This week´s stories
Solitude
Tired of being ignored by the faces through the TV screen, he moves up close and pleads: “Why, why, why don´t you notice me?” But they continue as before, talking amongst themselves as if he wasn´t there.
He moves closer still, till his nose touches glass, and sobs: “Why, why, why do you ignore me, can’t you see I´m just like you?“ Sometimes he´s sure they can see him, but still they carry on as if he doesn´t exist.
Then it happens again: one of them stands up, approaches him from across the room, and reaches out a hand. He hears the click, and darkness consumes him.
The Prodigal Son´s Son
“Once I was lost, then I was found! But then I was lost again!” exalted the prodigal son upon his return from debauchery. He continued: “Now, son, let me be servant to you, rather than a lowly pig-herd in the village.”
“I have no use for an aging servant,”” said the prodigal son´s son, who had done quite well for himself in the brick and mortar trade since his father abandoned him. “But I´ll prepare you the spare bed, and you can sleep it off here tonight.” The old man slept soundly, while the young man called his uncle with the news.
When morning broke, the old man joined his son at the breakfast table, poured himself a glass of orange juice, and picked up the morning paper. “Actually father,” interrupted the prodigal son´s son, “today we can make merry, but tomorrow there are some things around the house and garden I think I could use you for.” The prodigal son smiled, and the following morning he was gone.
Playing the Odds
We reached cruising altitude and my neighbour remarked how strange it is that people fear flying. “Any number of things can happen down there,” he said, “that we’re safe from up here.” I didn´t want to talk to a stranger, so I turned my face to the window and fixed my gaze on the clouds below.
Refreshments arrived. As I unlocked the tray in front of me, the man addressed me again. “When has anyone ever died – of natural causes, I mean – in a plane?” His words trembled, sweat coalescing on his brow. But never, I thought. It´s never happened, not as far as I know.
I drifted into sleep after the food, and dreamt that I asked my neighbour if the cabin air was hurting him too, and that he panicked, grabbed my head between his palms and tried to kiss me, and his breath stank. I woke, and the seat next to me was empty. It still was when we landed.
Some days later I read a story in the paper about a frequent-flyer bludgeoned to death by a flight attendant he´d befriended. I can’t say if the victim was my neighbour, but I found it odd that the murderess handed herself in immediately, stating that the chances of being executed for murder are only half those of dying a natural death in an aeroplane.
