The Bird and the Forgotten

I thought today I would post a short tale that I wrote for another blog, another time, illustrated with a lovely painting by Miki

The Bird and The Forgotten


The great train grumbled into Braunschweig station, almost reluctant to break its journey through the heartland of Eastern Germany. Grey green, grey green, it went, the sprawling farmlands contrasting sharply with the gunmetal urban decay of its forgotten towns.

I sat in my compartment, contemplating the day. A long day, filled with the miasma of endless travel that would take me from post-communist poverty to the sun-kissed shores of Spain. Eventually.

After a cursory glance along the platform, I returned my gaze to the novel I had wisely brought along to forestall the boredom, when suddenly a soft thud and a flurry of feathers in my peripheral vision caused me to look outside.

A tiny, imperceptible mark on the carriage window was the only clue…..I looked down and saw a still, feathered form on the platform.

Then, slowly, very slowly, it began to regain its wits, and sat, stunned, alone and abandoned on the platform, a sparrow of sorts, I think, though ornithology is not one of my strong points.

It looked like a confused traveller that had alighted at the wrong stop. More than a little frightened, it glanced around worriedly. The train made ready for departure, and I found myself urging it to wait, that I could longer observe and witness the outcome for this poor unfortunate.

It became apparent that it was severely injured, for it moved not an inch, and the feet of a thousand impatient travellers, unaware, were perilously close.

The train conductor paced backwards, carriage by carriage, purposefully along the platform. I held my breath…he signalled the impending departure, as he walked, backwards, ever backwards, his boots coming down mere millimetres from the bird.

I realised then….like an epiphany, I was witnessing a metaphor for modern life and the victims that fall beneath the cracks. Powerless to alter their destiny….ignored by the masses…and life, hanging by the slenderest of threads.

© Kev Moore 2006, painting by Miki

Ashes on the Wind

The protesting screech of the hangar doors shattered the stillness of the winter morning. The man, small, unremarkable, panting with the effort of opening them, slipped inside.

A vast, open space greeted him. A couple of pigeons fluttered nervously up by the rooflights. He threw the power switch.

There, in the middle of an unswept floor, stood his salvation, his escape.
Vapour, in grey tendrils escaped slowly from the snake-like hoses that curled malevolently around the base of a shiny black pod.

That was how he’d always thought of it. The Escape Pod. An escape from the nightmare this world had become. Wars, disease, the Politics of Corruption had the world reeling from a cancer of decay.

He, a humble scientist, with no life outside of his research, had stumbled upon a means of escape. He’d re-routed funds, kept everything secret from his employers. Now he was ready, and not a day too soon. They knew. They were asking questions. There must be no further delay. Today, he would go where they could not follow. He would escape into time itself. Surely the distant future held a better life.

Suddenly, the roar of vehicles, the shouting of men, just beyond the doors!
He ran for the Pod, opening the small hatch and climbing in. Through the vision port he saw them, a team of stormtroopers, guns blazing, advancing on his dream. Panicking, he set the controls with trembling fingers. A tremendous thrummmmm reverberated inside his brain, as the snaking pipes automatically disengaged from the Pod. The soldiers, still firing indiscriminately, advanced closer, and the Pod appeared to shimmer, then with a soft pop of inrushing air, disappeared….

Scant moments later, the man trusted himself to look out of the vision port.
He was surprised. Everything looked….old.
He punched up data on the panel in front of him, scarcely believing he’d miscalculated. His expertise was the product of hundreds of years of Japanese technological superiority, surely nothing could’ve gone wrong.
But the faint green glow of the readout looked back at him accusingly, daring him to disagree;

08:14 August 6th 1945

Realisation dawned on him, like an icy trickle down his back. He looked up from the display panel, and out across the city of Hiroshima, as the clock registered 08:15, and a tremendous flash lit up the morning sky.
Before he could reset and escape into time again, the searing shock wave of the Atomic Blast incinerated any memory of his existence, save for the ashes on the wind.

© Kev Moore 2007

Dinner for One

Dinner for one

I wonder if the light is on. You can usually see it as you walk up the gravel path to the front door. A soft light, diffused by the condensation that veils the kitchen windows, as she busies herself with the dinner preparations. I guess it will be a nice hot panakelty – that wonderful Geordie casserole. I really need that tonight. It is so, so cold.

Up here, in Northumberland, the winter bites with a vengeance, and it’s a foolhardy man that ventures out on the roads around here unless it’s absolutely necessary.  But I’m heading home after a month on the rigs, out in the cruel North Sea. I missed Christmas, and New year, but I’m coming home now, and nothing will stop me.

We’ve spent a lot of the old year apart. Needs must. the company pays me well but the long periods of separation are painful. It feels like an enormous elastic band stretched to breaking point, where the snapping back of being reunited is as painful as it is a relief. People are not meant to live like this; togetherness a sham, ploughing two solitary furrows for the sake of a weekly wage, no matter how fat the pay packet. It doesn’t build dreams, it destroys them.

It is so, so cold. I think I can see the faint shimmer of the light up ahead. I walk up the path towards the red brick cottage, a curious silence accompanies me.
I think back to the day we bought this house, a shell, open to the stars, and the months and years that went into turning it into a home. A home that rarely has the two people who built it under its roof at the same time.

A persistent memory scratches at the back door of my brain, and a trace of a recollection of my trip interrupts my reverie. The journey out of Newcastle through the freezing fog was tiring, eyes watering with the strain of staring into nothingness for miles without respite. The old car heater forlornly trying to pump some warmth back into my tired bones.

I continue up the path, and a faint whisper of music escapes the house’s confines and teases me. The smell of the potato and bacon casserole, either real or imagined, greets my nostrils. I crave it, for the cold actually hurts.

I will only have a few days to rest after my time way, as there are so many jobs to do around here, roof repairs, painting, and the old stone bridge that marks the beginning of our driveway needs the stonework replacing. She’s always nagging me to fix it, so I must find the time.

I look up again at the house. I see her, all undefined behind the misted windows. The soft glow of the light gives her a romantic aura as she bustles about the kitchen. An involuntary shudder passes through me, chilling me to the bone, and the light seems to shift, like in a prism, and for a second the light is not from the window at all, but something else. Something familiar yet out of place. The scene shifts back. Puzzled, I reach the door. I am frozen, and cannot feel my hands. Nor will they respond to my bidding. With a huge effort of will, I raise my fist to knock on the door, but the hand that comes into my line of sight looks alien to me, bone-white and wreathed in weeds, it passes through the door like a wraith, sounding naught but a deathly silence.

I look about me and understand why I am shrouded in silence. I am not here. My will is carrying me here, forcing me to make this last journey, yet it is a cruel deception, for all it affords me is a glimpse into what cannot be, and taunts me with the helplessness of a cry unheard.

That awful prism twists again, and the light changes. It is oh so dim, casting an enfeebled pall…and as it shimmers before finally winking out, I realise what it is. The interior light of my car, activated as I tried to open the door.  The door I opened to try and escape the freezing water that had rushed in when my car had plunged through the ruined wall of the bridge as I lost control on the icy road in my eagerness to return home. The ice, broken by my plunge into the river, has already reasserted itself, creaking, cracking, reforming. I am its best-kept secret. I am safe from discovery, forever lost to this world, so, so cold.

And just half a mile away, a sliver of green river weeds are frozen to the door of the house where a woman, unknowingly, prepares dinner for one.

Copyright Kev Moore 2009

The Little Boy and the Golden Thread

Following the surge of creativity here in Cafe Crem, specifically in Cafe Literati, I have decided to present my short stories here. some of them have appeared elsewhere in the net, so apologies to anyone who might have read them already, but I want them recorded here in Cafe literati, which I consider their rightful home. Today, a story inspired by this beautiful illustration from Miki:

The Little Boy and the Golden Thread

The boy tossed and turned in his featherbed, the wind that blew outside scraping the branches of the tree against his window like brittle fingers.
He was Five years old, and had never slept a night. Arriving at the breakfast table, bleary-eyed, the following morning, his mother looked at him with despair.
“Son, you must learn to sleep, for a third of your live is given to sleep, and if you waste it, your life will end all too soon!” she exclaimed
The boy looked up at her with large brown eyes, imploring.
“But mama, I don’t know how!” A tear began a slow journey down his cheek.
His mother turned away, stifling a sob.

That night, as he climbed into bed, the boy resolved to seek an answer to his problem.
When all the lights were out, he quickly dressed, unfastened his window, climbed down the tree and ran out into the night, taking a jam sandwich.

He walked for many days, and then hid on a train to London, jumping off in the countryside before it reached the big city. He stuck his nose in the air, and smelled the sea, setting off in its direction. Nobody saw him, for he was only five years old, and very small. By this time he had very little left of his jam sandwich, and was very hungry. He was beginning to feel a little upset when; all of a sudden he caught sight of a tall ship in the harbour. He was by the sea!

He climbed aboard, unseen, and hid in the bottom, with the rats, who were a friendly sort.
One in particular was very talkative, and asked the boy the purpose of his journey.
“I want to know how to sleep, I have never slept one night of my short life, and I am losing precious time!” he said.
The rat, offering the boy a tasty morsel of rotten cabbage, leaned a little closer and whispered, conspiratorially, “Then you have a long journey indeed! You must take this ship to the end of the world, then make your way to the Temple on the Sacred Mountain, where the answer to your problem lies.”
“How can you know this?” asked the boy, in wonder.
“Oh, I travel” sniffed the rat, disdainfully.

So the boy stayed on the ship for many months and the months turned into years, and eventually, the ship made landfall at the end of the world. He slipped ashore unseen, having bade farewell to the rats, and began to walk to the Sacred Mountain.
He walked.
And he walked.
And he walked some more.
He walked for ten years, and curiously, even though he had journeyed many years at sea, and many years on foot, he was still a little five year old boy.
And all at once he was at the foot of the most beautiful mountain he had ever seen. He knew this to be a certain fact, for it was the only mountain he had ever seen.
There was a seemingly endless flight of steps cut into the very rock, curving, up, up so far that he had to squint to see how high they went, and as his eyes followed this stone staircase, he lost sight of it in the clouds. With a sigh, he began his ascent.
Many days passed, and the little boy, one foot in front of the other, climbed higher and higher. Lush green grass gave way to scrub and rock, which in turn became wreathed in snow and ice. The little boy became quite chilly, as he was only wearing his pyjamas.
Eventually, after some months, and just before breakfast, he arrived at a huge wooden doorway, with a big bronze knocker. He reached up…he could not reach high enough.
He tried knocking with his tiny fists on the wood, but they hardly made a sound. Reluctantly, he turned around and headed back down the Sacred Mountain.
Some months later he reached the bottom and peered through the door of a small cottage by the side of the road.
“Can I help you?” said a voice from within
“Yes, if you please” said the boy, “Do you have a stool I could borrow?”
“Why certainly!” came the reply. All at once a man as big as an elephant appeared in the doorway. “You may take this one” he said, gesturing to a small red stool by the fireplace.
“I’m afraid I have an over fondness for toasted marshmallows, and I have been sitting by the fire for twenty years eating them, which accounts for my unusual size, and the inadequacy of the stool I now give you.”
The man handed him the stool.
“The marshmallows smell good!” said the boy “Can I have one?”
“Don’t be greedy!” exclaimed the man, and slammed the door.
The boy set out upon the great stone staircase once again through grasslands, rock, and ice and snow, and the soft caress of the great white clouds, clutching the small red stool.
Some months later, he reached the vast wooden doorway once more. Carefully, he placed the stool below the door knocker, and climbed upon it. He reached up on tiptoe…not..quite…there. He stretched his fingers as far as he could, which wasn’t very far, because if you have seen a little five year old boys fingers you will know that they are very short indeed…his fingers brushed against the metal. The boy frowned. He jumped down from the stool, and made his way down into the clouds on the great stone staircase.

Some months later, he arrived at the door of the cottage.
“Come in” mumbled the man, between marshmallow mouthfuls “I can’t get up, I’ve become wedged in my armchair due to my continuing over fondness for these tasty toasted treats” he said, by way of explanation.
“Why don’t you eat less?” asked the little boy, innocently.
“Don’t be impertinent!” harrumphed the man.
“I wonder if you have a large book I could borrow?” continued the boy.
“Well, of course, as I cannot reach my shelves anymore, are you looking for anything in particular?” asked the man.
“Well, it’s got to be thick.” said the little boy.
“Oh! But this is no criteria for choosing a book, lad!” exclaimed the man, worrying a particularly troublesome piece of marshmallow from between his teeth.
“You need something full of knowledge and wisdom, to improve your lot in the world, and by happy coincidence, my encyclopaedia is both informative and thick, so both your needs will be fulfilled, close the door on your way out.” said the man, his fat fingers  maneuvering another marshmallow onto the end of his toasting fork.

The little boy considered taking a marshmallow with him, but didn’t like the idea of ending up wriggling on the end of a toasting fork, so tucking the encyclopaedia under his arm, he once again mounted the stone steps, through the lush pastures, the rock, and the clouds, emerging into the sunlight by the giant doors. He brushed a layer of snow and ice from the stool, for he had been gone many months. Carefully, he placed the encyclopaedia on top, and climbed up. On tiptoes…stretching his fingers…until they curled around the metal ring of the knocker, he pulled it out and let it fall, one, two, three times, the sound vibrated around the mountain top and deep within the temple.

A tall, thin man answered the door. He welcomed the little boy inside. He was so thin, that as he turned away into the great hall, he almost disappeared completely. The little boy couldn’t help thinking that he should eat some toasted marshmallows.
Wordlessly, he led the little boy through a succession of halls, with glittering ceilings rising high above them in silver and gold.
The boy was enchanted.
“How do you clean them?” he asked.
“The ceilings come to us.” answered the thin man, mysteriously.

All at once they entered a vast mirrored ballroom, which seemed full to overflowing with Golden thread, and in the midst of it sat an old, old woman at a Spinning wheel, working patiently, steadily. The boy let his gaze wander up the thread, and saw that it emerged from a magnificent golden spider, perched high in the roof space.
“Come here boy.” called the old woman.
The boy approached, picking his way through the golden thread.
“Can you help me sleep?” said the little boy.
“That I can.”said the old woman. “though the remedy is painful.”
The little boy took a deep breath and said;
“Then please, tell me how.”
The old woman motioned for the boy to sit on her lap, and from her pinafore she took a wickedly sharp silver needle, which she threaded with expert ease. Gold thread shimmering in the light.
“I will sew this golden thread into your eyelids, and, in time, with the gold in them weighing them down, they will become heavy and close, and sleep will beckon.”
Then, quick as a flash, her fingers went to work, and the little boy’s screams echoed across the mountains.

A world away, his mother woke to the sound, and she leapt from her bed, in the grip of fear. She ran into the little boy’s room.
“My son, are you all right?” she cried.
The little boy was sat up, in his bed.
“Mama, my eyes are so heavy, I cannot keep them open. She looked down at his flickering eyelids and gasped as she caught a glimpse of gold running across each one.
“Mama, I shall not wake from this sleep, for they are too heavy to ever open again.”
His mother held her hands to her mouth in horror.
“But my son, you are but five years upon this earth!”
“Do not weep, Mama,” said the boy, “for I have seen such wonders, and have lived a life of four score years in the blink of an eye. It is not the destination, but the journey, and the journey is life.”
And with that, the little boy’s eyes that weighed so heavy closed for the last time, and the branches scratched forlornly at the window.

THE END

Story Copyright Kev Moore 2007  – Illustration by Miki

The Frightened Little Snowflake

Ah, ’tis the season! so what better way to celebrate it than with a story? (I can already hear Bill saying , well how about with a crate of wine?)

Perry Como has a lot to answer for.....

The Frightened Little Snowflake.

High, high up in the sky, so high that you could barely hear the distant rumble of the jets as they flew across the mighty ocean, hidden above the ozone layer and tucked behind a particularly large strato-cumulus cloud, lived a frightened little snowflake.

“I-I-I-I- I’m not going Im NOT!” He whimpered. The North Wind puffed out his cheeks, exasperated. “BUT IT’S YOUR JOB!” He bellowed, and somewhere out over central Europe, a handful of migrating geese were blown off course.

“I-I-I-i’ts too far! “He wailed. his beautiful shimmering patterns threatening to collapse with his fretting. He was very scared of the North Wind, but the little snowflake still would not jump.

Many , many thousands of feet below, two little girls, Trixie and Bella, were getting tired of stud poker and were about to call it a night. Bella had cleaned Trixie out of her barbie doll collection AND all her vouchers for Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Not that Bella needed any more doughnuts, thought Trixie, crossly, if she got any bigger her parents could claim for two kids.

She desperately wanted to win her stuff back, she had a bad feeling that Santa wouldn’t visit tonight if he knew she’s blown all her stuff on cards. Besides, she always wanted to be Barbie, cos that bitch has everything.

Just then, Bella said “I’ll give you one more chance to win it all back, Trix. All or nothing. I bet that it won’t snow this Christmas Eve!”

Trixie rolled her eyes heavenward. “Like, duh, Bella! It’s so not going to snow tonight and you know it!” Being a kid, Trixie felt a primal urge to accentuate the second word of every sentence in an annoyingly sarcastic manner. Kids, (((through gritted teeth))) don’tcha just love ‘em?

Bella was going into paroxysms of laughter that had set off a judder in her ample frame that wasn’t stopping anytime soon. She went with it, doing a grotesque parody of a Britney Spears number.
“Britney pear-shaped, more like” thought Trixie

“Okaaaay” said Bella. “in the next 30 minutes”.
“But that’s even worse!” shouted Trixie.
“Yup” said Bella coveting her Krispy Kreme vouchers. The girls stood there and pointed their button noses skywards.

Meanwhile the grumpy North Wind had run out of patience. He huffed, and he puffed and with a great whooooosh sent the frightened little snowflake flying out from behind the cloud and plummeting earthwards.
“Bloody ice crystals with a regular atomic structure, they think they’re better than everyone else” he moaned, somewhat improbably.

The little snowflake had other thoughts on his mind. Consumed by terror, he was plummeting thousands of feet earthwards. It was….it was….wait a minute..he wasn’t really plummeting… he began to reason- or would have if he’d had firing synapses and a brain – He was floating!
“OOOH! This is niiice!” he exclaimed, as he twirled and whirled in the air currents. He could see the twinkling of lights below. It must be a big city, he thought. He began to imagine what he would do when he got there, perhaps take in a movie, have a few beers….

The two little girls were still staring up into the night-sky, expectantly.Their little button noses were turning a lovely shade of blue. Bella began stomping her feet impatiently.
“C’mon, I win , it hasn’t snowed!”
“No Bella! there’s another five minutes to go!” protested Trixie.

And that’s when the frightened little snowflake appeared, glistening in the streetlights. He gently floated down and landed right on the end of Trixie’s nose.
“Yay!” shouted Trixie
“Shit.” said Bella
The little snowflake began to plan his night on the town….but then, curiously, he began to feel warm. He looked at his outer extremities and…((gulp)) they were turning into puddles!
Trixie looked down cross-eyed as the little snowflake dissolved on the end of her nose.
“Life’s a bitch, and then you die” she said, grabbing her Barbies and Krispy Kreme vouchers back from a disconsolate but still reassuringly ample Bella.

Copyright Kev Moore December 2008

No snowflakes were harmed during the making of this story. Might’ve whacked a few kids though……