Daniel Addercouth

In the Afterlife, My Father Is Finally Content
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I can just make him out, standing in one of his beloved fields, probably McIntosh’s Park. The sun is shining and clouds are drifting overhead, casting their shadows on the fields of barley on the other side of the glen. My father is moving a flock of sheep from one field to another. In the afterlife, his dog is perfectly trained and obeys his commands, anticipating each new action with keen intelligence. The ewes flow effortlessly through the gate, just like in the sheepdog trials on TV. It never went so smoothly in real life. My father cups his hand around his pipe and holds his Zippo to the wooden bowl. There’s no wind, so it lights easily at the first attempt. I see him smile as he watches something in the distance. Maybe he’s spotted a buzzard, or he’s listening to the call of a curlew. Or perhaps he’s just content because for once he’s finished his work early and can head back to the farmhouse, sit in his shabby leather armchair next to the Rayburn and listen to Radio 4, possibly take a nap. I move closer, call out “Dad.” There are so many things I want to ask him. How did he decide when he was finished for the day? Did he feel satisfied in the evenings, or did he fret about the next day’s tasks? But he just stares into the distance. He takes a final puff on his pipe, whistles for the dog, and starts walking in the direction of home. There’s no way to get through to him. No way at all.
 
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Blood Lines

My father and I sat in the tattoo studio flipping through the folders. There was a strong smell of disinfectant and a faint aroma of ink. Dad kept looking up and frowning at the tattoo artists with their multiple piercings. It had taken a lot of work, but I’d managed to persuade him to get matching tattoos. I told him it would bring us closer together. I told him Mum would have wanted it. “See anything you like?” I asked, pointing at the images in their clear sleeves. “I was hoping I might find something with personal significance,” he said. “Like the Massey Ferguson I had when I first took over the farm, or the Aberdeen Angus bull my father sold to the Argentine.” I flicked through another couple of pages. “How about this one?” I said, pointing at an illustration of the Pictish symbol that was carved into the standing stone in my parents’ village. “Or this?” The design showed a map of Scotland with a red dot marking the location of the farm where my father grew up. Dad shook his head and returned his attention to the newspaper crossword. Leafing through the designs, searching for something that held significance for both of us, I thought of the flap of inked skin I’d once seen in a formaldehyde jar in Berlin’s Charité museum. I wondered if, after my father’s eventual death, the doctor would ask if I wanted to hold on to the tattoo as a keepsake. I recalled how my father would skin a dead newborn lamb and tie the fleece around an orphan, so the familiar smell would fool the mother ewe into accepting the stray. As a child, I too sometimes thought I must be adopted.
 
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Nothing Reminds Me of Home

like the sickly smell of an animal corpse. I grew up surrounded by dead lambs, eye sockets hollowed out by crows. When I saw my father take his rifle from the cupboard under the stairs, where we kept tinned food and candles for blackouts, I knew a beast was so ill there was no point calling the vet. My father would be sombre when he returned. He’d eat his supper in silence, write in his farm diary instead of listening to the radio. Our livelihood depended on death, yet he didn’t like killing animals. When, years later, he was bed-ridden and dying, I couldn’t help thinking: if you were a cow, you’d have shot yourself by now.
 
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Reddit Nothing Brings Me Joy

It’s impossible to hit middle age and not feel relief. Finding ourselves somewhere solid. Wasn’t that the point? You might ask whatever happened to our shattered dreams, but some stories are meant to be unfinished: the rental car, the gas station restroom. It makes for good material. At the end of the day, I know my place. Turns out the spheres were playing music all along. We just weren’t listening. 
 
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In Autumn, I Can Already Smell the Snow

I investigate the limits of the city, seek out painted facades. They say the winters here are moderate, but I fear an early frost. I miss pleasant sounds. I crave sandstone and clear skies. I come to the lake and ask for forgiveness. I practise nocturnes on the piano. I watch for urban wildlife. I write postcards to friends, but fail to post them. The buses here never arrive, and the old men wear too much make-up. My dreams are full of car accidents and births. I have seldom seen so many ruins, and I am tired of orchards. I watch through uncurtained windows as my neighbours play video games. I worry about the locked compartments in the public library. I pray to a different saint each day. 
 
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Predators and Prey

We were all excited about going to see the swans at the Centre. None of us had ever seen a real one before. They’d advertised it for weeks in advance on the screens. My dad warned us not to get too close. “They’ll break your arm with a swipe of their wing.” Mum said in the old days all the swans belonged to the monarch. We asked her what a monarch was and she started talking about something called a queen, but we were none the wiser. When we got there and saw the three birds swimming around the artificial pool in the Centre’s main plaza, a chill ran through me. It was eerie to see a real animal, even though I knew it was all bioengineering. There was a smell I’d never experienced before, like rotting food. The swans drifted around the surface of the water like white ghosts. They looked like they knew where they were going, but how could they? When I held my appliance in front of one to make a recording, the bird hissed at me, as if it could tell what I was thinking. I’d read about animals, of course, and even seen old videos of them, but I never imagined they would be conscious. That they might want something.
 
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Creative Destruction

At the office, my team was forced to take part in a workshop where we had to build Lego creations representing the biggest challenges we faced. Emma made a model of our boss blocking her ideas. Steve’s structure illustrated the challenges of combining office work with child care. The works were a bit on the nose, what with the little desks and Lego people raising their arms and everything. I wasn’t sure how to depict a creeping sense of existential angst, so I built a representation of my future poetry collection instead. Everybody crowded around to get a better look. “What on earth is that?” asked Fiona. “It’s a representation of my future poetry collection,” I said. “I didn’t know you wrote poetry,” she said. “I don’t,” I said quickly, realising I shouldn’t have admitted my literary ambitions at work. “It’s so … beautiful,” someone said. “So fragile, and yet strong,” another person added. “What do you think, Glen?” the workshop facilitator asked. Glen was staring at my model. Instead of answering, he broke off the top of my structure with a doughy hand. “Stop,” I said, lunging towards him. Several pairs of hands held me back. I strained at their grip but was unable to prevent Glen from tearing apart my model piece by piece. As I watched, I realised my co-worker was the same Glen who’d smashed my beloved Lego castle when he came for a playdate at the age of six. Robert, the farm worker from New Zealand who lived with us for a summer, had built the castle with me. It was so intricate, packed with turrets, balconies and secret passageways.
 
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Psychopomps

And here we are again, making small talk about God. You tell me private equity is discovering the afterlife. You’re concerned about a lack of psychopomps. I extract an egg sandwich from the tray, you accept a top-up. You point at my father’s Rotary. Don’t see many young people wearing watches these days. I’m not young, but I nod. He knew the old prayers by heart. My daughter bounds over, hugging her soft toy like a floatation device. Foxy needs to go to the loo. I follow as she skips along the corridor. My heavy brogues sink into the mossy carpet. You are new now, blessed by God.
 
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Blood Alcohol

And here you are again, on the edge of the woods at dusk. These fields had names once. A fox skulks in the undergrowth. The petrol station lights were the last thing he saw. Your coffee is cold now. Recorded chatter the only kind you can stand. Amidst the hogweed, the sodden remains of a stuffed bear. Parallel ogees smear the road. Plastic wrap tourniquets your arm; the addition of a date. He’s riding his bike in the evening sun, endless circles around the barn. He is four years old. He will always be four years old. 

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Daniel Addercouth grew up on a remote farm in the north of Scotland but now lives in Germany. His work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, The London Magazine and Vestal Review, among other places.