richard.rippon

Surreptitiously

It became apparent that my Dad was slowly and surreptitiously trying to move in with us.

He had already left several bags of clothing at our house, while he redecorated his room. Then, one night in June, he brought over a series of large, heavy, wrapped gifts. He asked: could we hang onto them until our son's birthday, as he had no room in the nursing home.

It wasn't Christopher's birthday until October.

Later, we became curious and tore one open, finding his bedside cabinet, complete with electric razor and pile cream. In another, a cardboard box full of books. Another with clothes. Yet another contained his photo albums full of sepia pictures fixed with corner mounts.

I rang the home and spoke to the manager. I didn't like the guy. I could picture his pinched little face as I spoke to him. There had been a disagreement about Dad's cannabis use. He'd started selling some to his friends there and this wasn't going down well. He hadn't been asked to move out as such, but his behaviour was deemed unacceptable. My dad was moving out.

My dad, civil engineer, builder of bridges. University swimming champ. Father of three, Grandfather to two. The septuagenarian pothead. A man with too much pride to ask to stay with us, who'd also gift wrapped his dirty underwear with a label reading "To a wonderful Grandson".

He appeared at the house in time for dinner, this time with a suitcase. He ate with us and told us a story about my Mother ice skating while drunk at Christmas time. Afterwards, they cleared the dishes and left us alone. He walked to the back door and sparked up a miniscule joint.

"What's with the weed, Dad?"

"You know, son. It helps me with my condition"

"What condition, Dad? There's nothing wrong with you"

"Yes there is. I'm old. Old and bored"

"Can you not smoke though, when Chris is around?"

He shook his head and focused on some undefined point up the garden. A period of silence followed.

"I'm proud of what you've done you know. Your job, this place, your wife, your boy. You did enough messing about, but you've pulled yourself around"

"I know Dad"

Later, I carried his suitcase upstairs and left him in the spare room. Then I went down and found and unwrapped his pyjamas and returned them to him.

"You don't mind, do you son? It might take them a while to decorate my room you know."

"It's ok Dad, they can take as long as they want"

I Found Him by Alex Nodopaka

Winter 2008

Found and Lost

Last night, I found where all the lost things go.

I was in the kitchen and I dropped my bottle opener, which skittered across the floor and underneath the fridge. I had to ease the fridge out of it's place in the alcove to get it, and when I did, I noticed a starry patch of dark blue light emanating from behind. I investigated further, shifted the fridge entirely and there it was. There was a rough hole knocked through the brickwork, looking out onto a swirling mass of things. It was like the milky way, rotating slowly if front of me, spiraling infinitely, each point, not a star, but an object long since given up for lost. Some things were near enough to see in detail, others mere dots in the distance, too far off to make out.

I watched, mesmerized, as the objects passed by; a football, a huge set of keys, a paperback book and a roll of dollar bills with a silver money clip. I leant my hand in through the opening, but couldn't reach. Then, I noticed things I recognized. A rubber dinosaur I threw up on my first school roof which I was too small to retrieve. A watch which I'd pleaded for as a Christmas present and lost almost instantly at school. Concert tickets for The Happy Mondays which had disappeared from the mantelpiece in 1989. Keys to my Mother's Renault 5 which I thought had gone down the back of a girlfriends couch. They were all there. I thought of sitting up all night to see what else I could see (Shergar ?, The Lost Ark ? Lord Lucan ?), but the alcohol had gotten the better of me.

The next morning, it was gone entirely. I had lost all of the lost things.

Also, I noticed later, a bottle of whisky was missing from my shelf.

Richard Rippon lives in the North East of England with his wife and baby daughter where he also works in an aftershave factory (is it any good ? no it stinks). He has also appeared in Cautionarytale.com and some of his other work can be found here: www.myspace.com/richrippon.

current - submissions - archives - contact us