Disenthralled Souls

Local economy
By Gary Hewitt

This is perfect for shopping.

The interior’s dingy except for a few candles. I can’t say I’m a fan of the musky smell.
Here’s some books along with a few photos, pens, notepads and postcards. I’ll have the pads and biros. The tea towels will come in handy too.

The flash silver box must hold a few pennies. I put my screwdriver to work, snatch a few notes and shrapnel. A note tells me all proceeds go to help maintain the structure of the building. I toss the paper on the floor.

I head to the altar. The cross is solid gold. I wonder how much this is worth. Guess I’ll find out later when I see the muddy bishop.
There’s a door to a panel led room. I’ll have a quick nose around.

There’s way too much dust and I can do without the coughing and spluttering. I shove several books off a table and spot several envelopes stuffed with twenties.This is the holy lottery. I should be able to shut Callie up with this little windfall. I’m sorry about those starving kids but my need is greater.

I’ll grab Callie a second hand motor. George should get me a decent car for a good price. I’ll keep her sweet. I might even take the sprog to the flicks. At least I’m keeping the money in the community.

I take a couple of candlesticks to finish up. They’re not expensive but they’ll give our dinner table a bit of class.

I hurry up the aisle. I turn around, cross myself and thank God for making me a profit.

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Gary Hewitt is a raconteur who lives in a quaint little village in Kent. He has written two novels which are currently being edited. His writing does tend to veer away from what you might expect. He has had several short stories published as well as the occasional poem.

He enjoys both writing prose and poetry. His style of writing tends to feature edgy characters and can be extremely dark. Some of his influences are James Herbert, Stephen King, Bulgakov, Tolkein to name but a few.

He is also a proud member of the Hazlitt Arts Centre Writers group in Maidstone which features an eclectic group of very talented writers.

He has a website featuring his published works here:

http://ghwt9996.wix.com/tales#!

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The Ferryman
By Kay Poiro

Winklepinkers were what my mother called them. Rotten little low-necked shoe boots that pinched my toes and conjured blisters. My usual funeral shoes were stylish, but impractical for the day’s weather. Hence, the winklepickers. Reluctantly plucked from the back of my closet for the literal rainy day. Except rain wasn’t quite the right word. It was more like The Great Whomever had taken a stitch ripper to the muslin of the sky and jerked up upward, emptying gallons at a time. But I welcomed it. For what I’d done, I deserved more than pinching boots or biblical downpours.

Five years ago, when I sat on a hospital bed wearing a whisper of a gown, one hand clutching at its inadequate ties, was the first time I’d heard the word metastasized. Usually my combination dictionary/thesaurus was a faithful friend (having escaped high school English by a blink), but thanks to the set of my GP’s mouth and his “sadness for a stranger” tone, no dictionary was needed. Context clues. Gotta love them.

I stepped out of his surgery and out under a hanging, grey sky. A vanilla sky, my mind pointed out. I wondered if Sir Paul looked into a sky like this as he strummed those first notes? And how many vanilla skies did I have left? I would do anything to live. Anything. I wandered the parking lot, savoring a few more breaths of vanilla air. I rounded the corner of the building and that’s when I saw him. Occupying the space in a grassy smoking area. Impossibly thin and towering. Hands clasped behind his back. Head tilted toward the amassing clouds. Stacked boot heels floated mere centimeters above the lawn. Being near him was like being in an oven, peering through the Plexiglass window as otherwise solid objects swam lazy circles in the suffocating hot air. “It’s just not fair, is it? I mean, it’s a real bitch, right? This whole…” He made a sweeping motion with a white hand that ended in jagged yellow fingernails. Working nails. The world swam with sudden heat. “It’s a bitch, but I can help.”

And help he did.

Remember that 80’s earworm about not paying the ferryman until he got you to the other side? As the preacher finished, my mind drifted. Everyone eventually paid. Be it the ferryman, the piper, the poor kid who disinfects the slab after your corpse expels its last treasure. My ferryman had made good on his end and soon I’d find him standing on that soft bank, hand outstretched awaiting payment for services rendered.

My cramped toes wailed from the toe box of the boots. A tri-cornered flag appeared in my lap. Mourners milled under the tent, engaged in hushed awkward conversation while waiting out the storm. When the heat washed over me, I didn’t dare look up. Instead, I focused on the red, white and blue in my lap. Between the flag and me, a milky hand appeared ending in gnarled working nails. The palm slightly cupped, expecting. “For services rendered,” he said.

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Kay Poiro is a playwright and screenwriter currently based in Los Angeles. He was inspired to write this story after seeing a man standing alone in a park and smoking.
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