The day had begun gloriously. One of those fresh but clear types. Morning dew was hanging at around knee height - depending on the the length of your shins. The sun rose as the moon hung about to see what was for breakfast.
In no hurry. No worries.
Ribbons of light twinkled as they shone from the glass.
Davis and Rogers had near identical dwellings, you see.
Iron and glass. Modern yet classic. The salesman had said ‘these are the finest houses money can buy. You will be the envy for all that live for miles around’.
How could they refuse?
There was a catch. There always is. Though expensive, the tags which hung on these houses could be cheaper if the walls were made from glass rather than stone.
On public display. For all to see.
Nothing to hide.
They were neighbours. Once best of friends. Once of the same cloth, Davis and Rogers. The pod from which they came a distant memory as they now went about doing whatever they pleased.
Their’s was a story familiar to many.
Barbecues. Squash. Evening drinks. Lending of power tools.
Back slaps and high fives.
At one place at one time this dynamic changed. The houses were erected. Ahead of time. The pair were in awe of each other’s throw rugs and scatter cushions. And just how many inches was that TV?
The green eyed monster was born.
Suddenly Davis’ conifers were too tall. So Rogers thought, anyway. And one day, for no reason at all, it was that Rogers’ music practice (yes, drums) was a fair amount higher than usual.
Grimace, mutter, tut.
The pair remained civil. Though secretly seething. The ‘hellos’ became fewer and the games of Squash more hotly contested. Neither knew why this change had come about, just that it was now so.
They redecorated frequently. Keeping up appearances.
They bought increasingly ostentatious art. Threw more lavish parties. Threw more filthy looks. Shade became shade became shadow.
Davis bought a new goldfish pond. Filled it with Koi Carp. Rogers purchased a brand new fire pit for which to sit out in the evenings.
Neither had spoken a word to each other in months.
The salesman returned, sensing new opportunity for the same old ruse.
He came to Davis first in the dead of night. Gimlet eyed and doused in cologne, he was offering the ‘finest nuggets of gravel one could find’. ‘Best in the land’ he’d said. ‘You’ll need these’ the smooth-skinned sales pro had proffered.’ ‘You don’t know it yet, but you’ll know why soon enough’. Davis bought three buckets. They cost almost the same as the painting of the baby in the watering-can.
The salesman went to Rogers next. Extolling the need to be prepared. It was known in the village, he’d suggested, that Davis hated Rogers and that his one time ‘ol’ buddy, ol’ pal’ would be planning an attack.
The silver-tongued fact forger, claimed that in fact, it was Davis who had sought the salesman out, specifically to purchase enough rockery for which to make a pretty spiffing water feature but also sufficient to reduce Rogers’ place to mere shards. ‘I’ll turn his house into a mosaic’ the salesman had said while uncannily imitating Davis’ voice and mannerisms.
Rogers bought FOUR buckets AND as a sweetener the salesman added a bag of pebbles thrown in for free. Rogers would ensure that Davis would be sorry. Sorry as hell. Stained glass at his feet. Stained with tears and blood.
Davis had seen the suited soothsayer leave his old friend’s place. It could only be that his suspicions were founded.
Rogers’ pulse quickened.
Davis’ fingers twitched.
The salesman retreated a safe distance and licked his lips. This was a beautiful day for a feud.
Who would be first?
