The toymaker

He had a little wooden workshop at the bottom of the garden. I don’t think anybody ever saw inside, except his wife who wandered down to the shed several times a day with mugs of steaming tea.


As children we were always intrigued to know what went on inside. We used to clamber up his garden fence to try and see though the little dusty window pane. We would occasionally see him with a paintbrush in his hand or holding a piece of wood up to the light. Strange noises emanated from within. Grinding sounds, sawing and the hissing of sandpaper on timber. Often the air was filled with the scent of pine or the heady smell of lacquer.


Every Christmas each child in the village received a little painted wooden toy in the stocking which hung from their bedpost. We were always told that Santa had made it especially for us. It might be a little toy car, or a brightly painted wooden whistle. We never questioned it even when doubts began to creep into our minds about the existence of such a character. And such is the naivety of children that it never occurred to us that these lovely little presents where in fact coming from the mystery workshop at the bottom of the gentleman’s garden.


The years passed by and many of us had children of our own. The tradition of the toys was enjoyed by a whole new generation.
He lived to a good age and carried on working in his workshop until the day he died. On the day of his funeral many of us were invited by his wife to walk down to the little wooden workshop at the bottom of the garden. She threw open the doors and for the first time in our lives we saw inside. Hammers and chisels and screwdrivers hung from hooks on the walls. Rows of little pots of paint were lined up like soldiers along the shelves. A lathe sat on a bench as shiny as the day it was new and saws of every shape and size sat below.


And in the middle of the shed, sitting on a pair of trestles was a coffin. It was no ordinary coffin. It was intricately carved with smiling faces, images of racing cars and tractors and sheep. It was a riot of blue, red, green and yellow and sitting on top was a wreath of wooden flowers.


None of us were asked to, but each of us took with us one of the toys which he had made for us all those years ago. And later at the church, one by one we each placed our toy on the lid of the coffin.
It was probably our imagination playing tricks with us, but we all thought we heard a faint sound of grinding and sawing, and the hiss of sandpaper on timber. And I’m sure I smelt the scent of pine and the merest hint of lacquer.










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Invasion

You didn't ask, you just walked into my mind. An uninvited guest.And then you started moving things, personal things, my thoughts , my memories. I was no longer my own person, you took over. I don’t remember inviting you. My life was ordered, regulated. I was contented, but for reasons I’ll never understand I stood aside and let you change everything, things which until then I’d felt comfortable with.Then as suddenly as you arrived, you walked back out. Now all around me is chaos.I watched as you invaded my privacy. Why did I allow you to invade my mind?

A few words of wisdom

the accordian player

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A crowded street. People passed by hardly aware of the busker performing in the shop doorway. Suddenly the piano accordion player slumped forward. As he fell a flash of light bounced off a steel blade protruding from his back and in seconds his white shirt blushed blood red.

He collapsed in a heap like a puppet with broken strings, the instrument beneath him emitting a wheezing breathless groan.

As the curtains swept across the stage the audience remained silent for a second or two before erupting in spontaneous applause. It was the interval and they made their way to the gilded bar where glasses clinked and chandeliers sparkled; a roomful of amateur sleuths each with their own idea of who committed that dastardly deed. The shrill bell rang time, and they made their back to their seats to await the outcome of this grisly tale.

Was it the man with the dog or the boy in the hoodie? Could it have been the lady in dark glasses or the beggar with the white stick? In thirty minutes or so, they all would know the answer.

*

The audience left the warmth of the auditorium for the chill of the night outside. In a doorway opposite the theatre, an accordion player squeezed a jolly tune. He suddenly stopped and the crowd turned and stared.

the book of secrets

The book was thick and black and covered with dust

Its boards were bowed and creaking

I prised the pages wide apart

And heard the sound of speaking

I can’t explain exactly what happened that day. It was surreal, almost as if it wasn’t happening at all, only it was. I heard a voice I thought I knew. You know how when you hear a recording of yourself you hardly recognise your own voice? Well, I suppose that’s what happened then.

I heard the voice, presumably mine; asking the questions I’d always wanted to ask but had never dared to, perhaps because I was afraid of finding out something I’d rather not know, or perhaps because I knew I could never face knowing the truth. But in those few moments I learned the answers to many unanswered questions and several mysteries that I’d carried within me for all those years.

I closed the book and a cloud of dust rose into the air. As I did so I swear I heard the sound of laughter. The sort of laugh that suggests that everything I’d been told was not necessarily the truth.

I tied a ribbon ‘round the book

And placed it on the shelf

Where it will sit until I need

More secrets of myself.

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What a Carry On

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At the time of writing Sunday Scribblings appears to have not appeared! Never fear - Keithy's here! Just jump on the logo below and join the new kid on the block, Carry On Tuesday. A new prompt is ready and waiting for your participation

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Just a quick note to mention that my friend Rosey has participated in Fiction Friday this week and she's a little upset that no one has read her story yet! It's not a bad piece and worth a glance at least. You'll find it here

Dreamin'!

There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams

Sleeping dreams in which I travel to places that only exist in my mind

Sometimes paradise, sometimes places I thought I’d left behind

Sleeping dreams where I revisit places I’ve been, places long forgotten, places seldom seen

In sleeping dreams I meet people from long ago, people I love, people I know

In the long dark hours my mind runs free free to run and free to fly. In the long dark hours I touch the sky

In quiet moments of the day I often wander far away,into the dreamscape all around, oblivious to sight and sound

In waking dreams I often walk into a tree and bump my head