THE PUDDLE

A wee short story 

 On the first day I never noticed, why would you notice a puddle after a torrent of rain?

On the second day with the rain sun chased to another place, there it was.  It lay directly under an overflow pipe, so I assumed, or my logical brain assumed that was the cause and decided to ignore what my eyes knew, that the puddle was a perfect circle.

On the third day the sun still shone, the overflow refused to drip, and my brain agreed with my eyes.  Looking down into the puddle I saw nothing, and nothing reflected back.  Puddles do reflect don`t they?  I googled, they do.

On the fourth day I decided what I had really decided the day before.  I wouldn`t call the council, or the local university to investigate this....Discovery.  For that`s what it was, my discovery, and in a world where every corner of the globe paths have already been trod, is there anything left to be explored?  Even space the so called final frontier, is it?  Aren`t we primed for an eternal nothing or planets waiting patiently for our arrival?

On the fifth day I stood poised at the edge of the puddle, foot dangling over its surface.  I dipped my toe and watched the puddle lap my shoe, tried not to think of the possible dangers, but only the unknown possibilities of never witnessed before lands.  My shoe submerged further should have hit the path underneath, but nothing.

I pulled my foot back, my shoe quickly as dry as my mouth.

On the sixth day I lay on my bed for the whole of the morning, then with a sudden rush, and almost head over heels down the stairs, I rushed outside.  I was ready. 

The puddle was gone.

On the seventh day I lay half awake, half asleep on the couch, TV rolling around the clock in the corner.  I glanced back and forth, slept, and glanced and both my brain and eye saw as one.

Breaking News:  Police confirm they are investigating claims that a woman vanished, witnesses insist, after jumping into puddle.

 

 

THE HOUSE OF SLEEP

 

The opening of a series of interlinked stories.

               

A living room quiet except for the buzz of many TV`s chronicling the rise and fall of governments, disaster and joy, the lives of the God famous forgotten like Ozymandias in death.

Still except for the silent rhythmic exhale of breath throughout the house.  A woman late twenties, crepe full length Victorian dress embroidered with roses lay on her back, arm draped down the side of a couch, hand tapping as if playing a piano in the still air.  

On the chair by the drawn curtained window a roman soldier, sword at the ready across his chest, helmet as pillow. His legs and bare arms covered in barely healed scars.  A boy of maybe ten, in damp dirty clothes, face never washed, a crude carving of a soldier archer with bow but no arrows held tight in his hand, lay sprawled on the other couch opposite the lady.

In the centre of the room an empty rocking chair with the impression in its base as if someone had just stood up and left the room.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed a date:  3^rd….March…1848. At the third chime a click of a door opening in the hallway and the woman on the couch opened her eyes.  She yawned and rubbed the sleep away from her eyes and sat up slowly. The corset under the dress pinched her sides, a sudden pain in her stomach.  She breathed out slowly till the pain was gone.  Her neck cracked, her shoulders ached, she stretched her legs out in front of his, as the living room door opened. 

Footstep impressions on the lush carpet, then the rocking chair groaned under a weight, and began to rock back and forth.

`Sit by my feet. ` Said a voice an echo of the woman`s own.

The woman struggled to her feet and with difficulty manoeuvred her bell shaped skirt and layers of petticoats.  She managed and sat at the feet of the rocking chair.

` Tell me how you died. ` Said the voice.

Lucy began….