PIZZA TOPPING

An idea, or inspiration if you will, for poetry and short stories, can come from many sources, one of which is a tiny report in a national newspaper dealing with an off-beat or quirky event. One such news story triggered the writing of The Fall, which began life as a comic poem that I later reshaped to Flash fiction. 
It’s probably a measure of my sense of humour that I regard the following story as comic rather than tragic fiction. I wonder what you, the Reader will make of it?  

 

















THE FALL

      When Robert Frobisher hurled himself from his third-floor balcony, he wanted to die. He wasn’t seeking revenge but he got it, along with two broken legs and a dislocated pelvis.
      The day had started well for Robert. He’d kissed his lovely wife, Paula, slipped behind the wheel of his red Porche Boxter and roared away from his luxury ocean-front apartment to begin another day of financial shenanigans at Morton Whitworth, a leading firm of tax consultants. 
      One phone-call can change your life and the call Robert answered mid-morning changed his.
      Truly sorry, Bob; it’s been great, but, hey, ‘Corporate Downsizing’ and all that. C’mon, cheer up, man. Shit happens!
      Minutes later, Robert Frobisher was climbing back into the red Porche, which seemed suddenly less a status symbol, more a quagmire of exorbitant repayments.
      The drive home was a blur, as Robert replayed the conversation with Walt Whitworth, muttering the things he ought to have told the old bastard. Dread crushed him like a great fist as he thought of the gigantic mortgage he could no longer pay and wondered how he’d break the news to Paula. Paula, his heart’s desire: sexy, vivacious, but not, he reflected, tolerant of failure. What the Hell could he tell her?
      Arriving home, Robert took the elevator to his second-floor apartment and turned to stone. There was Paula, his perfect Paula, half-naked in the arms of a pizza delivery man.
      Uttering a howl of disbelief, Robert launched himself at the couple, who popped apart like two halves of a cracker, Pizza Man making a bee-line for the stairs.
      Robert, never a violent man, felt his body convulse. It was as though all the blood in his sixteen-stone frame had turned to ice. Job, car, mortgage and now this. What was the bloody point? Something in him snapped. The door to the balcony stood open: beyond it, endlessly, the wide blue sea. All at once, Death seemed his perfect friend. Charging the balcony rail, Robert Frobisher jumped.
      Pizza Man, exiting the apartment block, paused to fasten the zip on his jeans. Damn close call, he thought, as Robert landed on him like a meteor.   

LA DOLCE VITA

As winter closes in, I shiver and think longingly of our three-months sojourn in Italy last year. 
Jane, and I, with our little dog Holly, set off in springtime to drive to San Giovanni alla Vena, a small village in the province of Pisa. 
We rented in a small house with gardens, adjacent to the village square, and for three joyous months immersed ourselves in an Italian way of life.
We agreed from the outset that our stay would not be a holiday but instead simply a change of domestic scene and an opportunity to live day-to-day immersed in a different culture.
The experience was one we both treasure and we have many happy memories of the warmth of the people we encountered and the glorious sunshine, the colourful, bustling market days, the friendliness in shops, cafes and bars and, of course, the unforgettable food and wine.
Whilst living there I wrote a number of new poems. This is one of them.

  
LA FALENA

 A moth came in at the screen door
attracted by light as moths are.
It flickered like a small dark fan,
here and there: he could not ignore
its plight and trapped it in a jar,
released it outside. Foolish man:
moths will return, against the odds,
seeking out light as we do gods.

SLIPPING INTO NIGHT ...

The terrible events in and around Paris over the last few days cannot fail to have saddened all but the most callous observer. We in the peaceful Channel Islands, with our proximity to and cultural links with France, were perhaps more shocked than others in Britain and Europe who have already been exposed to terrorist outrages in their cities. As someone with first-hand  experience of "The Troubles" in Northern Ireland, however, I am well aware of the inhumanity that man can visit on his fellow man but this knowledge has not desensitised me to it, in fact, rather the opposite. 
The following poem was written as a response to the horrors of the last few days.   

 LAMENT 
(Paris, January 2015)

Ice petals on the blackthorn bow,
in twilight, masquerade as white
but it will never blossom now.
The world is slipping into night.
Weep for the last-extinguished light.

For generations to be born
into a world without birth-right,
for darkness, fast approaching, mourn.
Weep for the last-extinguished light.

Grieve for the final, breaking wave
that slips away, the bird in flight
that falls to earth, the hungry grave.
The world is slipping into night.

Tears in the grey, relentless rain
resemble signatures we write
on farewell notes imbued with pain
Weep for the last-extinguished light.

Lament the sharpness of the blade,
the flesh, so vulnerable and slight,
the future plans so rashly made.
The world is slipping into night.

We must stand firm, repudiate
the bullet in its ghastly flight,
the torrent of extremist hate.
The world is slipping into night.
Weep for the last-extinguished light.

A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

HISTORY MAN

It's interesting, though somewhat disturbing, to note that Elvis Presley, that hugely significant cultural icon of the Twentieth Century, would have been EIGHTY years old today. 
Elvis was an enormous influence on teenage boys of my era and many of us spent hours ensconced in our bedrooms practicing the trademark curled lip and sultry stare. 
The music he brought from America to monochrome, post-war UK was like nothing we'd experienced before and kindled a fire that's been burning ever since.
People of my vintage tend to think of the emergence of Rock ‘n Roll as being a comparatively modern occurrence but it’s sobering to reflect that, historically, it’s closer in time to the Wright brothers’ first flight than to today.   
My taste in music is much changed since those youthful days but I still retain considerable affection for my one-time musical hero.
Every Elvis fan has a favourite song. You can hear mine at the link below.

ELVIS PRESLEY 

8 January 1935 - 16 August 1977

Click here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N_axAHXht58

SLOPING OFF

Winter in Guernsey tends to be a low-key affair. Seldom do we experience the climactic extremes of Britain or the European mainland. Over the past week, there have been blizzard conditions in some parts of the UK and, amazingly, heavy snowfall as far south as Sicily, an event unique in living memory.
On those rare occasions that we do experience snowfall on the island, life grinds to a halt, schools close and shops and offices operate with skeleton staff. In short, chaos reigns for a day or two. The odd snowman makes an appearance but the only adventurous activity that we can look forward to is a slippery shuffle to the nearest shop to discover whether the UK newspapers have arrived or, indeed, whether the shop is even open.
In Northern Ireland, one of the great joys of winter is the inevitable annual snowfall and the opportunity to slip away quietly with a toboggan and, ideally, some offspring to justify one's own childish glee. I have countless happy memories of adventures on the hills at Stormont when my daughter was a child. Nowadays her sons enjoy the same snowy thrills on those old familiar slopes. 

TOBOGGANING

The seat feels quite precarious
but once he’s down, that feeling goes.
So rare to be this close to snow,
chilling the fingertips, the nose:
icy sensations lost to those
in indoor places, various,

or barred, by age or lack of kids
from winter days on rowdy hills
where children’s voices, wild and shrill,
applaud this crazy vaudeville
of adults launched, against their will,
downhill at speed on icy skids.

This granddad hugs his grandson tight
then edges forward on his heels
on modern blades of stainless steel.
The child, as agile as an eel,
squeals for his mum: his granddad feels
earth fall away, their sleigh take flight.

A longing for a lifetime lost,
assails him in the rushing wind.
The grandson to his parka pinned,
as once his daughter, angel-skinned,
clung to him then, their bodies twinned,
rocketing downward through the frost. 


This poem appears in my second collection Strange Journey, available from this site.

CASH AND HARRY

New Year is a fine opportunity for taking stock and sometimes, in a dark corner of the metaphorical stockroom, you find some dusty curio, hold it up to the light and smile nostalgically. Here's one such curiosity. My first venture into Flash Fiction, based very loosely on a tale that did the rounds many years ago in my native County Down. 

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

 
The police said Old Harry’s death wasn’t suspicious: heart attack it seemed.  We knew they were wrong but couldn’t prove it.  That bastard, Rutter, had bullied the old boy unmercifully, using his status as Estate Manager like a bludgeon, once even threatening to have Harry’s beloved dogs put down. We all feared Rutter’s rages and felt sure that one such outburst had provoked Old Harry’s collapse.
The rumour that Harry’s life savings were hidden in his cottage sent Rutter there immediately, not caring that the poor man had only been dead a week. Using his master-key, Rutter entered the cottage and, to avoid interruption, bolted the door, then, for good measure, pushed a heavy cupboard across it and began his search. 
He only remembered the dogs when the first one lunged at him. The other two Dobermans, starved for a week, circled him hungrily.