A giddy, flighty little fable from my last little book... The Gecko The gecko sat on the yellow-washed bathroom wall. Dangerously close to the soap at the side of the bath, his subconscious told him to move. But, he decided, he would not leave the bathroom tonight. Not after today’s ignominy. He had been basking in morning’s glow, this morning, in the kitchen of the beach house, next to the mint and geraniums in the windowsill. That was when he encountered the first of the malevolent beasts residing in the house. The beasts he alluded to were not the human inhabitants, but the feline ones. The first (early morning encounter) was Virginia: an endearing little Calico, who idealistically loved every living creature, just like a hippy. Every living creature barring small, crawling things, that is. The gecko came within a whisker of being gutted by the transitorily possessed white-black-and-tan pussy before breakfast. Through some miracle, he managed to hold on to his tail. As he crawled deftly out the kitchen and sharp left into the laundry room-cum conservatory, he was pounced on by a wiry, fat-bellied ginger nutcase of a cat with fiery eyes: Macey. A former runt of litter cat, Macey was mean to every living creature, barring none. Not a totally hopeless case actually, Macey had a large portion of her meanness to blame on her ongoing battle with eczema. And creatures far lesser than cats surely at some disparaging stage would become miserable, if not mean, because of something as annoying and incommodious as eczema. Anyhow, he managed to circumvent the ginger meanie in the conservatory, mercifully; probably as the ginger meanie was still half asleep. He slipped out the back door and followed the outrageously long hosepipe right round to the front of the house. In front of the front door was a smorgasbord of daisies, bougainvilleas, rosemary, bulbinella, mesems and all in clammy, inviting potting soil and dirt. Whilst crawling out of the bougainvillea, the gecko walked straight into the stare of the eyes of evil itself: Beelzebub. Beelzebub was an ageing, robust, looming ginger brute: broad about the beam, but fleet of foot (especially for his age). Normally he would have had the gecko for breakfast. Only, this morning, he had a touch of reflux and that apoplexy quickly restrained him from just playing juggling tricks with the gecko – his first, and only, primary, intention. Our gecko escaped unscathed yet again and hurtled away, only to find himself among the man-placed decorative objects on the sea-surrounded east side of the house. A Peter Pan statue stood gazing at the sea. He scuttled up the gay boy and down again and into a half wine barrel, filled with bits of wire and junk, and even rusted pliers. Scuffing a part of his underside on the rusted junk, the gecko bounded out of the barrel and through the sliding doors into the lounge. Almost immediately, a colossal Somali with a mane like a lion sprung at him. Like a bolt of lightning, and that from a sofa-reclining position! The Somali monster was called Sarkasian. Another oldie. But nippy, hulking, crafty. You wouldn’t say so to look at him. Generally he slept or indolently skulked around. His penchant for fresh meat, like his reputation, was measureless. Thank the amphibious gods; Sarkasian missed snuffing the gecko – once again, by the proverbial whisker. Surely no more… our hero prayed to The Lizard King. But before his prayer was answered, or not- the smallest, youngest, most zealous imp of Satan’s lot pounced. Flash. A terrifying tortoiseshell cub. He clubbed the gecko headfirst into the glass door. Just moments before, the Flash was lying under a green art deco chair, all four claws ripping at the fated chair’s underside. Carefully and stealthily removing a claw trapped in stool stuffing, Flash had I-spied-out-the-corner-of-his-eye Sarkasian attempting to attack a small smidgen. In a second the smidgen was his. By now tailless, and more than a little muzzy, the gecko resigned himself to his immutable fate. But he was fortuitously saved by The Lady Of The House, who high-heeled her way into the lounge and threw her weary self onto the sofa. As she perfunctorily leaned over to find the TV’s remote control, she knocked over an empty glass left and forgotten on the divan’s side. The clatter resulted in startling the primed tortoiseshell, and he nervously hurried away and jumped out a nearby window. The gecko made his escape. But now, the gecko reminded himself, the bathroom was a secure place and a port in the storm from which he would not budge. Not tonight. When The Lady runs her bath and lights the candles a little later, he’ll find a perfect vantage point and enjoy the ambience and warmth of his sanctuary. His favourite thing in all the world was to watch the shapely woman lather her whole body with the soap he’d only this minute been squatting on. * (Copyright of this story belongs to the author, Tony Ridgway. From: The Disenfranchised Goldfish & Other Fairy Tails)
Posted on: Tue, 24 Jun 2014 15:38:37 +0000
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