Nutcracker

Tom O-the-Wisp’s axe whirls.  You don’t see it fall, but feel the thud; the frenzied air fills with splinters of chestnut and fairy-sweat. “When Mab tells you to build a coach, feller, you frigging find an axe – or gnaw a tree down with your teeth, if you must,” he comments.  The nut is cracked to shards (we’re prone to this; the least wedge of reality, the lightest mallet tap).

I paint from life, when life doesn’t intrude (with rattling and moaning, jeers, howls &c.).   My brush can’t keep up.  It’s bedlam in here, Tom, I say, and sink into a reverie.  Away with the fairies, I’m telling you.

A heavy-booted tread and Tom (poor little fart) disappears.  Called away on another job, perhaps.  They work him like an Irishman.

The warden makes his rounds and lights the lamps.  The twilit garden fades and lunatic reality crowds in.  I rinse my brush.

This place could get you down, of course, but luckily I’m on day-release.