The Halloween Mirror

For the last three weeks, he’d been shaving. He was proud of that, I mean most of his friends had started a year or two ago. He hadn’t been able to find enough hair on his face to convince his dad to let him use the razor, up until then. 

So, that morning, he did what he had done for the last 20 days, he went into the bathroom to shave. He pulled the mirror his dad always used, down a little, and started to………..

Except there was one thing missing. One important thing.

He was missing. There was no reflection in the mirror. Oh, sure there were the walls and the shower behind him, but nothing stopping their reflections. He didn’t exist – as far as the mirror was concerned. He stupidly turned the mirror over to see if he was reflected on the mirror on the other side. He wasn’t.

He ran back into the bedroom to ensure he wasn’t still asleep and dreaming. But no. The bed was empty and the mirror in the bedroom was the same. No him.

He could hear his mother downstairs preparing the breakfast and he was unsure as to what he should do next. If he told her, she’d think he’d been on some drug or other – not that he had ever tried anything – but she tended to think the worst of all his exploits. He popped his head out into the hall, to see if the coast was clear – and another weird thing happened: he could see his reflection in the hall mirror …..except…..except…it, or rather his reflection, stuck a finger up in a rude gesture and ran away. Well disappeared out of the side of the mirror, that is.

He chased it to the mirror at the bottom of the stairs, but all his reflection did was laugh and run on to the next mirror. He knew there was a mirror in the kitchen and his mother was also in there. He walked in, trying not show any panic, and wished his mother a good morning. She asked if he wanted toast, and he said he did. She wasn’t looking, so he had a quick look in the mirror and sure enough his reflection was there. His mother turned around and scolded him for being so obsessed with his appearance. “You boys,” is what she’d normally say, and then laugh.

When his mother turned around, the reflection started to make stupid faces, and so he responded by giving a rude gesture back. It was as his mother was buttering the toast, that the reflection reached out from the mirror and grabbed him – so hard and fast, that he didn’t realise what was happening at first. The reflection pulled him into his side of the mirror. Then it jumped out into the kitchen.

“Your turn,” it said. “See how you like it.”

The reflection was in the kitchen getting toast from the boy’s mother. ‘Doesn’t she know it isn’t me?’ He thought. But she obviously didn’t. The reflection smiled back into the mirror – and because his mother was watching , he thought he should smile back – like a good mirror should.

Then the reflection and his mother left the kitchen.

 
And the boy? Well the boy and his unshaven face were stuck in the mirror wondering what the secret was to escaping. And how long he might be there. 

bobby stevenson 2018

Things That Didn't Make The News Today

Mrs Jacobs, from the other side of town, sat and talked with a homeless man, bought him a cup of tea and left him with a smile.

Sarah completed her Chemo today and her husband bought her fish and chips. She said she would leave them until later, then she kissed him.

John gave his last pound coin to a little old lady collecting for dementia.

Annie and Sam baby-sat for the young girl next door so she could go for a job interview.

James stopped his car and gave three people a ride into town on account of the heavy rain.

Mark talked a young girl, who wouldn’t give her name, from jumping from the viaduct railway bridge.

Margaret donated a pint of blood.

Colin stopped his bicycle and chased off some bullies who had been picking on his younger brother.

Mary brought some soup to the old man who lived on the corner.

And all around the world, the newspapers were printing that there was not enough love in the world.

bobby stevenson 2018

Being There

To hold the sky from falling on your head,
To make you safe as you dream in your bed,
To stop the world from breaking your heart,
To help you build a most beautiful start,
These are the things I wanted for you.

But being there,
Just being there -
Is the best I can do.


bobby stevenson 2018

My Squeaky Heart

He was nervous – really nervous - as he met her as she stepped off the bus. He wasn’t nervous in Sara’s company – no, sir – that is the one thing he was totally sure of. He loved Sara, no two ways about it. She was his soul mate and no mistake. She made the stars and the sun shine brighter. When he was with Sara, nothing and no one else mattered. He’d always hoped for a relationship like that.

Always, and life had granted him that wish.

He’s first met her on a train. She had just boarded at a station in the suburbs and as he looked over at her, their eyes had locked. Truly locked – like they had always known each other for eternity. He knew it sounded corny, but that was the only way he could explain it. They were destined to meet.

He had brought other girlfriends home to meet his parents, but with Sara he had waited.

Waited, so that it would happen on the right night, at the right time and then they wouldn’t be able to stop themselves from liking her.

She was special all right, all his friends had said so. ‘Two peas in a pod’ was the phrase one of them used. So what could go wrong - and, more to the point, at 27 did he really need his parents’ approval?

They couldn’t get married. They might try to achieve it, but the chances are they would be found out.

There was nothing wrong. At least they didn’t think so. They were a young couple who had met in the city, fallen in love, and now wanted to spend the rest of their lives together.

It was his mother who answered the door. She was always at the door when her curiosity got the better of her. He’d even seen the curtains move a little as they walked up the drive. He could just imagine his mother elbowing his father in the ribs – as if to say, ‘she’ll do’.

And she probably would have done – do, that is – if it hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. The meal went as well as could be expected. His mother had made her special stew – ‘never fails to impress’, as she would say. Sara didn’t want to eat much. She made it look as if she was eating and then screwed up the little bits of meat and put them in her pocket. He had taught her that, something he had learnt when he was a kid and his mother was trying to make him eat up his vegetables.

“So do I hear wedding bells?” His mother had asked, only to be stared down by his father.

“Mother, we’ve only just met the girl,” Father said, kindly.

He and Sara looked at each other, then held hands tightly under the table and just smiled.

“We’ll see,” said Sara.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” he added just emphasise the point.

“You haven’t eaten much. Not of my special stew.” Said Mother.

They both tried to reply at the same time, with the same excuse: “Not hungry”.

“That’s a shame,” said his mother. “That’s a real shame.”

Perhaps it was this that put her on the defensive, but his mother had that determined, steely look in her eyes – that said,’ no one rejects my special stew, something is not quite right here.’

And she wouldn’t let it go.

“Where were you born?” Asked his mother, in a manner more akin to a secret police interview.

“In this country,” said Sara.

“Well, that’s a relief,” said his father. Actually meaning, at least you’re not one of those horrible immigrants.

“Where are you parents?”

“Mum, are all these questions, really necessary?” He said.

“I’m just curious, it’s not everyday you bring home a beautiful young woman.”

“I would have thought, he was punching above his weight

with this one,” said his dad.

“Allan”, shouted his mother. “Don’t ridicule our son in front of folk”.

He was going to wait until they were better acquainted before he had told them both, but as things were taking a downward spiral, he thought he would just blurt it out.

“Sara, is……..” , he started.

“A man,” said his dad (in jest, he hoped).

“Allan!” Shouted his mother. “Of course she’s not a man.”

“Mum, she’s a Bio,” he spurted out at last.

“What the flipping heck is a Bio?” Asked his dad.

“She’s a robot,” he said.

Both said together, “a what?”.

“Sara is a robot.”

The two of them weren’t expecting that. No way. Not the robot thing.

“You’re going out with a tin can?” Shouted his father. “Why don’t you just shag a tin of beans?”

That one hurt, but he knew he wasn’t the only one who loved a Bio. Wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

The curtains were still moving (and probably more elbowing was going on) as the two of them left in a hurry down the drive and in to an uncertain and probably difficult future.

bobby stevenson 2018

Dexter and Eugene

What do you do with your life, when you have all the money you will ever need? Now in some cases that doesn’t mean it’s a lot of money. Sometimes folks are happy with a few coins here and there, because a roof above their heads, a warm bed to sleep in and food in their stomach is all that is required. However, in the case of Dexter Foster it was about all the money in the world. 

He was a dollar millionaire by the time he was nineteen years of age. He never knew his father and he didn’t take this as a great loss in his life. By the time he was twenty-five, he was worth over half a billion. Shrewd investments, and his helping in the development of a new way of thinking with computers put him at the top of the tree.

He’d had partners, but most were after his money and his power – so he found he became cynical in his belief with the souls of others. Money couldn’t buy love but it could buy companions, and he made do with that for a few years. When Dexter hit fifty, he went through a kind of mid-life crisis – he realized that he was rich, lonely and had lost the hunger that had put him where he was.

One sunny Saturday morning, he took a few thousand dollars from his wallet and went down to the streets below his penthouse and gave a hundred-dollar note to every homeless person he could find – not that they were hard to find in this city.  

Some smiled, some got up and shook his hand, a couple used it to light their cigarettes – and then he came to Eugene, and he was different.

Eugene didn’t want Dexter’s money, no sir, not a cent interested him. What he wanted was a favor. He wanted Dexter to cut Eugene’s hair.

“Why can’t you take the money and get a barber to do it?” Asked Dexter.

“Because I would have to pay them, and I want you to do it because you want to. You don’t get much kindness down here on the streets,” said Eugene.

Dexter felt that was a fair comment and so nodded that he’d do it.  He bought a bottle of water, some shampoo and scissors from a near-by Seven Eleven store, and sat Eugene on the wall and began to cut his hair.

Now this is where Dexter shocked himself because he was actually really good at it. Eugene was content at the job he had done and so was Dexter, and that was what started it all. 

Every weekend, Dexter would set up a hair salon in the back of a yard off Eight Avenue and he’d spend the Saturday and Sunday cutting the hair of homeless folks. He got to know all about their lives and stories. Some had been professors, some soldiers, one a ballerina and several had been doctors; all of them had fallen on hard times, mostly through no fault of their own.

Then one Saturday, a few years later, Dexter failed to show at the little yard at the back of the building. Scott, a younger guy, who had recently started getting his hair cut by ‘Dexy’ (as he called him) grew concerned and went to talk to a cop who always stood on the corner.

The cop sent someone around to Dexter’s apartment on Fifth Avenue where they had to break into the place. ‘Dexy’ had suffered a stroke and had probably been lying there for a while. Dexter never got his ability to speak back. He lay in the hospital for several weeks before he died, but at night the nurse would let some of the homeless folks in to sit by Dexter’s bed. One of the girls, Evelyn, would make sure his hair looked neat and tidy and would cut it when it was needed.

By the time  Dexter died, he had given away most of his money to charity and after his funeral, he instructed a lawyer to give every homeless person in the area a hundred-dollar note.

He also left a little store to Eugene, who used it to let folks sleep in the upper floor and in the shop below Eugene started a salon to cut hair for any homeless person who wanted it.

They still talk about Dexter around this way – ‘the man who had cut poor people’s hair’.  It was just a little kindness in a world that so badly needed it.

Bobby Stevenson 2018