Tales I Tell Myself — Vol.3
Conversations with “The Father” — Part 1
I’ve written four separate pieces in a similar vein to this first volume in a conversation between two friends as the witching hour strikes and ghosts from the past, present and future meet up once more, and in the shadow of the “Grand Old Lady”. I’m sure this has literary legs and a longer fictional story ripe for writing, but just not me!
I love the premise.
There’s a “twist” already in place for eyes that see.
It’s loosely based on my Dad but not about my Dad.
And it’s a short story that fires my imagination and makes me smile.
Here’s Part 1 which also features as chapter 23 of my latest self-published book “Tales I Tell Myself”.
Feel free to play around with the story.
Pay me back in magic beans someday when you’ve shaped it into a literary winner.
See you around.
"Conversations with "The Father" Part 1" - original article
"Tales I Tell Myself" - available via Amazon
Conversations with “The Father” (Part 1)
30th November 2022
It’s a bitingly cold, crisp and slightly misty moonlit night
“The Stranger” — Is that you Father?
“The Father” — Aye son.
“The Stranger” — It’s good to see you again. I see you haven’t given up smoking yet then! Have you been watching the World Cup Father?
“The Father” — What, kicking around a bag of wind for the faithless few? No son. I serve my Lord, and God’s work is never done.
“The Stranger” — So God’s work is standing on a bridge at the witching hour, wistfully watching the river flowing on by through a musty cloud of cigarette smoke?
“The Father” — Yes son, and well, you’re here aren’t you?
“The Father” is dressed in all black but not of the biblical cloth. A long trench coat hangs just below a three quarter length, a trilby hat slightly askew, hands interchanging from reaching into his pocket for another match and another smoke, or held behind him in a relaxed openness at odds with the biting cold of an evening turning to morning, and through the witching hour when even the singing of the owls in the nearby trees appear real.
“The Father” — What’s on your mind son?
“The Stranger” — How do you know anything is on my mind?
“The Father” — Well you wouldn’t be here otherwise, would you?
“The Father” lights another cigarette, lighting and extinguishing the match flame in one fluid movement of a lifetime of satisfactory practice. He’s also expectant of the reply. Whether these two old gentlemen wish to acknowledge it or not, they have been friends for more than a lifetime.
They know each other very well.
“The Stranger” — Oh you know me Father! Forever making an existential crisis out of a minor drama!
“The Father” — It’s clearly not minor my son. I see the story burning in your eyes.
“The Stranger”, clouded in his own cigarette smoke, indistinguishable, no real features to speak of, an almost ethereal presence, inhales deeply, sighs even deeper and as he catches The Father’s eyes for perhaps the first time on this bitingly cold Winter’s evening turned morning…….
“The Father” — Let’s take a walk son. Toward the church. You know how I love that view.
“The Stranger” — Me too Father. Me too.
The old friends walk to their favourite part of the bridge, the gently arching centre. From there, they both smile a satisfied smile. The church bells sing its quarter hour song. Evening has become morning again.
“The Stranger” — What becomes of memory, Father? Who carries the flame when we’re no longer able?
“The Father” — I’d like to think we pass these memories through the generations son, but in today’s throwaway society, I’m not so sure.
“The Stranger” — Photographs become memories. Memories become stories. Passed from generation to generation. You can’t delete the memories I’m seeking Father, but I’d still like to see them again.
“The Father” — I read a quote once, something akin to taking a photograph as a return ticket to a moment in the past.
“The Stranger” (laughing) I call photographs a “time machine”.
“The Father” — I call them life.
The two old friends simultaneously light another cigarette, a final cigarette, for their onward journeys. They’ll see each other again, in another lunar month as another winters evening turns into a freezing misty morning.
“The Father” — It was good seeing you my son, and I know what vexes you and why. You have to let it go son. The memory is still there. You just have to keep it burning through that beautiful son of yours. You know its intrinsic value and so did that grand old lady.
“The Stranger” — I know Father. I just wish I could see that silly 6 year old’s smile in that photograph again.
“The Father” — Maybe you will son. Maybe you will.
Thanks for reading. I hope this message in a bottle in The Matrix finds you well, prospering, and the right way up in an upside down world.