The Friends Who Never Were

There were little people living in the bottom of my garden. And, when I say little, I don’t mean a wee bit smaller than you or me, but microscopic.
 It was quite by chance that I spotted them playing football against some rather outclassed ants. I hid behind my garden shed, held my breath, and observed. At first, I thought there just a few: I couldn’t have been more wrong. One by one the little people slid down the bank of the stream that backed into my garden, and onwards into my prizewinning flowerbeds. Some danced, some sung in high pitched voices, others just laid back and took in the sun.
 I stayed there all day until it started to rain and the little folk all hurried away.
 That night I was so happy. I didn’t have many real friends and felt sure that if the rain ever stopped, I could return to them and introduce myself. It would all be such fun, such wonderful fun. But it didn’t stop raining for three days.
 When, at last, I trudged down the garden in my Wellington boots, I saw a world in tatters. The little folk lay all over the place. Some were drowned in tiny puddles that to them were like oceans, others hung from grasses and reads tangled and dead. I hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.
 When I’d gathered as many as I could and buried them under an upturned flowerpot, I made my despondent way back to the house. And there, written in the tiniest lettering in the back door’s condensation were the words ‘Thank you.’ That too soon dripped away, but I hoped it was from my friends who never were. How I hoped.

37 thoughts on “The Friends Who Never Were

  1. This is heartbreaking, Richard– to think of a 3-day rain being a sort of tsunami for fairies. Beautifully written – but so sad!!!

  2. That was touching. I’m sure it was their thank you on the back door πŸ™‚ You are quite a versatile and convincing writer. You made me feel for your friends who never were.

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