when they ripped through flesh, bone and steel with ease.

The end.

Christopher's Room

Recently, Christopher had been waking up in the middle of the night. The house was quiet, and Christopher didn't like being alone, so each time, he slipped out of bed and padded across the hall to where his parents slept.

Three nights he had woken his Mommy, so he could climb into her bed. On Sunday, Grandpa Joe came for his lunch and Christopher told him how nice it had been sleeping in his parent’s bedroom.

"I'm sure it was nice," said Grandpa Joe, "but you're missing out on all the adventures by sleeping in a grown-up's room."

"What adventures?" asked Christopher, knowing Grandpa Joe was full of fun stuff to know. Grandpa Joe looked around, to make sure there were no other grown-ups listening, then he whispered in Christopher's ear a great secret.

"Little boy's rooms are magic, you see," said Grandpa Joe with a twinkle in his eye. "Things can happen there that can't happen anywhere else in the world."

"You're messing with me, Grandpa Joe," said Christopher, with a smile.

"No, it’s true! Cross my heart," said Grandpa Joe, making the sign of a cross over his chest. Christopher knew he had to be telling the truth.

"What kind of magic?" asked Christopher?

"Dreams, Christopher. Magic dreams, leading to great adventures," said Grandpa Joe.

"Mommy said dreams aren't real," said Christopher.

"She is right, most are just pictures in your head, especially the scary ones. But once or twice in a little boy's life, a special dream comes along which allows you have the most amazing adventures. One night when I was a boy, I was whisked away on a rocket ship and flew across the sky in a great 'Whoosh'. The Space Captain let me fly the rocket and we went round the moon three times, before chasing some space monkeys that were up to no good. When I woke up in the morning, I remembered everything, it just had to be real," said Grandpa Joe with a happy smile on his face.

"Do you think I might have a magic dream one day," asked Christopher, giddy with excitement.

"Absolutely, if you’re asleep in a little boys bedroom. If you are sleeping with grown-ups the dream looses its magic."

***

That night, Christopher could not wait to go to bed. He woke in the dark and thought about going to his parents, but didn't want to miss his magic dream, so he closed his eyes and soon drifted off to sleep again. He did that every night until Sunday, when Grandpa Joe came for lunch.

"I stayed in my bed every night Grandpa Joe, but I only had normal dreams, no magic ones," said Christopher, when nobody else could hear.

"You never know when they'll come, you just have to stay ready," said Grandpa Joe, with a wink.

***

Christopher stayed in his bed every night for the next week and it was nearly time for Grandpa Joe to come visit again when it happened.

In the middle of the night, Christopher felt someone shaking him awake. When he opened his eyes there was a Fire Chief standing right beside his bed, dressed in a fireman's jacket and helmet. Sitting beside him was a dog, wearing a coat that said "Fire Hound" across the back.

"Hello Christopher," said the Fire Chief, with a huge smile. "We needed a little help and knew you were just the man to go looking for."

"Me?" asked Christopher, rubbing his eyes.

"Yep, you. Time is getting away from us, you'd better get dressed," said the happy Fire Chief pointing to the end of the bed. Christopher could not believe his eyes when he saw a fireman's uniform and helmet, in just his size.

Once Christopher was dressed, the Fire Chief, Fire Hound and himself rushed into the hall. Where the front door should have been, was a silver fireman's pole.

"No time to lose," said the Fire Chief, wrapping his arms and legs around the pole and sliding down out of sight. The fire hound did just the same thing, except using his paws not his hands. Christopher wrapped his arms around the pole and with a 'Wheeee' he slid down the shiny pole. At the bottom was the biggest, reddest, fire-engine Christopher had ever seen.

"Come on Christopher," waved the Fire Chief from the driver’s seat. "We need someone to do the bell!"

Christopher jumped into the fire truck and rang the bell as hard as he could while the red fire-engine zoomed through towns and villages. In the end they came to a big hay barn that was on fire. The chief gave Christopher a water hose, and the two of them sprayed water all over the flames until they were gone out. Christopher even put up the big ladder and sprayed water all over the roof.

When the fire was out, Christopher was very very tired, but very very happy. The Fire Chief patted him on the back and said, "We couldn't have done it without you." Christopher was the proudest boy on the planet at that moment. The Fire Chief looked at his watch and said, "Goodness gracious, we had better get you back home, it'll be morning soon."

As they speed back through all the towns, Christopher rang the bell to warn everyone they were coming. Soon, he was back in his own room, and out of his fire uniform. Christopher was so sleepy, he didn't even remember the Fire Chief, or Fire Hound, saying goodbye.

***

In the morning, the sun coming in Christopher's window, woke him up. He rubbed his eyes and remembered the dream from the night before. I had been a great adventure, just like Grandpa Joe had said it would be, but Christopher knew it had just been a dream. 

Christopher threw back the covers and got out of bed. That was when he tripped over something lying on the floor. Christopher could not believe his eyes when he saw his own fire uniform and helmet, still lying where he had taken them off last night. It must be true! It had been a magic dream after all!

"MOM!!! DAD!!!" cried Christopher, as he ran to show them his magic uniform.

The Rick

In anyone's book, today will be marked down as a glorious day. The sky was blue from horizon to horizon, with an odd fluffy cloud bobbing along on the gentle breeze. The sun was warm, but not too warm, an ideal day for getting a bit done according to many of my customers. That must be why so many of them were nowhere to been seen. With little else to do, I plonked myself on a barrel out side the door, to soak up some of the sunshine.

I don't notice the roar of farm machinery passing up and down the road anymore, living in the country makes you immune to those kinds of sounds.  But having nothing to do, must have oiled the gears of my memory, as I noticed a huge John Deer tractor round the bend in the road, pulling behind it a machine that either made round hay bales, or launched missiles into space. By the look if the yoke, it was capable of either.  The teen behind the wheel, was bouncing around on his air-cushioned, ergonomically formed, drivers seat, cocooned from the noise and dust, inside the air conditioned cab of the monster. I doubt you would see much change out of a hundred thousand euro, for the two of them.As I watched the massive, and massively expensive, piece of machinery vanish into the distance, it made me think of my youth spent working on farms.

In my teens, the places I worked had tractors too. Most of them were open-wheeled and cab-less. The closest we got to air cushioned seats was when the wind blew from behind. Back then the work was sure to make your hands hard and your heart soft. Every job seemed to take an army to complete, and there was never a shortage of helpers. If the sun was shining, you'd never find a child indoors. The only possible reason for such an un-natural occurrence was dire illness. Those were great days, but not the greatest. My greatest ever farming memory took place long before then, in a time when I'm sure I was more hindrance than help, in the stony fields of Galway. That golden memory is of the day I made a Rick with Willy Rabbit.

In Galway, in the early seventies, most of the work was done by hand. The small uneven fields lent themselves to this way of toil. The hay was cut by scythe, and left lie where it fell, to dry. After a few days, the hay had to be turned, again by hand. I remember going over the fields with Willy, my short handled pitch fork over my six year old shoulder, proud to be doing a man's work. I so wanted to keep up with Willy but that was an impossible task. I was sore and tired when Mrs Rabbit appeared in the field with a basket. She laid out ham sandwiches, lumps of apple tart, on a cloth spread over the ground. What fascinated me most was what she produced next. Glass Lucozade bottles with milky, sweetened, tea inside, each wrapped in several layers of newspaper. I can still taste that tea hitting my tongue and it will go with me to the great beyond as one of my most exquisite meals.

A few days later, Willy came calling to see if I was free to help with the Rick. He said the word as if it were spelled Reek, and I had no idea what he was talking about. Armed with my shortened pitch fork, we headed for his field. I watched in amazement as Willy began laying out a huge nest of hay carefully on the ground. My job was to fetch him fork fulls of hay and deliver them to the growing nest. Round and round Willy worked, rising higher into the sky, on the ever increasing bundle of carefully arranged grass. Willy made sure that all the fronds were pointing out and down from the center of the Hay Rick, so the water would run off he explained. When Willies feet were higher than my little fork could reach, he slid down from the top and began the crowning of the reek. Rounding out the top with woven bundles of grass, each adjusted until Willy was completely satisfied. When the job was done, he threw a potato sack over the top of the whole thing and tied heavy rocks to the four corners. That day we only made four or five Hay Ricks, but to my six year old mind they were endless, and looked like a silent army of hairy giants, sleeping in the evening sunshine.

As I watched that young man speed away in his high-tec tractor, I wondered if he represented progress for farming with one hand, and the death of community with the other? No longer did neighbors gather together to bring in the harvest, or rejoice in a job well done. Farming is a business now, not a way of life, and sadder because of that fact. I remembered Willy and his good humored patience with a very young me, all those years ago and wondered when I had last seen an actual Hay Rick in Ireland. Plastic wrapped giant circles might be efficient, but to me, farming is being able to crown a Rick.

Old Rusty

When she was young, a day lasted a year, a year lasted forever. But now, the years seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye. It felt like yesterday when she accepted John's invitation to the prom.

That night had sparked a relationship to last a lifetime, not that her mother approved. When John was leaving for college, he persuaded her to come with him. Her parents lost their minds! That last night was branded in her memory, forever. Her Dad stomped around the kitchen while her mother stood at her bedroom door, screaming. She closed her ears as best she could, as she threw clothes into a bag.

"He's going to ruin your life. You're giving up the chance of going to college yourself, for what? A teenage crush? You're a fool, Becky, and that boy knows it!" her mother screamed, spit flying from her lips. The words stung because she'd worried about the same things herself. But her Mothers’ scorn only steeled her resolve. She stuffed the last of her belongings in her case and ripped the zipper closed. She ran downstairs with tears in her eyes, slamming the front door behind her. John was waiting in an antiquated Dodge Charger, which had bald tyres and a rattling muffler.

"Are you alright, babe?" he asked, as she hurled herself inside.

"Let’s get out of here," she sniffled, feeling very sorry for herself. What had she done to deserve a mother like that? The powerful car leapt forward into a new life.

The first months in Boston were a whirlwind of parties, romantic nights in, and trendy student clubs. When John's first round of exams arrived, all that changed. He barely managed a passing grade and realised that doing well in college was going to take a lot more work. That and the fact their money was running out put a halt to their gallop. They nearly packed it all in but pride kept them going. She got a job in a dinner and John hit the books. Despite her Mother’s misgivings, he was not taking her for a fool. He kept his end of the bargain and studied hard. At the end of four years, he qualified as an actuary.

His first year out of college was a year dominated by turmoil, surprises, and life-changing decisions. The biggest was all three rolled into one. Becky was pregnant. John was stunned at first, reassuring in the hours after that, quiet for a week, and finally delighted. In her darkest moments, she imagined him running from her as quick as he could, but it never happened. He stayed true, and the day he slipped a wedding ring on her finger, her mother had to swallow her words.

That was years ago, twenty to be exactly, and today was their anniversary. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, twirling slowly, admiring the way the black dress lay on her. Not bad, for forty-five years on the planet and better considering she’d provided two of its inhabitants.

"MOM!"

Speak of the devil she thought. "Yes, Josh," she yelled.

"Mom, where's my blue shirt?" he yelled, up the stairs.

"It's in the laundry hamper," she said, twirling once more. She heard Josh walk away from the bottom of the stairs only to start shouting again a few seconds later.

"Jes, Mom, it's not washed!"

"Wear a different one," she said.

"I want that one, not another one!"

"That's just tough, Josh. You'll have to make do. I'm going out with your father," she said, spraying a mist of perfume in the air, and walking through it.

"It's not fair, Goddamn it!"

"Mind your language, young man!" The only answer she got was a slamming door. She loved her kids, but some days she'd gladly strangle them. At least Josh talked, she was lucky if she got a grunt out of Samantha. Sam, was content to stare into nothingness, with unblinking eyes, caked in pounds of jet-black mascara. It was frankly, unnerving.

She picked up a pair of six-inch stilettos by the straps, and padded her way down the stairs, before mixing a vodka and tonic and settling on the couch. She'd nearly finished her second drink when the front door opened.

"Sorry I'm late Becks, give me five minutes," he said, dashing up the stairs. She heard the shower start and considered topping up her drink. In the corner of the room, a door creaked open, and a black-ringed eye regarded her through the crack.

"Hi, Sam. What’s the dealieo, kido?" she asked. In the crack, the eye blinked, and a second later, the door squeaked closed. "Nice catting," she said, throwing back the last of her drink and laying aside the heavy bottomed tumbler. She was looking at the bottle of Nordic Ice Vodka, with weakening will, when John came down the stairs.

"Ready to go, babe?" he said, grabbing his sports coat from the rack behind the door. Becky picked her wrap from the couch when he said, "You’re looking fantastic, Babe. We'd better get going or we'll lose our table."

She didn't have to turn around to know he’d said the words without looking in her direction. She felt a twinge of something, a feeling she couldn't quiet put her finger on. It passed in an instant and she followed him out, pulling the front door closed behind her.

***

Dinner was fine, the whole evening was fine, it went exactly as she’d expected it to go. They ate at Gino's, their special restaurant, even stretching to a bottle of bubbly to mark the day. When they got home, all the lights were out and the kids were asleep. She showered and took off her makeup, while John put out the trash. She felt him slip into bed and cuddle into her. She wanted to ask him if he would do it all again, now that they'd been together for twenty years, but before she could, he began to snore.

She couldn't sleep, just lay there, worrying about nothing in particular, just worrying. What had she to worry about? Her kids were healthy, she had money; life was fine. The thing that bothered her was the last word…fine. Is fine enough? Eventually, tiredness got the better of her brain and sleep came.

When she woke, she'd forgotten completely about the word…fine. She threw back the covers and got on with her day. She prepared breakfast, woke the kids, having to call Josh three times before he got out of bed. She loaded the washing machine, picked up the newspaper then finally got herself a coffee. John was the first to the table. He flipped open the paper and munched French toast. She poured him a coffee, strong, just the way he like it. Sam slinked into the kitchen, followed by a bedraggled Josh. The kids devoured all in front of them and vanished as quickly as they arrived. John finished his coffee, folded the paper under his arm, and kissed Becky on the head as he stood to go. He stopped by the breakfast counter and fished a dry-cleaning ticket from his pocket.

"Could you pick this up for me Becks?"

"Sure," she said, taking the ticket from his fingers.

"Thanks sweetheart, see you tonight," he said, and with that, she was alone.

The house was quiet. She looked at the dirty dishes and sipped her coffee. If she wanted, she could go back to bed and stay in it all day. Who would know?  She guessed she would know, and feel guilty, so she didn't. Instead, she scrapped the dishes, put them in the dish washer, wiped down the table, swept the floor, all before taking a shower. In the afternoon, she endured day-time TV while doing the ironing but it was total rubbish. She needed to get out of the house, to meet some real people. She jotted down a quick grocery list, and grabbed John's dry-cleaning stub, then left.

She was about ten minutes from the mall when she realised something was wrong with the car. It felt heavy and was making a terrible racket. As if by design, a ragged looking used car lot appeared, so she pulled in. She got out and walked around the car. The back wheel was as flat as a pancake.

"Great! That's all I need," she said. The lot was deserted but she could hear a radio playing in the depths of a corrugated iron shed. She followed the music and found a set of legs sticking out from under an old silver BMW.

"Hello," she said, and the legs gave a little jerk of surprise. A tall man, in his fifties, wiggled out from under the car. He looked annoyed at being disturbed.

"Are you okay, lady?" he asked, wiping his filthy hands on equally filthy overalls.

"No, I'm not okay. My car broke down and I need someone to look at it, please," she said, pointing towards her nearly new Ford. It was by far the youngest car standing on the forecourt.

"Alright, let’s take a look," he mumbled and walked towards the car. He went to release the hood but Becky stopped him.

"It's the tyre," she said, pointing toward the back of the car. His eyebrows marched high across his forehead until they nearly vanished into his mop of unruly hair.

"Lady, are you saying you got a flat?"

"Yes exactly," she said, beginning to wonder if this guy was a mechanic at all. His expression was stalled someplace between disbelief and amusement.

"Then change it, Lady," he said.

"I can't change a tyre," she said, placing her hand on her hips in frustration at the stupidity of the man.

"Why not? You disabled or something?" he asked. Now he was being down-right insulting. She was sure you’re not allowed to use the word, disabled, any more. Shouldn't it be physically challenged or some-such. This guy was getting on her wick but she needed him to fix the car.

"I don't know how. Can't you do it. I'll pay you," she said, trying to hide her annoyance, and failing.

"That shit really grinds my gears. If you can't look after your car, you shouldn't be driving," he said, turning to walk away.

"Please," Becky said to his back, and the man stopped. He seemed to think for a moment and then turned back to the car.

"I'll tell you what, lady. I'll show you what to do, but you're going to change the tyre yourself."

"I won't be able to," she said, aghast.

"Sure you will. Pop the trunk and let’s get started." He showed her where the spare was kept, the nut iron and the jack. Then he showed her how to pop off the hubcap, how to loosen the nuts, where to put up the jack, how to make sure the car was in gear and safe. Before she knew it, she was winding the jack and watching the tyre lift off the ground. She was actually having the time of her life. She was really doing it; she was changing a tyre. Stan, that was his name, offered to lift the spare but she waved him away. She was going to change the Goddamn tyre if it killed her. She hauled the spare, got it on the hub, tightened the nuts, lowered the jack and the job was done. She stood back and looked at her car, sitting on four perfect tyres, and she’d done it all by herself.

"Told you, you could do it," said Stan, smiling and walking back towards the shed. Inside, Becky was glowing, it was stupid, but she couldn't help herself. How could changing a flat have made her feel so good? She rummaged in her purse and found a twenty, then followed Stan inside. She tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned around, she pressed the bill into his hand.

"Thanks Stan, you're great."

He looked at the bill and quickly tried to pass it back. "There is no need, Lady."

"The name’s, Becky, and a good teacher deserves his wage. Would you have somewhere I can wash up," she asked holding up her black hands. The twenty vanished into his overalls and Stan smiled his first genuine smile since she’d met him. He pointed to a door and winked.

"Staff facilities are that-a way."

Becky skipped toward the door and noticed something lurking in the gloom. It was like a huge dull eye, peeking out from under a tarpaulin.  She moved closer and soon realised it was a large headlight. She pushed back the tarp and revealed a very unloved motorbike, but there was something about it that was beautiful. Perhaps it was the lines, or the way time had taken its toll, or the way the huge single light seemed to look at her. Whatever it was, desire washed over her. It was like being baptised in a font of yearning. She tore herself away long enough to wash her hands but couldn’t help looking enchantedly at the rusting motorbike. She said her good-bye's to Stan and went about her business.

She was still on a high from her personal triumph when she called John, and the kids, down for dinner that evening. She was bursting to tell them her news, but every time she thought the moment was right, the conversation took a different turn. By the time ice cream was on the table, she couldn't wait any longer. "I got a flat tyre today and I changed it myself."

Once the words were out, they seemed a little childish in her ears. John looked at her and said, "Why didn't you call the service, they'd have done it?"

"That would have taken ages, and as it happened, I broke down right outside a garage."

"So, you mean the garage fixed it?" he said, shovelling ice cream into his face. The kids had lost all interest and left the table.

"No. I fixed it; the garage guy just showed me what to do."

"You mean he helped you," he said, sounding like he was getting the truth out of a five-year-old.

"NO! I said, I did it!" she said angrily.

"Okay, okay. Keep your hair on," he said, getting up from the table. He dropped his dish on the worktop, above the dish washer, then went into the sitting room. She looked at the dish and wondered, would it have killed him to stack it in the dish washer?

***

The next day started just like every other. She fed John and the kids, got them all they needed for their days, and once they were gone, she started the ironing. She flicked on the TV, to fill the silence, and worked the stack down from a mountain to a pile. It was a sunny morning, and this seemed such a waste. She unplugged the iron, grabbed her keys, and headed out. She backed out onto the street, on the tyre she had changed, and took off toward the city.

This time, when she pulled into the weed-strewn car lot, Stan was sitting on a totalled Mustang, smoking."

"Hay, lady. What you busted now?" he asked, taking a drag before flicking the butt away.

"I wanted to ask you about that bike you got."

"I sell cars, lady, not bikes," he said, shaking his head as if talking to a toddler.

"What about the bike in the back," she said pointing to the back of the garage. Stan looked confused but realisation washed over his face.

"Oh, the old Shovel-Head, what about it."

"Want to sell it?"

He folded his arms over his chest and regarded Becky as if he was missing the punchline to the joke. "Why would you want a pile of junk like that?"

"Why would you?" she countered.

"Actually, I was going to do it up, just never got the time," he said, leaning back on the Mustang and lighting another butt.

"So how much do you want for it?"

He scratched his head and looked at Becky like she was mad, "Fully restored, she might make eight, even ten thousand, but like it is…she's worthless."

"Stan, you're the worst salesman in the world. What would you say to a thousand dollars?"

"I'd say the old rust bucket is yours."

"Old, Rust Bucket, I like it. It's a deal, but I have two conditions," she said, holding out her hand.

Stan kept his hands to himself, "Conditions?"

"I want to restore the bike and I want to do it here. That is condition one. Condition two is that I want to hire you to show me what to do." Becky waited patiently as Stan mulled over what she’d said.

"It will take time, and money," he said, eventually.

  

"I have plenty of both. Do we have a deal?" she asked, still holding her hand out.

Stan got to his feet and looked at her hand, but didn’t take it.  "I'll tell you what to do, but you do the work?"

"I'd have it no other way," she said.

"Deal," he said, shaking her hand and giving her a smile.

As Stan pumped her hand, she asked, "Why do you call it a Shovel Head?"

"It's to do with the engine. Ah, you wouldn't understand," he said, joshing with her.

"You really piss me off, Stan. Anyone ever tell you that?" she asked.

"Yes, actually. More than one," he said, laughing and walking into the dark interior of the garage.

That night, while she was preparing dinner, thought about telling John what she’d done except she knew he would say she was stupid for spending a thousand dollars on rubbish. She decided the this should be her project and hers alone. It was a strange feeling, having something just for her, for once.

***

She stripped the 1969 Shovel Head, back to the bare bones in the months that followed. The engine was goosed so she ordered a new one and sanded the frame down to bare metal. Every step of the process was overseen by Stan, but all the work was done by her.

By Christmas, the filled and primed frame was sitting in a power coating jig, waiting to be cooked on the same night she kept a careful eye on the turkey cooking in her own oven.

When the fourteenth of February arrived, she was in the midst of rewiring, Old Rusty, as she’d christened it. John was becoming increasingly aware of the changes in her behaviour and had been asking a lot of questions. She had thought of telling him what she was doing, but no; it was her secret, not his. On Valentines, he'd booked a table at Gino's, but this time he was the one left waiting on the couch. She lost track of time at the garage and it was only when Stan said he was locking up did she realise how late she was running.

She rushed in the front door, saying, “Sorry, give me five minutes.”

He bounced up from the couch, and asked, "Where have you been?"

"Five minutes," she said again, and raced up the stairs, pretending she hadn’t seen the half angry, half worried look on his face.

It took her a bit longer than five minutes to get ready, but not a whole lot longer. She came back down a stylish blouse, jeans and brown leather boots. John looked at her, and asked, "Are you wearing that?"

Becky looked down in confusion, then back at her husband, "Why, what's wrong with it?"

"It's Valentines!"

"So?" she said.

“Are you not dressing up?”

“No, actually, I’m not. I like what I’m wearing and its comfortable.”

“But everyone dresses for Valentines?”

“Well, bully for them,” she said taking the keys out of his hand. “Come on, let’s go or we'll miss our table. I'll drive." She walked out, leaving John to lock up the house.

***

By April, she was ready to fit the new engine. At the same time, things at home were changing. More often, John was finding that he was making his own coffee in the morning. Josh only got one call, and if he didn't get up, he was late. Sam was the first to suggest to her face that something was going-on. One Saturday, she was sitting alone with Becky when she said something. At first Becky thought she was hearing things so she asked, “What was that?”

“You’re not you anymore,” she said quietly.

“How do you mean?” asked Becky, but she knew what Sam was talking about. She didn’t feel like her anymore either. She was Becky2.0; new and improved.

“You’re more…sparky. It’s like you’re…” Sam drifted off into silence.

“Like I’m what?” Sam wouldn’t answered, she simply drew deeper inside her shell, which worried Becky. She thought about telling her about Old Rusty, but she wasn’t ready to share him yet, not with anyone.

***

June saw a new tank go on, and custom rims. Day by day, she needed less of Stan's help and grew more confident of her own skills. The road she was on was her road, not their road. With all the heavy work done, she packed Old Rusty off to the paint shop, and waited. When it came back, she cried, truly cried, at the beauty she’d made. The day she poured gas in the tank, and stomped on the starter, was right up there with the first cries of her children.

***

Sam was hanging out in the mall with her friends when her mobile beeped. It was a text from her Mother.

'Sam, come to the main entrance, I need you for a minute. Mom.' 

She rolled her eyes and showed her friends the screen. Not one of them suggested ignoring the message, after all, they might be rebels, but they still needed a lift home later. The small group of pale, over-made-up girls, trudged toward the main doors. Once outside, Sam searched for her Mother’s car but there was no sign of her. Then, a gleaming motorbike, rumbled up to the kerb, causing everyone to take a second look.

Sam was about to go back inside when she heard her Mother’s voice calling over the thunderous rumble of the biker’s engine. She turned but there was still no sign of her Mom. The biker kicked out the stand and leaned the still running bike to one side. When the helmet came off, the biker shook out a long mane of golden hair. That was when Sam recognised Becky.

“Mom?” It was half a question, half an expression of astonishment.

“The one and only,” she teased while sitting back on the rumbling machine she had built.

“Where did you get that?” she said, pointing at the Harley.

“You like him?”

“Hell yea!! Shit, sorry…yea,” she corrected herself and her mother actually laughed at her.

“This bike is a hell yea kind of bike, and don’t you ever forget it!” she laughed.

“Who are you and what have you done with my Mother?” Sam joked back, and for once she didn’t feel stifled by the woman who had brought her into the world. She looked at that leather clad, happy woman, and wanted to be her. In her mind she asked the question again; Who are you?

"Want to go for a ride?" Becky said, tossing a helmet to her. She grabbed it and looked at her friends. Envy radiated off them all, even through pounds of foundation.

“See yea!” said Sam, as she jogged over to the bike and slipped on the helmet. As they roared away, Sam wrapped her arms around her Mother;s waist and never felt so safe.

***

Later that evening, John arrived home to find the house very quiet. Josh was playing video games in the living room.

"Where's your Mom?" he asked.

"Don't know."

"Sam?"

"Don't know," repeated Josh, not looking up from his video game. John frowned and walked to the kitchen. The oven was cold and empty. Then he looked in the fridge. No hints there either. That was when he noticed a small envelope sitting on the table. He ripped it open and pulled out the note.

Gone to Burning Man, with Sam. Don't wait up!

X x x – Becky.

PS,              I still love you.

PPS,            Feed the other one!