Stories from The Stables – #6 Falling Gracefully
Continuing the ever popular series Stories from The Stables, Carolyn Ward tells of falling (un)gracefully
A Short Story – The White Dove
Dad walks over to me. He’s carrying several slices of bread.
‘Hi, Grace.’
‘Hi,’ I say, giving him a look which I hope he understands means, I am so not impressed with this new pre-birthday arrangement.
Dad doesn’t seem to have noticed my look. I wonder what he’s doing with the bread.
‘For the ducks,’ he says when he catches me staring at it.
I nod and decide not to mention that I am no longer five years old and that feeding the ducks in the park doesn’t exactly excite me anymore.
‘Right,’ I say, as we head over to the pond.
‘So, Grace, how have you been?’
We sit down on the bench next to the willow tree.
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A Short Story – Concrete
Cold, rough concrete beneath my burnt yellow hands, ash under my nails. I hold the butt of an already smoked cigarette in my mouth, looking hopeless. Not even the phrase, “Any spare change?” will get anybody to notice me, the old tramp of Brixton, sitting on the side of a busy main road. Every day I get unhelpful comments from young school kids, such as, “The local druggie! Ha, ha, ha…” These don’t make me feel better. It’s not my fault I’m unemployed, homeless and either drunk or high most of the time. Or is it?
People ask me how on earth I find all the money to buy over fifty cans of beer a week and a rather large variety of harmful grasses from drug-dealers. Sometimes I wonder too. I’ve only ever stolen something once. Twice then. OK! I’ve stolen eight times! Where else am I supposed to get money from (not including vulnerable children’s purses)? But, I’ve been thinking… Maybe, just maybe, it would be a slight possibility – just a slight one – that I could consider starting afresh. By ‘afresh’ I mean a new life in which I give up all my addictions, that are slowly rotting my bones, and make lasting friendships, that won’t break. Ever.