Saturday Sample: A Bolt from the Blue by Mark Winson

 

A cup of unstirred tea that only presents the sugar

to the tongue with the last mouthful

 

It was a strange day. There was a grating silence hanging in the air. There were few birds singing, few conversations of passers-by that I could gate crash and less than the usual stampede of traffic rumbling down the high street. Most notable was the stillness that settled over the school playground, a clamour I ordinarily enjoyed; the chatter and giggling of children are to me, so representative of the continuation of life. The sunshine, the glorious sunshine that had dominated so much of that

summer, was also absent, as if God had flicked a simple switch. My face felt abandoned, condemned to defending itself from the sharp wind that brought about the change in the weather. Perhaps there had been something more, on that noteworthy day, that I should have been aware of.

 

Needs must, however. I had drained the house of milk, blitzed out the bread bin and was suffering an oral withdrawal after eating too many dry crackers. Dry, I say dry, but they had turned, were slightly damp, so I had to venture out. It would at least break the silence, not that my silence inconvenienced anyone, living alone on my meagre income was hardly going to open sunflowers. I had learned to cope however, made mistakes along the way, as we all do, but there was a subtle difference between wanting to and having to. The doctor had told me that!

 

So, I donned my overcoat. I feel the cold much more these days and wear it more than often. I’ve taken to sitting in it, to listen to The Archers, rather than putting the heating on. Then, I took up my not so macho shopping bag, which was the wife’s, bless her, and fully equipped, I left. I tried to walk with a defiant step, something I’d learned that relieved my trepidation and hesitation. Shoppers with swinging bags and drag-along children are normally the only waves that fail to part in front of me, but I was far more confused when there were none. An ever doubting mind you see, a propensity for reflecting on the downside of my existence, and a tendency to ask myself taxing questions all the time. I did on that day. Was it that people were avoiding me? Maybe the case had I not washed for a week, but I’m always fastidious with my personal hygiene and always indulge in a drift of aftershave.

 

I did well to dodge the abrupt parking bollards and spewing litter bins, which were more than testing, but getting across the road was like negotiating my life away. Screaming cars, articulated lorries, silent but deadly push bikes are bad enough, but I also had to contend with the state of the road surface. What do they do all day long, in those bleeding council offices? Most likely they are engrossed in that Facebook thing, playing games and talking to fellow anoraks. They even twitter, according to my nephew, as if they’re all birding freaks or something. I ride over the ruts in smooth roads when out of town, but I’m at far more risk of falling down those cut into an urban street. It’s then I wobble like jelly, scrabbling to right myself just in time to avoid yet another skidding car with all the tread of a fried egg in a well-greased pan.

 

I walked past the arcade, listening to the pinging pinball machines and jingling of coins falling over the waterfalls, past the last remaining record shop, one

that persists in playing music that you’re supposed to listen to in your garage! I stopped just outside Mothercare, somewhere I think all babies dislike judging by the bawling coming from inside and turned to stand at the curbs edge. Hesitating,

assessing the odds in crossing the street, I suddenly felt a splash from God’s watering can. I cursed him under my breath. I have my doubts about religion

and would like to know just how God can be held so reverently, what with all the bad in the world. There was twice the urgency if I wanted to stay dry. So, prompted by my chiding mind if nothing else, I quickly stepped out into the oceanic expanse of tarmac, leaving behind the security of its coastline, with no more focus than getting across the channel.

 

It was then that it happened. I’d been so preoccupied; I’d paid little heed to the rumbling overhead and failed to realise or recognise what was coming. I always listen to the news of a morning but have an unerring habit to switch the radio off before the weather report.

 

You don’t hear lightening, you have little warning that it’s coming, only a heavenly notification that it’s been and gone as the furniture overhead is dragged

across the sky. Then wallop! This bolt from what must have been a power-station in the clouds hit me, pummelling me into what became scorched tarmac! It

rifled up through my body, from the ground beneath my feet until the hair on the back of my neck stood like that of a cat’s angry back. I felt myself go rigid,

statuesque and hard; any chill of the day being blown away in a millisecond. There was a distinct smell of dry burning and a crackling closing over the vacuum left in the air as all the oxygen was consumed. Probably being the only reason why I hadn’t burst into flames. I could feel the blood in my veins beginning to boil, taste a hit of what seemed to be barbecue sauce, infused into my tongue. I yelled,

believe me you would! I don’t think I swore, least not as this generation seem to, but something leapt from my screaming mouth all the same. Then all was dark,

all was silent.

 

I don’t remember much more at that point, I had no inkling of how long I been away with the fairies, it was just, well, black. They say your life is supposed

to flash before your eyes, not that it did in my case, but neither did it occur to me that I’d been deprived of a promised liaison with St Peter, and had never stood before the gold wrought iron of heaven’s gates. I could have lost days, I could have lost weeks, things might well have accelerated to the point of memissing several episodes of The Archers.

 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I opened my eyes. The shock was more than palpable, as stood in front of me was Jesus Christ, nestling on a fluffy white cloud formation, in a long blue robe that rolled comfortably over his relaxed arms, folded to allow his hands to come together in prayer. A legion of angels had glided over him, with the faces of innocent babies and the wings of mighty eagles

outstretched illustriously. Dainty birds with gloriously coloured coats, either heaven bound or in ghostly flight, swooped and played across the orange of the sky as they were welcomed by him. His smile was gentle, a forgiving smile to those that needed forgiving, and that could well have included me.

 

The vista in front of me was inspiring, inspiriting and yet in its own way, reassuring. It certainly wasn’t what I expected, believe you me. At first, I was

shocked, so shocked in witnessing what I was seeing that I felt sure it had to be a miracle. Had God put aside my perfidiousness, my dishonesty, that time I pinched a new band saw from work, that time I jabbed Richard Smith in the eye, I could go on. If asked I would never have admitted that I was unworthy, but then he is supposed to forgive you, isn’t he?

 

“I don’t believe it,” I said, “after all these years, after all this time,” I said. “I’m so sorry!” Frankly, it was surprising that this last-ditch confession was accepted and that the trapdoor to oblivion remained shut.

 

I was just about to kneel in front of Jesus and ask him for further directions, when suddenly, a panicked voice broke the serenity of the moment.

 

“He’s awake Vicar! He’s alive Vicar! but I think he thinks he’s dead, that he’s gone to heaven, he’s in a daze. You have to do something!” I could hear this lady’s

stampeding voice rattling round my head as I felt my stupor lighten and my feet finally touch down again. She sounded in some respects like the wife, always having her say, forcing her opinion, bless her, and then handing responsibility over to someone else. We survived as long as we did because I had the foresight to listen and then disregard much of what she said.

 

“Oh my, oh my Lord, how did he survive a strike like that? Just look at the state of him!” said a man more from somewhere behind my head, whose hands

were holding it steady. “It knocked the power out to the church and half of the town’s shops!” I was lying on my back you see, but then I’d hardly be standing

upright if what he was saying was true. In actual fact, I was lying exactly where a compassionate band of church goers had laid me, after rescuing my burnt

corpse from the middle of the charred road. How lucky that they were meeting on such a day, how lucky was I? They stood hopeful, crossing themselves over and over repeatedly, beseeching God not to take me before time, until eventually, thankfully, I opened my and managed to focus. I felt at first, as if I was in a hospital bed, with seven shades of junior Doctors angling over me, putting forward observations and coming to a bizarre diagnosis.

 

“We should never have brought him into the church, never have put him just here!” the Vicar said, chastising himself and looking up at the beautifully painted church ceiling. “He thinks he’s looking into heaven, thinks he’s meeting Jesus. You’re right, he thinks he must have passed away!” I don’t know whether it was the shock of the ceiling that I was looking at, or the crucifix hanging from the vicar’s neck!

 

It was then that I felt my mouth crack with an allowance for a broadening smile, or more likely a look of wonderment that had spread across my face, those looking down at me exhibiting much the same reaction. I was alive, I was more than alive, I was, well, repaired. I was no longer looking at Jesus and his cloud hopping minions, I’d focused on the vicar.

 

“No, you don’t understand,” I said. He wasn’t listening of course, not many people do when looking at someone of my age, they think that just because my bodies failing, my mind is too. His intentions were commendable all the same, Godly, saintly or whatever a man of the cloth strives to be.

 

“Lie still my son,” he said, “you’ve had a great shock!” Well, state the bleeding obvious he did, which didn’t help. “The ambulance is on its way,

don’t worry!” I looked directly into his eyes, the miraculous fresco above me didn’t matter anymore. I took hold of his arm, quickly, before he began preparing himself to give me the last rights.

 

“A shock it is, Vicar,” I said, “but not the shock you thought I’d had. You see, before I tried to cross the road and before I felt the heat burning up through my body… truth is…” I remember rubbing my eyes with the back of my hands at this point, as tears began to spill into tributaries running over my cheekbones. I smiled again, ready to make my announcement to the whole world and in the sight

of God. “Truth is… I was totally blind!”       

 

Find your copy here

About the author:

 

Frankly I don’t know how I came around to writing books. My teachers at school all said I could do better, although to be fair my English teacher Mrs Bullock extracted every last drop of mental substance from me, and fired up what has turned out to be a creative bent. Or is it that I’m just a daydreamer? Only in 2016 did I finally, after much persuasion from family and friends, take up writing more seriously and publish my first book. Since then, my style and genre evolved, until comfortably, I can now describe it as quirky fiction.                   

Saturday Sample: The Best of CafeLit 10, A Bolt from the Blue by Mark Winson, a cup of unstirred tea that only presents the sugar to the tongue with the last mouthful

 

It was a strange day. There was a grating silence hanging in the air. There were few birds singing, few conversations of passers-by that I could gate crash and less than the usual stampede of traffic rumbling down the high street. Most notable was the stillness that settled over the school playground, a clamour I ordinarily enjoyed; the chatter and giggling of children are to me, so representative of the continuation of life. The sunshine, the glorious sunshine that had dominated so much of that summer, was also absent, as if God had flicked a simple switch. My face felt abandoned, condemned to defending itself from the sharp wind that brought about the change in the weather. Perhaps there had been something more, on that noteworthy day,  that I should have been aware of.

Needs must, however. I had drained the house of milk, blitzed out the bread bin and was suffering an oral with-drawl after eating too many dry crackers. Dry, I say dry, but they had turned, were slightly damp, so I had to venture out. It would at least break the silence, not that my silence inconvenienced anyone, living alone on my meagre income was hardly going to open sunflowers. I had learned to cope however, made mistakes along the way, as we all do, but there was a subtle difference between wanting to and having to. The doctor had told me that!

So, I donned my overcoat. I feel the cold much more these days and wear it more than often. I’ve taken to sitting in it, to listen to The Archers, rather than putting the heating on. Then, I took up my not so macho shopping bag, which was the wife’s, bless her, and fully equipped I left. I tried to walk with a defiant step, something I’d learned that relieved my trepidation and hesitation. Shoppers with swinging bags and drag along children are normally the only waves that fail to part in front of me, but I was far more confused when there were none. An ever-doubting mind you see, a propensity for reflecting on the downside of my existence, and a tendency to ask myself taxing questions all the time. I did on that day. Was it that people were avoiding me? Maybe the case had I not washed for a week, but I’m always fastidious with my personal hygiene and always indulge in a drift of aftershave.

I did well to dodge the abrupt parking bollards and spewing litter bins, which were more than testing, but getting across the road was like negotiating my life away. Screaming cars, articulated lorries, silent but deadly push bikes are bad enough, but I also had to contend with the state of the road surface. What do they do all day long, in those bleeding council offices? Most likely they are engrossed in that Facebook thing, playing games and talking to fellow anoraks. They even twitter, according to my nephew, as if they’re all birding freaks or something. I ride over the ruts in smooth roads when out of town, but I’m at far more risk of falling down those cut into an urban street. It’s then I wobble like jelly, scrabbling to right myself just in time to avoid yet another skidding car with all the tread of a fried egg in a well-greased pan.

I walked past the arcade, listening to the pinging pinball machines and jingling of coins falling over the waterfalls, past the last remaining record shop, one that persists in playing music that you’re supposed to listen to in your garage! I stopped just outside Mothercare, somewhere I think all babies dislike judging by the bawling coming from inside and turned to stand at the curbs edge. Hesitating, assessing the odds in crossing the street, I suddenly felt a splash from God’s watering can. I cursed him under my breath. I have my doubts about religion and would like to know just how God can be held so reverently, what with all the bad in the world. There was twice the urgency if I wanted to stay dry. So, prompted by my chiding mind if nothing else, I quickly stepped out into the oceanic expanse of tarmac, leaving behind the security of its coastline, with no more focus than getting across the channel.

It was then that it happened. I’d been so preoccupied; I’d paid little heed to the rumbling overhead and failed to realise or recognise what was coming. I always listen to the news of a morning but have an unerring habit to switch the radio off before the weather report.

 You don’t hear lightening, you have little warning that it’s coming, only a heavenly notification that it’s been and gone as the furniture overhead is dragged across the sky. Then wallop! This bolt from what must have been a power-station in the clouds hit me, pummelling me into what became scorched tarmac! It rifled up through my body, from the ground beneath my feet until the hair on the back of my neck stood like that of a cat’s angry back. I felt myself go rigid, statuesque and hard; any chill of the day being blown away in a millisecond. There was a distinct smell of dry burning and a crackling closing over the vacuum left in the air as all the oxygen was consumed. Probably being the only reason why I hadn’t burst into flames. I could feel the blood in my veins beginning to boil, taste a hit of what seemed to be barbecue sauce, infused into my tongue. I yelled, believe me you would! I don’t think I swore, least not as this generation seem to, but something leapt from my screaming mouth all the same. Then all was dark, all was silent.

I don’t remember much more at that point, I had no inkling of how long I been away with the fairies, it was just, well, black. They say your life is supposed to flash before your eyes, not that it did in my case, but neither did it occur to me that I’d been deprived of a promised liaison with St Peter, and had never stood before the gold wrought iron of heaven’s gates. I could have lost days, I could have lost weeks, things might well have accelerated to the point of me missing several episodes of the “Archers”.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I opened my eyes. The shock was more than palpable, as stood in front of me was Jesus Christ, nestling on a fluffy white cloud formation, in a long blue robe that rolled comfortably over his relaxed arms, folded to allow his hands to come together in prayer. A legion of angels had glided over him, with the faces of innocent babies and the wings of mighty eagles outstretched illustriously. Dainty birds with gloriously coloured coats, either heaven bound or in ghostly flight, swooped and played across the orange of the sky as they were welcomed by him. His smile was gentle, a forgiving smile to those that needed forgiving, and that could well have included me.   

The vista in front of me was inspiring, inspiriting and yet in its own way, reassuring. It certainly wasn’t what I expected, believe you me. At first, I was shocked, so shocked in witnessing what I was seeing that I felt sure it had to be a miracle. Had God put aside my perfidiousness, my dishonesty, that time I pinched a new band saw from work, that time I jabbed Richard Smith in the eye, I could go on. If asked I would never have admitted that I was unworthy, but then he is supposed to forgive you, isn’t he?

“I don’t believe it,” I said, “after all these years, after all this time,” I said. “I’m so sorry!” Frankly, it was surprising that this last-ditch confession was accepted and that the trapdoor to oblivion remained shut.

I was just about to kneel in front of Jesus and ask him for further directions, when suddenly, a panicked voice broke the serenity of the moment.

“He’s awake Vicar! He’s alive Vicar! but I think he thinks he’s dead, that he’s gone to heaven, he’s in a daze. You have to do something!” I could hear this lady’s stampeding voice rattling round my head as I felt my stupor lighten and my feet finally touch down again. She sounded in some respects like the wife, always having her say, forcing her opinion, bless her, and then handing responsibility over to someone else. We survived as long as we did because I had the foresight to listen and then disregard much of what she said. 

“Oh my, oh my Lord, how did he survive a strike like that? Just look at the state of him!” said a man more from somewhere behind my head, whose hands were holding it steady. “It knocked the power out to the church and half of the town’s shops!” I was lying on my back you see, but then I’d hardly be standing upright if what he was saying was true. In actual fact, I was lying exactly where a compassionate band of church goers had laid me, after rescuing my burnt corpse from the middle of the charred road. How lucky that they were meeting on such a day, how lucky was I? They stood hopeful, crossing themselves over and over repeatedly, beseeching God not to take me before time, until eventually, thankfully, I opened my eyes and managed to focus. I felt at first, as if I was in a hospital bed, with seven shades of junior Doctors angling over me, putting forward observations and coming to a bizarre diagnosis.  

“We should never have brought him into the church, never have put him just here!” the Vicar said, chastising himself and looking up at the beautifully painted church ceiling. “He thinks he’s looking into heaven, thinks he’s meeting Jesus, you’re right, he thinks he must have passed away!” I don’t know whether it was the shock of the ceiling that I was looking at, or the crucifix hanging from the vicar’s neck!

It was then that I felt my mouth crack with an allowance for a broadening smile, or more likely a look of wonderment that had spread across my face, those looking down at me exhibiting much the same reaction. I was alive, I was more than alive, I was, well, repaired. I was no longer looking at Jesus and his cloud hopping minions, I’d focused on the vicar.

“No, you don’t understand,” I said. He wasn’t listening of course, not many people do when looking at someone of my age, they think that just because my bodies failing, my mind is too. His intentions were commendable all the same, Godly, saintly or whatever a man of the cloth strives to be.

“Lie still my son,” he said, “you’ve had a great shock!” Well, state the bleeding obvious he did, which didn’t help. “The ambulance is on its way, don’t worry!” I looked directly into his eyes, the miraculous fresco above me didn’t matter anymore. I took hold of his arm, quickly, before he began preparing himself to give me the last rights.

“A shock it is, Vicar,” I said, “but not the shock you thought I’d had. You see, before I tried to cross the road and before I felt the heat burning up through my body… truth is…” I remember rubbing my eyes with the back of my hands at this point, as tears began to spill into tributaries running over my cheekbones. I smiled again, ready to make my announcement to the whole world and in the sight of God. “Truth is… I was totally blind!”

About the author 

Frankly I don’t know how I came around to writing books. My teachers at school all said I could do better, although to be fair my English Teacher Mrs Bullock extracted every last drop of mental substance from me, and fired up what has turned out to be a creative bent. Or is it that I’m just a daydreamer? Only in 2016 did I finally, after much persuasion from family and friends, take up writing more seriously and publish my first book. Since then, my style and genre evolved, until comfortably, I can now describe it as quirky fiction.  My website: https://mpwinson.co.uk/

 

Read more 

Threat to a Mother

 

by Mark Winson

coffee served only by one that knows it needs sugar

 

The paddy fields extended from the ramshackle farm out into the distance, until the dense barrier of the rain forest stopped them from reaching any further. Like the face of an uncluttered hairbrush, the rice that grew from their shallow waters surfaced as the seed had been scattered, devoid of any pattern, but for the arc of the arm that threw it.

 It was early in the morning, the warmth in the ground held there overnight seemingly playing with the cool air, a sagging mist waiting to catch a low flyer or confuse the eyes of a wandering animal. Nonetheless, the way it clung to the legs of the workers, the way it rolled over their busy shoulders, was more than welcomed. Even those accustomed to the balmy temperatures of the day, struggled moreover as the sun climbed overhead. The water too, had something about it, an aroma that always seemed to be refreshed overnight before the inglorious mud was disturbed once again.

The crop had been fashioned into ordered blocks, each one the size of half a football pitch, each with well-designed borders allowing Pacon and his workers to travel between them. However, these throughfares were made as narrow as possible, every last fertile metre dedicated to the business of production.

‘Come on Ake. Put your back into it!  Oh no, you can do better than that Mapi!’ It seemed from such words that a worker might resent Pacon, but as their boss he had an understanding and curl to the side of his mouth that gave his game away.

‘We don’t see your plantings thinning out any!’ Mapi threw his comments back at him like a ball from a bat, but banter was something that carried everyone through, the thing that bound them together as the extended family they had become.

 The work was far from easy, Venezuelan farmers having their problems. Just to establish a decent area to farm, they cleared acres of twisted trees and large leaf plant life, but they couldn’t stop the bizarre Amazonia creatures from paying a visit. Especially the snakes. Their rolling backs and skipping elastics were plentiful. Most had become accustomed to them however, brushing them aside with an expert and practised stick, a sharp word and a bold step into a quickly fashioned lay-by.

Women were considered to be a part of the team, the right and proper thing being to support their husbands. Pacon’s wife, Francisca, would ordinarily have no hesitation in joining the fray, realising that more hands lightened the work. However, as soon as she became aware of the fact that she was pregnant, she flatly refused to venture into what was regarded by some as unnerving waters, a telling shiver running down her back at the mere suggestion.  

‘What if I fall?’ she argued with both hands on her hips and a panicky tone to her voice.

‘Then you fall into the mud,” Pacon said simply. ‘We all fall into the mud from time to time. It’s not as if baby is even showing as yet. You have no bump to worry about.’

‘No, I’m sorry, but no!’ She was adamant, the mere thought of something going wrong outing itself as a weeping ribbon of sweat across her forehead. She held a hand to her belly protecting what she knew needed protecting, feeling little kicks of a contract even if there were none. ‘You men don’t understand. You can’t understand. You have to trust me when I say there is a something, a something that a mother inherits that will have her defend herself as such. All mothers for that matter.’

‘Come now, I can protect you. I have as much love for our child as you do. Depend on me, look to me for the arm to rest on… trust me!’

‘You can do all that and more my Pacon, but you don’t have the something to see what I can see.’ There was little point in arguing about what couldn’t be quantified, described or given a name. Pacon had to accept that his working day would start a little earlier and finish a little later.

  

Snakes were one thing, but the legendary Anaconda was another entirely and not even regarded as such. Pacon had grown up being fed by incredulous stories of the Anai-kondra, the name given to the snake by some, meaning ‘to kill an elephant.’ A Boa Constrictor, giving birth to its young without the alienating egg that severed the inherited links of criminality, it was regarded as a shape shifter, the original creator of the earth’s waters and a vicious threat to humanity.  He had only ever seen what he thought were its periscopic eyes and flared nostrils peeking from below the water surface, perhaps an expanding wake from a powerful tail, and yet, he believed all the abounding stories. Twenty and thirty metres long the braggers suggested, an Anaconda would take some of the white-tailed deer from the edge of the forest and if that were the case, they would certainly have no problem seizing a small child. It was a fact that hadn’t escaped Pacon since his impending fathership was revealed. Nevertheless, he continued to trivialise all the excuses that Francisca put to him, all the reasons she gave for keeping out of the water.

It wasn’t long before the argument of there being no bump, was replaced by the fact that whenever Pacon placed his hand over it, the baby stopped kicking, whenever he placed his ear over it, it fell silent.

‘That’s because you haven’t the something I talk about,’ Francisca argued. ‘I know he’s there all the time, every last minute. I don’t forget, only then to be given a reminding kick.’

‘I don’t forget either. I always think about him, about her, I’m always considerate. I just think that a little exercise in the fields would be more than beneficial.’

 

As the season turned, the workers relaxed into a more comfortable climate. Only seventy-five degrees in May, it meant that the job of picking the crop was easier. There was a cleaner and fresher smell in the air, but for the rice as it was pulled from its moorings, musty bubbles from the mud bursting upon the surface. Standing in the shallows, Pacon’s dependable feet remained cool, the top water being easily palmed over his face to refresh it. The light of his character was seemingly shining through, whistling songs and part ditties that came to him on a whim, well into whatever blew from his lips. He was almost in a world of his own.

Suddenly, the background chorus that rose from the forestry, began to shout and bawl. Known as the ‘Bird Continent’, the rattling chainsaw song of the Capuchin, the chattering of the Macaws and the warbling finches seemed constant, but a fear of life now began climbing above the canopies. They had seen something disturbing. Upon the throughfare between the stems and panicles of rice, a submarine’s wayward torpedo glided through the water. A sleek green back rounded by black bands appeared and disappeared, its subterranean pattern of scales surfacing momentarily to slip through the air, leaving only little aquatic tornados to swirl on the surface. Two beady eyes and lazy but functional nostrils led the charge, but it was the wake from this that Pacon spotted first.

   ‘Anaconda!’ he yelled, for the benefit of the other workers, who were quick to check behind them and lift their legs as if both could be out of the water at the same time. He was equally quick to react, his stick held at the ready, parting the rice plants with less of an eye on any damage he might cause. ‘Get out of the water!’ he yelled to those close enough to the bank to do so.

The snake had probably seen him but was more intent on making for the bank and shallows at the foot of the farm. The children were playing there, unaware, darting runs in and out of the water, playing hands splashing their chasers. With a sudden realisation, there was a barrage of names then shouted by panicking parents.

‘Abiro, Estero! Get out of the water! Run! Run!’

‘Tacito, Tacito, quickly, quickly… the Anaconda!’ As if rehearsed, little feet ran without condition, no backward glances, no doubting their Father’s words. Their laughing and smiling faces had disappeared, tightened with an immediacy, as the men ran to put themselves between them and the snake.  The fact that they were the men and that the men would always be called on for such things, was expected and accepted.

As the green back rose to the surface and the coils of the snake rolled in the water, Pacon slammed his stick down horizontally, the loud splashing a deliberate attempt to frighten. His face was rippling with worry lines, his body wet and quickly sweating, the bubbles from his racing feet breaking the surface as the smell of rotted encapsulation ran up his nose. Finally, as he intercepted the undulating body, he pinned its tail to the bottom with the stick held between his dutiful hands.

‘Quick, quick, help me, all of you!’ One by one the charging men, realising Pacon’s plan, did the same, working their way up the panicking animal metre by frightening metre. ‘You next, you and you, keep hold… don’t let go!’  Each had their part to play, each depending on the other, each with eyes waiting for the turning head and striking jaws that would dislocate as they bit. Each could see the rolling trunk displaying the massive girth around the snake, suggesting it must be at least eight metres long. It was obviously hungry, must have been, despite the apparent bulbous belly that probably contained another deer, or God forbid, a child from another village consumed as a starter to its main course.

 The snake’s violent thrashing began to soak the men, the rising mud clinging to their clothes, their heartbeats faster and faster, whilst the children turned with trembling hands and terror in their eyes. A terrified shouting was coming from all directions.

‘Father, Father, kill it, kill it Father!’

‘Be careful Father… no… stay away from its head!’

Another stick across the Anaconda’s writhing back and its head turned and glared at Pacon, as if it knew he was the first to react, as if it knew he was the one that wanted it dead. Nevertheless, the noise of the screaming children was the only thing Pacon could hear.

Bravely, one of the men then dived upon the beast’s surfacing neck, but its massive muscles simply threw him off, his eyes wide, expectant of a following attack. He staggered backwards on all fours, before managing to stand and uncontrollably wield his stick in the air, crashing it down onto the animal’s head, again and again. As the example was seized upon, all the men together, thrashed the leathery body which shook almost comically as the painful signals from each blow travelled the route to its brain.

Pacon was sweltering in the heat of the moment, but within it, he began to sense a victory. The snake rolled over and over, until as it slowed, seemingly floating entirely to the surface, its white underbelly turned to the sun. This was more than any of the men had ever seen of an Anaconda. The children cheered, they could see the fight draining away from the animal, the men after standing for hours in the rice field finding a strength that they thought had been exhausted.

Suddenly, Francisca came running from the house, her pregnant belly bouncing side to side, no doubt angering the shaken baby.

‘Stop! Stop! You’re going to kill it! Stop, stop now!’ Pacon looked up. He thought she would be relieved, thought he was doing the right thing protecting the other children, protecting the inevitable arrival of his child.

‘What? What?’ He was confused, the fear for his wife travelling up through his body and tensioning his shoulders as she ran to the shoreline. He stopped, as did the men, looking at her quizzically, the great snake rolling over to show the dark of its back again and take in the air it needed to avoid drowning.

‘Can’t you see?’ Francisca was pointing. ‘Stop jumping to your fateful conclusions,’ she scolded. ‘The snake… it’s pregnant!’ She held her precious belly with two hands as the men in a timely realisation finally stopped their attack, the great animal taking in a saving breath. There it was again, the legitimacy that Francisca felt nullified the alleged risks, the insistence that they had to listen to before it was too late. The snake, so silent in the water, the black patterns reversed direction as it turned and slunk slowly away. It needed to look for another beach and shallow water to provide a sanctuary for its new-born… rescued by a motherly ‘something’.

About the author

Mark lives in North Wales. His creative bent has re-surfaced in his early retirement. Having worked in the RAF and Scout Association, his real life influences result in a style he describes as 'quirky fiction'. 

https://mpwinson.co.uk/ 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Bolt from the Blue

                                                    by Mark Winson

a cup of unstirred tea that only presents the sugar to the tongue with the last mouthful

 

It was a strange day. There was a grating silence hanging in the air. There were few birds singing, few conversations of passers-by that I could gate crash and less than the usual stampede of traffic rumbling down the high street. Most notable was the stillness that settled over the school playground, a clamour I ordinarily enjoyed, the chatter and giggling of children are to me, so representative of the continuation of life. The sunshine, the glorious sunshine that had dominated so much of that summer, was also absent, as if God had flicked a simple switch. My face felt abandoned, condemned to defending itself from the sharp wind that brought about the change in the weather. Perhaps there had been something more, on that noteworthy day, that I should have been aware of.

Needs must, however. I had drained the house of milk, blitzed out the bread bin and was suffering an oral with-drawl after eating too many dry crackers. Dry, I say dry, but they had turned, were slightly damp, so I had to venture out. It would at least break the silence, not that my silence inconvenienced anyone, living alone on my meagre income was hardly going to open sunflowers. I had learned to cope however, made mistakes along the way, as we all do, but there was a subtle difference between wanting to and having to. The doctor had told me that!

So, I donned my overcoat. I feel the cold much more these days and wear it more than often. I’ve taken to sitting in it, to listen to “The Archers”, rather than putting the heating on. Then, I took up my not so macho shopping bag, which was the wife’s, bless her, and fully equipped I left. I tried to walk with a defiant step, something I’d learned that relieved my trepidation and hesitation. Shoppers with swinging bags and drag along children are normally the only waves that fail to part in front of me, but I was far more confused when there were none. An ever-doubting mind you see, a propensity for reflecting on the downside of my existence, and a tendency to ask myself taxing questions all the time. I did on that day. Was it that people were avoiding me? Maybe the case had I not washed for a week, but I’m always fastidious with my personal hygiene and always indulge in a drift of aftershave.

I did well to dodge the abrupt parking bollards and spewing litter bins, which were more than testing, but getting across the road was like negotiating my life away. Screaming cars, articulated lorries, silent but deadly push bikes are bad enough, but I also had to contend with the state of the road surface. What do they do all day long, in those bleeding council offices? Most likely they are engrossed in that Facebook thing, playing games and talking to fellow anoraks. They even twitter, according to my nephew, as if they’re all birding freaks or something. I ride over the ruts in smooth roads when out of town, but I’m at far more risk of falling down those cut into an urban street. It’s then I wobble like jelly, scrabbling to right myself just in time to avoid yet another skidding car with all the tread of a fried egg in a well-greased pan.

I walked past the arcade, listening to the pinging pinball machines and jingling of coins falling over the waterfalls, past the last remaining record shop, one that persists in playing music that you’re supposed to listen to in your garage! I stopped just outside Mothercare, somewhere I think all babies dislike judging by the bawling coming from inside and turned to stand at the curbs edge. Hesitating, assessing the odds in crossing the street, I suddenly felt a splash from God’s watering can. I cursed him under my breath. I have my doubts about religion and would like to know just how God can be held so reverently, what with all the bad in the world. There was twice the urgency if I wanted to stay dry. So, prompted by my chiding mind if nothing else, I quickly stepped out into the oceanic expanse of tarmac, leaving behind the security of its coastline, with no more focus than getting across the channel.

It was then that it happened. I’d been so preoccupied; I’d paid little heed to the rumbling overhead and failed to realise or recognise what was coming. I always listen to the news of a morning but have an unerring habit to switch the radio off before the weather report.

 You don’t hear lightening, you have little warning that it’s coming, only a heavenly notification that it’s been and gone as the furniture overhead is dragged across the sky. Then wallop! This bolt from what must have been a power-station in the clouds hit me, pummelling me into what became scorched tarmac! It rifled up through my body, from the ground beneath my feet until the hair on the back of my neck stood like that of a cat’s angry back. I felt myself go rigid, statuesque and hard; any chill of the day being blown away in a millisecond. There was a distinct smell of dry burning and a crackling closing over the vacuum left in the air as all the oxygen was consumed. Probably being the only reason why I hadn’t burst into flames. I could feel the blood in my veins beginning to boil, taste a hit of what seemed to be barbecue sauce, infused into my tongue. I yelled, believe me you would! I don’t think I swore, least not as this generation seem to, but something leapt from my screaming mouth all the same. Then all was dark, all was silent.

I don’t remember much more at that point, I had no inkling of how long I been away with the fairies, it was just, well, black. They say your life is supposed to flash before your eyes, not that it did in my case, but neither did it occur to me that I’d been deprived of a promised liaison with St Peter, and had never stood before the gold wrought iron of heaven’s gates. I could have lost days, I could have lost weeks, things might well have accelerated to the point of me missing several episodes of the “Archers”.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I opened my eyes. The shock was more than palpable, as stood in front of me was Jesus Christ, nestling on a fluffy white cloud formation, in a long blue robe that rolled comfortably over his relaxed arms, folded to allow his hands to come together in prayer. A legion of angels had glided over him, with the faces of innocent babies and the wings of mighty eagles outstretched illustriously. Dainty birds with gloriously coloured coats, either heaven bound or in ghostly flight, swooped and played across the orange of the sky as they were welcomed by him. His smile was gentle, a forgiving smile to those that needed forgiving, and that could well have included me.    

The vista in front of me was inspiring, inspiriting and yet in its own way, reassuring. It certainly wasn’t what I expected, believe you me. At first, I was shocked, so shocked in witnessing what I was seeing that I felt sure it had to be a miracle. Had God put aside my perfidiousness, my dishonesty, that time I pinched a new band saw from work, that time I jabbed Richard Smith in the eye, I could go on. If asked I would never have admitted that I was unworthy, but then he is supposed to forgive you, isn’t he?

“I don’t believe it,” I said, “after all these years, after all this time,” I said. “I’m so sorry!” Frankly, it was surprising that this last-ditch confession was accepted and that the trapdoor to oblivion remained shut.

I was just about to kneel in front of Jesus and ask him for further directions, when suddenly, a panicked voice broke the serenity of the moment.

“He’s awake Vicar! He’s alive Vicar! but I think he thinks he’s dead, that he’s gone to heaven, he’s in a daze. You have to do something!” I could hear this lady’s stampeding voice rattling round my head as I felt my stupor lighten and my feet finally touch down again. She sounded in some respects like the wife, always having her say, forcing her opinion, bless her, and then handing responsibility over to someone else. We survived as long as we did because I had the foresight to listen and then disregard much of what she said. 

“Oh my, oh my Lord, how did he survive a strike like that? Just look at the state of him!” said a man more from somewhere behind my head, whose hands were holding it steady. “It knocked the power out to the church and half of the town’s shops!” I was lying on my back you see, but then I’d hardly be standing upright if what he was saying was true. In actual fact, I was lying exactly where a compassionate band of church goers had laid me, after rescuing my burnt corpse from the middle of the charred road. How lucky that they were meeting on such a day, how lucky was I? They stood hopeful, crossing themselves over and over repeatedly, beseeching God not to take me before time, until eventually, thankfully, I opened my eyes and managed to focus. I felt at first, as if I was in a hospital bed, with seven shades of junior Doctors angling over me, putting forward observations and coming to a bizarre diagnosis.   

“We should never have brought him into the church, never have put him just here!” the Vicar said, chastising himself and looking up at the beautifully painted church ceiling. “He thinks he’s looking into heaven, thinks he’s meeting Jesus, you’re right, he thinks he must have passed away!” I don’t know whether it was the shock of the ceiling that I was looking at, or the crucifix hanging from the vicar’s neck!

It was then that I felt my mouth crack with an allowance for a broadening smile, or more likely a look of wonderment that had spread across my face, those looking down at me exhibiting much the same reaction. I was alive, I was more than alive, I was, well, repaired. I was no longer looking at Jesus and his cloud hopping minions, I’d focused on the vicar.

“No, you don’t understand,” I said. He wasn’t listening of course, not many people do when looking at someone of my age, they think that just because my bodies failing, my mind is too. His intentions were commendable all the same, Godly, saintly or whatever a man of the cloth strives to be.

“Lie still my son,” he said, “you’ve had a great shock!” Well, state the bleeding obvious he did, which didn’t help. “The ambulance is on its way, don’t worry!” I looked directly into his eyes, the miraculous fresco above me didn’t matter anymore. I took hold of his arm, quickly, before he began preparing himself to give me the last rights.

“A shock it is Vicar,” I said, “but not the shock you thought I’d had. You see, before I tried to cross the road and before I felt the heat burning up through my body… truth is…” I remember rubbing my eyes with the back of my hands at this point, as tears began to spill into tributaries running over my cheekbones. I smiled again, ready to make my announcement to the whole world and in the sight of God. “Truth is… I was totally blind!”

About the author 

Frankly I don’t know how I came around to writing books. My teachers at school all said I could do better, although to be fair my English Teacher Mrs Bullock extracted every last drop of mental substance from me, and fired up what has turned out to be a creative bent. Or is it that I’m just a daydreamer? Only in 2016 did I finally, after much persuasion from family and friends, take up writing more seriously and publish my first book. Since then, my style and genre evolved, until comfortably, I can now describe it as quirky fiction.  My website: https://mpwinson.co.uk/