Fell in love with the Hozier album and wrote some short, short stories based on the song titles on the album.
Take me to Church
John’s left leg was in the bin. He was relieved. Hopefully the years of pain were over. No more need for painkillers and their all consuming side effects. The stench of gangrene gone. Innumerable courses of antibiotics, futile attempts to clear infection after infection. A clean cut, the surgeon sold the plan to him. Below knee amputation. John would have to work hard to complete the rehab after. ‘Look at all those paralympians’ the surgeon said, ‘you’ll be fine.’ John laid in bed as his leg laid in the bin. It was a surgical waste bin with a yellow plastic bag lining it, emblazoned with hazardous waste signs.
Not where John’s left leg expected to expire. He knew he had been a troublesome limb. He tried not to be, failed. The attention had been great. Lots of massaging of cream when his skin was dry. Respectful, gentle patting dry after the shower for him, leftie. Not the vigorous, uncaring rub the more robust right received. Then when the skin was sore and broken, bleeding and oozing, bandages. Nurses and doctors fussing over him, discussing him how best to care for him. Attention went on for years, leftie loved it. Now he lay in a bin, a hazardous waste.
No funeral for him. ‘Take me to church,’ he wanted to cry out. No blessings. No prayers. No tears as he was lowered into the ground and the rosary intoned at the graveside. Leftie was adrift. At no point did the surgeon say what would happen to the removed limb. He could feel the hate directed towards him. Hate for the years of pain he had caused. He knew he was weak. His self serving actions resulted in his death. Lefties few remaining seconds of nerve function made him aware his bag was being lifted out of the waste bin. The bright yellow bag was tagged and taken to the incinerator.
Angel of Small Death & the Codeine Scene
Hannah carefully wheeled the drug trolley through the door into the six bedded bay. Her light blue uniform clung to her plump, damp curves as she sweated her way through the drug round. Cap askew, Hannah was not the the model nurse Matron wished she was. Pills were doled out in a slapdash fashion. Injections were swift and occasionally off target. Glancing in the mirror Hannah attempted to tame her frizzy brown hair under the cap but it was futile, as always. Sighing she pick up Mr Blakes drug chart.
Mr Blake’s heart was racing. One day post hip replacement he was in agony and today they were threatening to get him out of bed! His pale hands clung to the bed sheet and ineffectual green counterpane. If he didn’t let go of them he could stay in this hospital bed, forever. There she was, the angel with the drugs. Those little white pills.Two round routes to a place where he was not suffering. Dihydrocodeine. Hannah was rooting through the boxes on her trolley. Mr Blake did not know her name was Hannah. To him she was Nurse Morris. He did not see the inability to place her hand on the correct box in an instant and give him his two pale pills. He did not know that she was meant to have the drugs in alphabetical order for speed and efficiency, Matrons orders. Mr Blake just knew she had the power to give the drugs to him. Smiling at her shakily he repeated his date of birth so she could check he was he.
Hannah left the two tablets on his bedside table. Not in a medicine pot and not within easy reach. Carefully she initialled the space in the drug chart under the correct date and time for the 60mg of dihydrocodeine Mr Blake was prescribed. She had forgotten that in the past. Hesitantly, bravely, Mr Blake asked for a mouthful of water to wash down the tablets he had managed to clasp in his clammy left hand. Hannah flared her nostrils in indignation at being asked for help, but pushed his tumbler of water within his reach and she shoved her trolley to the next bed end.
Carefully Mr Blake swallowed his tablets, sank back into his pillows and waited for the pain to release some of his body back to himself. Three bells rang out crisply. Nurse Morris locked the trolley and ran out of the bay. Back to deal with the cardiac arrest her earlier drug error caused.
Jackie and Wilson
Side by side they were. Jackie and Wilson. Happy out, fed & watered. There was very little that could cause them concern to be honest. Winter had been good to them. In the kitchen on the windowsill was the best place for plants to live. There they got to observe all the hustle and bustle of family life. The petty squabbles. The biscuit thefts. The late night conversations about religion and politics fuelled by wine in those big glasses.
Spring was coming and their buds were appearing. Proudly they stood a little taller did Jackie and Wilson straining to get all that lovely sun poking through the window. They knew they would get food and attention when their flowers came. They always did. That’s what they liked. Routine, sameness and safety. They liked the radio on as dinner was being cooked. Music was better than some of that ranty talk radio stuff she listened to at lunch time.
Summer was here. Windows were flung open. Air and laughter filled the house. Inside, outside. The family were in the kitchen a little less, picnics in the garden were watchable, but Jackie and Wilson could hear less. They were not fans of that part. Then they heard a new noise. A meow.
They had seen cats run through the garden. Noticed them slink around legs and push up against hands to be stroked. They did not know to be afraid. Autumn was hot, for a change. Hottest since records began the radio kept bleating at lunch time. Jackie and Wilson knew, but they were coping, watered regularly and by the open window they were in the main, comfortable.
Death was sudden. The cat had lept onto the windowsill and started twining herself around Jackie and Wilson. They clenched their roots in their pots and hung on to the safe soil. The cat coiled onto its back between the pots and stretched to its full length, its back paws knocked Jackie to the concrete path under the window. The terracotta pot smashed, her roots lay exposed, drying out in the extraordinary Autumn heat. Framed by the pink petals of her fragrant flowers, she died.
Wilson screamed but nobody knew.