A Teapot by Mark Shearman

 

According to ancient Taboola, whatever it was you were touching when you die you reincarnate as. When somebody thinks of you, you get to come back for a day. I just put down the teapot, as I was having a eureka moment when my heart jolted to a stop. Hey, I can’t complain I could have dropped the teapot and ended up on some landfill or recycled into an obscure piece of art placed on a wall in some filthy bookmaker’s toilet/masterbatorium.   

Now I get to watch my widowed wife frolic and fornicate with all in sundry. She still hasn’t learned the etiquette of eye contact whilst having oral sex. Mavis, that’s her, no longer uses me for tea after buying one of those fancy coffee machines you order cartridges online which reflects our relationship in the last bleak, sexless years.  

I sit on the windowsill with wilting flowers protruding out of me. Sharing my shelf are various ornaments all who have their own reincarnations. This makes it all the more embarrassing watching her mooching around the kitchen in her flabby underwear and my daughter she’s just the same still living at home at the age of twenty-five, truly the fat grapefruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.  

Yes, I sound bitter, but they always ganged up on me sending me to an early grave with their complaints about my taste in music, how much money I bring home and how much alcohol I consumed to numb my brain from the anguish they bestowed. Now I get an eternity of a different type of torment was this some sick spin off-circle of Dante’s. 

When I’m feeling low, Brendan reminds me that depression is an anagram of ‘I pressed on’. Brendan has come back as a greyhound. Mavis bought him at a flea market for two quid he was an antiques dealer and unbeknown to my wife he is a rare Staffordshire worth a fortune. I shouldn’t take comfort in this but the conversation she had with Beryl, our flirtatious, naturist, sexagenarian next-door neighbour, has me flipping my lid.  

She was cheating on me with the paperboy – fucking paperboy. The worst of it is he is a thirty-year-old flunky who can’t hold a job down and has a drug problem. I know this because the cheapskate bought her a pink vase called Gemma, she’s to my left. He stole her from a charity shop on Greenwich high street.  

“Ain't that right Gemma.” 

“Yes Dave.” 

Gemma doesn’t speak much, we don’t hear from her a lot, I don’t think people think about her that often. Anyway, like I said it could have been worse. I could have come back as the second to last thing I was holding which was an unwashed, gnarly sex toy. A strong ass-smell pulled my attention to the back of the sofa where I found it. I think it belongs to my neighbour. 

“EWW,” said Gemma.  

 I shudder to think about that.

No More Cheek Kisses TV Comedy Drama Pilot Script

 

Spoils of the Moon -- Flashback

 

“Got news for you, son. He’s not your real brother,” said Brian.

“What?” Greg’s eyes pinched. He let out a sigh.

Greg’s a kid again, living in the Midlands, scared. The streets are littered with rubbish. There are strikes and power cuts. It’s bible black – the air’s thick with choking smog.

In the mornings, Greg’s Mum goes to work. If he or his brother leaves and shuts the front door that’s it: they have to wait until she gets home to be let back in. It happens often. Sometimes they sit on the damp doorstep and talk. Other times they cuddle, freezing, hoping she’ll come home soon but knowing she’s more likely gone off on one of her benders.  

Pitch black, a glimmer of light from the remnants of a fire smouldering in a tiled Victorian fireplace. There were piles of shoes spilt over each side, drying out. Latchkey kids, grey jumpers, junior school ages, fumble and toeing the shoe pile, hurriedly rushing out the door. Rain tensed their shoulders as they stood there thinking.

"Have we got everything?" said a young Greg.

Smaller boy Jordi, nodded yes, shivering.

"Sure, gonna shut the door? She took the key this time," said Greg.

Jordi turned to walk, as the door slammed, he stopped, turned and stared at Greg who looked down at his own shoes.

Jordi saw the horror. They both knew what this meant. He was wearing one brown shoe and one black, and even worse...

"Our Sunday best. Mum will go mad," said Jordi.

Silence between them as they splashed through the rain. Jordi leapt every puddle. Due to the massive holes in his soles; his socks were already soaking.

The whispers about Greg’s dilemma spun through the school playground. A crowd gathered at a rack of steps that went up to a bricked-up door. There was a gap between the stairs and a wall creating a tunnel. Boys already took position on the steps, ready to kick him in every part of his body, vicious and lusting for violence. Greg approached as the chants from the crowd got louder and intimidating. He hated being the centre of attraction. Jordi didn’t mind. He grabbed his arm and saw the fear quivering on his older brother’s face. Jordi removed his shoes and swapped with Greg, who ashamedly let him.

"Alla Prima, hey. Greg."

"Alla Prima. Jordi."

Jordi rushed the tunnel of death, stopped at the back wall, paused and took a moment to reflect on his decision. The rain had stopped and through the chinks of sunlight he felt a modicum of hope as he breathed in the petrichor. He stuck his chin out and made his way back out. The further you went through, the higher the steps. Jordi pushed through a gauntlet of wet leather shoes and fists. He emerged out the other end, red-faced, dishevelled, blood-smeared, fat-lipped, and black-eyed. As he was patted on the back from some of the older boys for going through with it, he managed a smile at his brother. 

"I watched in fear. He said he did it because he wanted a day with dry feet and said he was amazed at how many of them also had holes in their shoes from when they were scuffing his face. Don’t tell me he’s not my brother," said Greg.

The things I learned when I was seven and eighty five

The year my grandad died; I met a troll crossing a bridge the day I became a scout. I stowed aboard a pirate’s ship of which there was no doubt. The captain wore a wiry beard and preferred to swish and shout. I foraged for a pot of gold and made a pot of tea. I learned to laugh, sing and cry and ponder why we go to heaven. I learned all this in my grandma’s stories the year I was seven.

 

Summoning fourscore and five I crawl out of my bed – age is golden I’ve heard it said. I fish my teeth from a whiskey glass and pull my trousers over my... hips. My skin no longer fits. As I get smaller so does print. I curl on my specs and head for the loo. I sit and ponder; we learn too late as the night falls how close we came to distant shores. Snatching at the sky, desperate to see a sliver of hope of a world that could be. Don’t give in if the pace is slow success achieved with another blow. Regardless, I’m able to grin is it too early for a sip of whiskey or gin.