Castle View At Easter

The Space Between

                                         Image by Jan Marco Gessinger  Pixabay

The Space Between

There is a space

between moments

where we slip to hide;

where we do not touch.

There is a space

between frames

where plots are lost;

where heroes cannot fly.

There is a space

between moving pictures

where we pause;

where leaps are not made.

Between the socket and the plug

we are powerless and words fail.

Breathe deep now. Make next happen.

Tony Noon

PLAIN SIGHT

PLAIN SIGHT

“ I have a name , but I can’t tell you”. 

The man was at the next table , chair at forty five degrees to his latte.

His red jacket draped possessively around the next chair.

The girl did not look up. She was writing in a small notebook . 

“ Not allowed , you see” . No response. “ It breaks the rules.”

“ The rules ?” the girl said without looking up.

“ I’ve already said too much.” he continued. The smile she gave was sarcastic.

“ More than your life’s worth , I suppose? ”

 He chuckled.“ Not quite… it wouldn’t matter anyway”

“What wouldn’t ?”

“ Giving you my name...you’d never find me...couldn’t google me.” he said , now staring out of the window.

“ I wouldn’t anyway. Couldn’t ,anyway…” she went on. “ I don’t have a phone.”

“ I’m not there , see” he continued as if he hadn’t heard “ I’ve been removed.”

“ I’m not into all that digital stuff” she said “ I keep myself to myself. 

The only place I share my thoughts is right here” . She tapped the notebook emphatically with her cheap pen.

“ You’re in there,alright  ” he said. “ Every appointment you ever made , every holiday you’ve been on...there’s a record”.

“ Well yes , but …”. He stopped her. “ I’m not there” he reminded her. “ I’ve been removed. 

 I can go anywhere , be anybody”.

“ Be... nobody ? ”

“ If I like” he went on.

 There was a short pause, then she asked him outright “ Is this some kind of a wind up?”. 

She  peered into the dark depths of the cafe, looking for cameras,but all she could see were tables full of ordinary people engrossed, as ever, in their mobile devices.

“You really don’t know who I am, do you?” he asked.

With an ironic flutter of eyelashes,which he totally ignored, she told him she led a very sheltered life”.

“ All these people do” he said, nodding towards the rest of the cafe “ they’re busy claiming their points for spotting Red Jacket ”.

“ Some sort of a game,then ” she deduced “ You travel about and people get prizes for spotting you”

“Points...” he said “ There’s only one prize”

“...and your reward is to become the invisible man” she laughed.

“ That’s the gist .” he said “ It wouldn’t suit everyone,of course. Mostly people want to be someone. A digital profile can be some sort of comfort… a testament,maybe…”

“ Not for me ” she said “ I’d be happy on a desert island”

He chuckled and rose from his seat to leave.

“ Don’t forget your jacket .” she said.

“It belongs to you” he said. As he made for the door he told her “ You won it ”.

Tony Noon

Highly Commended in Writers Forum Magazine's February 2020 Flash Fiction Competition

THE WALK

THE WALK

So. I clipped the dog back on the lead and set off up the hill towards home. It had been a long night.
My 21st birthday party. Just family and friends in a small upstairs room at the British Legion.
I don’t remember what we did for music , but there were sandwiches and drinks...lots of them.

When the bar closed we moved the party across the way , to our terraced house on Victoria Street.
Most of the crowd had already said goodnight , but my closest mate Steve , who lived next door ,
came in for a nightcap , and so we had another hour or so revelling into the small hours.
It might have been about 1am , when I shakily said I would take the dog out and get some air.

It was mid March . The night air was cold , but at least it was dry. I tripped down the step but the dog
knew the routine and gently guided me. Down the street , around the corner, turn right at the funeral
director’s bungalow , then down the hill , past the dairy and the unmanned telephone exchange. 

At the bottom of the hill , the road ran out. The high tech of the telephone exchange looked out over
redundant allotments , long overgrown and beyond that, the pit railway which carried coal from a huge
metal bunker to nearby power stations. The rumour was that twenty large wagons of coal were burnt
in seconds … but there was always plenty more.There seemed to be plenty of most things. It was 1977.

Anyway, at this time on a Sunday morning , everything was quiet. I unclipped the lead and let Lassie
have a wander around in the undergrowth. I would just have a sit down on the edge of the pavement.
Just for a minute or two to let the cool air clear my head.  

The dog was sitting beside me when I looked around . I clipped the lead on , stumbled to my feet and
we set off . Up the hill , round the corner and up Victoria Street. There seemed to be a mist forming ,
but as I got nearer home , I could see a light from our open front door. My Dad was on the doorstep .

“ Where the bloody hell have you been ? ” he said “ You’ve been gone four hours…”

Ah well … at least I was a grown up now... 

Old Churches In MidWinter

Light Holes.

Our galaxies of being swirl

and swing around them

like moths,sucked in

when night is darkest.

Faith is made here or renewed.

Left on deposit as we wind home   

it accumulates,extending gravity

until an unexpected shining

calls us in.

Tony Noon

MY SUMMER OF FOOTBALL

Left Back … in the dressing room mostly. Sad to say I never mastered the beautiful game , but lessons were learned. First things first. I know what a football is. No , not the often multi coloured sphere you see skidding across your 4K screen . I mean a proper football.

Stitched together pieces of brown leather , surrounding an inflated rubber bladder and tied with a lace…

We called the ball a Casey and it was a rite of passage to be given one for Christmas along with the dubbin you had to rub into it to make it waterproof.

The boy with the Casey could be king for a while...even if he was generally a swot.

That’s how I came to be playing on that fateful day. It was late summer and school was calling , but I had my Casey and it was sunny ,and we had the whole recreation ground to kick around on. It wasn’t long before I was persuaded to join in with a few other lads , just running and passing. Pretty soon we had enough boys and shirts to create a makeshift football pitch and two small teams. Somehow , I ended up in goal , so it was hard to appreciate the dribbling skills of the other boys. Still it was all very energetic , and things were going rather well until I heard someone shout “ My Ball !” …

I launched myself out of the ad hoc goal mouth and across the pitch. Time stood still as I lunged for the Casey. “ Its MY ball “ I shouted to all and sundry and walked off the pitch.

The playful kicks and punches I received in return taught me a lot about fair weather friends,

but I like to think the other boys learnt something useful  about ball control too. 

Tony Noon

FAR AWAY HOPES

Far Away Hopes

It’s midnight in the town square 

on a cold December night

and the church looks down again

upon a tree arrayed in light.

A host of ancient customs

have converged to make this show.

Good wishes and intentions dance

within it’s kindly glow.

But it’s all so very far away

from that desert stable birth. 

It’s hard for us to understand

what those hopes and fears were worth.

Still there’s magic in this winter air

alive with lights and trees

and the message in their meeting

is of life and love and peace.

Tony Noon