erniemalley
He looked at his Son. “Son, this world we live in … it’s just one big generator. The Sun, Son, provides the fuel, and the world produces …” He paused for effect: “Well, everything under the Sun, Son. Son?”
“Dad?”
The boy looked confused.
“What is it, Son?”
“A generator?”
“Good, you can go now, Son.”
The boy went off to play in the fading light.
When the power went down and the light in the cabin winked out, she was not immediately concerned. It would be the third time in as many weeks. She waited for the diesel generator to kick in and the heating to be restored.
But the faint report of gunshots changed the meaning of everything.
“Get up!” she said urgently. “Wake up!”
The man lying beneath the window murmured, rolled over and brought his hand up to wipe his face. His eyes remained shut.
She was already at his side, her hands on his shoulders, shaking him into consciousness. “F-ck off, don’t touch me!” he hissed.
The generator had not kicked in. It sat mute in its own small room adjacent to the cabin, and apart from the gunshots the world was blissfully quiet.
“Please, they’re coming!” Tears were forming at the base of her eyes. She touched his face pleadingly. “Please, you have to fix the generator now!”
With no warning he was on his feet and gone. Snowdrift blew in through the open door. She tensed her muscles against the cold wind and her right hand reached instinctively for the ring on her left, turning it around and around her finger.
‘What’s this?’ she said.
His face gave nothing away: ‘It’s a knife,’ was all he said.
Sunrays shone brightly through the kitchen windows and the crescent shaped knife received them at just the right angle to dazzle them both with its reflective brilliance.
She gripped its twin handles in tightly clenched fists. ‘It’s a mezzaluna,’ she said. And her mouth tightened around the word before she continued on. “It’s a –“ and here she broke off and peered down at the knife – “a Wusthof tempered stainless steel 25 centimetre mezzaluna,” she said, reading the inscription on the blade.
‘For cutting pizza slices,’ he said.
‘We buy our pizza home-delivered!’ She was shouting now. ‘IT COMES SLICED. THEY DO THAT FOR YOU!!!’
‘Maybe I want smaller pieces!’ he was shouting now too. ‘Anyway, I like the crescent-shaped design!! It reminds me of the moon. I LIKE THE MOON!’
‘What’s this?’ she said.
His face gave nothing away: ‘It’s a knife,’ was all he said.
Sunrays shone brightly through the kitchen windows and the crescent shaped knife received them at just the right angle to dazzle them both with its reflective brilliance.
She gripped its twin handles in tightly clenched fists. ‘It’s a mezzaluna,’ she said. And her mouth tightened around the word before she continued on. “It’s a –“ and here she broke off, peered down at the knife, and read – “a Wusthof tempered stainless steel 25 centimetre mezzaluna,” she said, reading the inscription on the blade.
‘For cutting pizza slices,’ he said.
‘We buy our pizza home-delivered!’ She was shouting now. ‘IT COMES SLICED. THEY DO THAT FOR YOU!!!’
‘Maybe I want smaller pieces!’ he was shouting now too. ‘Anyway, I like the crescent-shaped design!!’ he said. ‘It reminds me of the moon. I LIKE THE MOON!’