Friday Micro-Fiction

 JINK

~

Little Ben toddled into his parent's bedroom, sippy cup held in both hands, as he headed for his mother's side of the bed where she lay silent, eyes shut.

A slice of morning sunlight caressed the three-year-old's cherub-like cheeks as it filtered through the partially drawn curtains of the bay-fronted bedroom, illuminating tiny dust motes as they swirled with the toddler's eager padding footsteps.

Ben stopped at the bedside, gazing at his mother's pale face. He tentatively patted her hand as it lay upon the bed sheet, fingers partially curled as if holding something precious and fragile.

Raising his sippy cup, Ben carefully pressed the mouthpiece to his mother's ashen lips, as any three year old could, and said, "Mama jink," but the watered juice simply trickled from the corner of her mouth and down her cheek.

Ben didn't understand. The look of bewilderment and confusion etched into his little face crushed Ben's father's heart as he gently picked up his son hugging him tightly, tears running down his face.

"Mama's gone to heaven, Ben... no more wake up."

~

I leave you with the brilliant Lewis Capaldi and "Fade".

When the World Sleeps.

Copyright © Mark R Kelly 2025

When the house sleeps and the streets lie still, midnight arrives like a tide, carrying memories I never outgrew. There is a strange kind of mysterious magic surrounding the midnight hour. On one hand it's the beginning of the new day, but on the other it's the dead of night.

Some regard it with superstition, others consider it the 'hour of magic', a crossroads between today and tomorrow. Although midnight wears the witching-hour badge in many old stories, the veil between midnight and 4 a.m. is often said to be thinnest, when the night is ‘up to no good.’

For me it is a place of calm and inner peace, when the rest of the household is settled and asleep. No disturbing TV noises, no traffic droning by, no dogs barking in the distance, and best of all, night's blanket of silence laid over a sleeping world.

Friday Rain, Dark and Dreary. What to do?

 

Copyright © Mark R Kelly 2025

In the muted half-light allowed by the canvas of a grey palette, otherwise called the sky, the soft hiss of rain blown against my window vies for attention over the gurgling of running water flowing out of the downpipe from the roof guttering. Every so often an audible 'splat' of excess water hitting the garden paving stones below my window tells me one of two things: it's really chucking it down outside, or my guttering needs unblocking. I opt for a third reason - it's a combination of both.

Work at the clinic this morning was enjoyable. It's lovely to have people in for treatment who you find yourself aligning with on so many levels, and as a result, the conversation flows effortlessly, punctuated with laughter - which, during a sports massage session, when trigger pointing someone's piriformis, is no mean feat.

Memories from 1970's Childhood.

Copyright © Mark R Kelly 2025

This morning, whilst brushing my teeth, and getting ready for work, my mind - for reasons unknown -  tugged out a childhood memory from under the dusty covers of a seldom visited corner of my mind.

Oddly enough, it was a memory of one of the kids that lived in the same street, on the opposite side, about ten doors down.

We grew up in an area of Cardiff called Canton. The street itself - Hanover Street - was a Victorian terrace, one of hundreds. Built from red brick and limestone, each tiled porch's limestone arch was ornately carved, the inner walls of which had glazed tiles mid-height, then white-washed to where a central sconce secured a light operated from within the hallway inside the house behind the front door. 

Grim Discovery.

Copyright © Mark R Kelly 2025

November 2nd, 2025 - a mild, day, laden with heavy rain showers. My task is clear: empty the tumble dryer in the garage. Nice and simple.

As I approach the side entrance to the garage I see it. My heart sinks and I groan inwardly. A scene of devastation, an act of nature once more played out in our garden. I can't help but scour the rooftops and the sky above. I know it's pointless, yet I look anyway.

It's obviously fresh, the feathers are dry and still gathered where stripped. I lean in to get a closer look. No blood. So the Sparrow Hawk took its kill elsewhere in order to consume, but not before stripping the poor Sparrow of its feathers. The biggest frustration - I was sitting at my pc in the back room and have a perfect view of the kill zone. 

What am I to do?