After work George

500 word fiction for Sproutings issue #150 and acknowledging the death of Glen Hansard

Today I have Sproutings Issue #150 for ye.

It’s a 500 word short story that I wrote last weekend. It met prompts given at a competition run by a site called “Not Quite Write.” I gather they run a podcast, too, but I’m not much into podcasts.

The prompts I found a bit cryptic, though around them I wrote two stories, one of which I submitted. This is the story I did not submit. I called it “After work George.”

I can’t remember the prompts exactly, except that a main character I think needed to be either a strong extrovert or a strong introvert. And the word “moon” needed to appear.

Here it is.

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Before that, a heartfelt thanks for all the readership and support here over the 150 issues now. 150 issues, almost always issued on a Wednesday morning (Melbourne time), since January 2024. Much time and much thought have gone into creating these and I appreciate very much anyone who reads.

I would like too, to acknowledge the unexpected and untimely death last week of Irish singer, songwriter, activist, connector, organiser, father, son, brother, husband and spirit Glen Hansard. Who knows what will befall any of us next? I continue today in that spirit. Below, I include a video of G Hansard singing.

Make art, make art.

Thanks.

Here’s the story I did not submit:

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After work George

But George doesn’t go to meet them at the pub, after all. Instead, he packs up his things, walks alone to the train station and swipes his card at the gate. He walks to the platform that will soon see the arrival of a train that will take him home.

No, George won’t go to the gathering tonight. Unlike in his school days, unlike in his young adult life, George won’t be going tonight.

This is new to George, who in his mid-life, has come to understand himself more clearly than ever before. He understands himself in relation to other people and, more accurately, he understands himself in relation to other people’s ubiquitous wants and needs. Also, George has a secret.

“Humans are herd animals!” he’d been told.

“Join a club!” he’d been told.

“Get out and socialise!” he’s forever being told.

But no. None of that is for George. He has no interest in people. He understands that he is better off without people and their deceptions and cruelty, twists and manipulation. He knows about the human condition. He knows that everything is temporary and he knows that things will change. George is not sad. George is at peace.

On the train, George smiles to himself. Reflections of scenes inside the carriage bounce from each window. He rests his head against the glass to better observe the shadowed shapes of terrace houses, yards and narrow streets outside, of the darkened Collingwood Flat below.

George smiles. To the east, the full moon hangs above the sandstone hills of Kew like a Christmas tree decoration.

Tonight, he will ride.

Tonight, George knows that he will be met again by his imaginary flying horse. George knows that he will be visited by his imaginary flying horse that he calls Harry Collier, after the champion Collingwood footballer of the same name, who starred in the 1920s and 1930s. He knows of no way to explain or predict when or why this might occur in advance. George only knows that it has happened before, and tonight it will happen again.

Tonight, he will fly.

A lightness in his chest illuminates George as he walks floodlit streets from the train station to his house. Past the big old gum tree, past the old milk bar, past the small boat that somebody parked in their front yard many years ago.

At home, George stands in the kitchen and holds a glass of water when he hears a bump on the back door. He goes to open it.

Outside, Harry Collier stands in the backyard, and he nods. George puts down his glass and steps outside. He closes the back door and walks over to the horse.

“Hello, old boy,” he says.

The imaginary flying horse called Harry Collier lets George climb aboard, bareback. He stamps his foot.

Tonight, Harry Collier and George fly. They fly high above the street, high above the city, high above the world. George smiles.

Tonight, they fly.

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Here is Glen Hansard with that wonderful song used often at funerals or wakes, himself offering the parting glass.

Go well.