It’s Funny How Beer Can Make You Feel Immortal.

By Simon Woodward

 

His fingers clattered against the side of the beer can making a kind of clunking sound as he attempted to grasp it. Since his accident Dean had had many troubles achieving even the simplest tasks including having a can of beer.

Grasping the can as hard as he could will himself, he tried to lift it. As usual, the weight of the can made it slip easily between his fingers; he just didn’t have the traction these days. Lifting a can of beer to his mouth was no longer a simple task.

Dean resorted to a two handed clench. With one hand he manoeuvred the can across the top of the bar to the edge and with the other he caught its base. Using his two hands he lifted the can to his mouth and tipped. Beer spilt over his teeth into his mouth and down his chin, much to his ire. He still grinned though, he couldn't help it, but it wasn't a naturally happy grin. As the beer emptied from the can into his mouth it splashed on to his chest, down his legs and over his feet. This is the way it had been since the accident.

As the beer can was now empty he picked another from the bar, this time deciding to forego the single-handed attempt. Again, as he poured the beer into his mouth, the same result ensued; he got covered. The dark pits that were his eyes seemed to darken further.

He had persevered with this last habit even though he knew it was pointless. The fire during the car crash had stripped his body of flesh, leaving only the blackened bones of his skeleton. But, as was his way, that didn’t stop him drinking and although he got no pleasure from it, he just had to carry on. What was the point in stopping anyway; it couldn't harm him any longer.

 

Good Soldiers Look After Each Other

By John Debenham

 

Barry was a good soldier so when I was paired with him on recce patrol, though my heart missed a beat, my brain told me that it would be allright. I didn’t know then if he knew about his wife, Annie and me. If he did he didn’t show it.

Of course it should have been me that got shot. It would have solved a problem - I had always fancied Annie but she had chosen Barry and didn’t want anything to change. Once, after too much wine and Barry away, things got out of hand. She told me afterwards it was a mistake, she would never leave him.

Barry pulled rank, as I knew he would, insisting that he go first and I cover him. Somehow I got him back into the doorway and radioed for medics and back-up. I could see that he wasn’t going to make it. I comforted him as best I could saying ‘If only you had let me go.’ He just said hoarsely with a forced wry smile, ‘I’m saving you for something special.’ That’s the last I heard him say before the medics took him.

Things went from bad to worse. What was left of us had to retreat to join the mainstream at Dunkirk. Without Barry I don’t think I would have made it. Marching, or rather stumbling, along a dark and seemingly deserted road his face appeared in front of me, he was mouthing at me ‘get off the road,’ then, just as suddenly; nothing! Maybe it was the shock but I fell into the ditch beside the road. The other five, too tired to notice, walked on to be caught in a blaze of headlights from within a clump of trees and promptly taken prisoner.

What seemed ages after the German truck had gone I moved on, keeping off the roads. It took me three weeks to get to Dunkirk and the beach. Anytime I was in danger or needing to make a decision like, ‘was it safe to sleep in that barn?’ Barry’s apparition appeared to guide me. Even on the beach, about to go to a boat, there was Barry standing beside it waving me away. I got onto another one only to later learn that my first choice had suffered a direct hit.

I arrived in Dover with a raging fever, which hospitalised me. After a fortnight, recovered and ready for discharge, I was told I had some visitors. Barry walked in. I froze! This was no apparition. Beside him stood Annie holding her new baby. I was stunned, “Barry you were… How! What?”

Unsmilingly he spoke, ‘I told you I was saving you for something special.’  

The three Military Policemen behind them moved forward to arrest me for attempted murder and took me away. Somehow Barry

 

Clearing Some Space

By Simon Woodward

 

The old man sighed heavily as the morning light tripped his eyes open for the last time.

Slowly he manoeuvred out of his bed, gritting his teeth; grimacing against the pain of the arthritis. I will do this, he thought. Nothing was going to shake his resolve.

Eventually he made it. After entering the shop he painfully passed his last tenner to the assistant.

“Want it wrapped?” the assistant asked.

“No.” he replied.

 

Shuffling out of the shop he left to visit his wife using the spade as a crutch. People stared, they didn’t understand; the State had taken everything.

NHS. Pah! He thought angrily.

Finding a bench to sit on, he waited for darkness and when it arrived he summoned every last bit of his strength; then started.

Lightning bolts of pain shot through all his joints, especially his hands and back.

Blotting out the pain as much as he could; he focused on this one last task.

Because… if I’m going to be buried, the old man consoled himself once he was done, I needed to clear some space.

He gradually eased himself down into his wife’s now empty grave, and lying there… he shut his eyes — waiting