#20

Summer Solstice 2007 at Stonehenge, England. The druids were scantily clad so I doubt our subject was left by a druid. The drummers must connect with their instruments so I doubt it was one of them who discarded our glove. Those dancing around the Stones would be too warm to require gloves. I can only assume it was one of the other sunrise spectators who left behind this glove. Drugs, sleep deprivation and pagan fervour could all be contributing factors. Any number of the stoned, nitrous inhaling trippers, hippies, drunks or crazies could have left it behind and yet it appears too 'normal' to belong to any of the above. I believe this glove was, in fact left behind by one of the 'normals'. Yes, one of the average joes who thinks spectating such an event is a worthwhile way to spend a mid-week evening. No work the next day so they are either local or unemployed - a student perhaps, on their way to Glastonbury and yet searching for even more festival atmosphere to inhale..
All speculation of course. Perhaps you know the truth?

#19

Anthony sends this report from the distant shores of Australia:

8am. Tuesday after a long weekend. Ice on the road and misty breath in the air. Cars rolled in to the carpark as the workday started. Their occupants either stood around and chatted, hands in jackets, or scurried inside to the air conditioned haven. But did anyone look down? Did anyone see beyond what they were doing?

Roger is a straight shooting tradie. A near-new insulated riggers glove, he was looking forward to the wet ropes of a winters morning. Like any apprentice, he was just a little too excited on his first day. Unfamiliar with the morning procedures of his owner, Roger was awestruck – he’d never been on the roof of a car before! This wouldn’t last long. Sharp realization preceding a short burst of panic - he realized that while he looked like a hand, he never did nor ever would have the strength of a hand – before the car accelerated away and Roger blew off the roof. He tumbled desperately over the back of the track, only wishing he could grasp at the tools, handles and toolboxes that could have prevented his demise. Then thump –he hit the ground as his heart hit the floor. His dreams of being a trademans best winter running away like melted ice off a road as he watched the ute and it’s driver roar off to another day of work.

With not even the marks of one days work on his palms, Roger lay frozen. Lifeless. Cold. His dreams shattered. A single glove is useless to a tradie. Roger will never work again. The mental scars of a moment will last for a lifetime.