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DIR Return to: Drabble #3
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#Post#: 4--------------------------------------------------
The Entries
DIR By: Admin
Date: April 30, 2019, 5:55 am
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#01
Good News, Bad News
If it was up to me, I would be anywhere else but this waiting
room.
I visit my Doctor as little as humanly possible, in fact, last
Monday was the first time I’ve been here in ages. He told me to
go to the hospital and take the tests. He said he’d call me back
when the results were in. I got the call an hour ago from the
practice nurse. She said the Doctor could see me as soon as I
arrived. The news is not good. It’s twins and my husband has
been in prison for two years.
#02
The Waste
I did know myself once. I am sure of it.
I knew all of the things I wanted to taste.
Slowly, barely noticeably, I gave up pathetic little pieces of
myself. Whole forgotten chunks.
What is left I do not recognise.
I have filled up on empty calories of ideas.
I did know myself once. She was strong and naïve and she wanted
the world.
I gave her a small island, eroding at the shores.
I must remember calmer seas.
I must be kinder.
I must try harder.
I must know myself, this stranger on foreign soil.
She must win.
#03
Things Get Loose At Night
At night things get loose and live their own life. They talk to
each other.
“How innocent he looks!” The bookshelf hissed with scorn looking
down at the sleeping man.
The shelf was stacked, no, not with books but erotic videos.
“Sleeps like a baby!” the computer lamented. “A dreadful stuff!
It intoxicates me. I`m never really sober these days.” It gave a
deep sigh.
“He deserves a punishment. When S. stays next time, shake
violently, so that this disgusting stuff falls down on the
floor. With a good bang. We`ll help,” the bedside table
encouraged.
Things happen at night...
#04
Perspective
My favourite part of this blue and green planet is what these
humanoids call the Mediterranean Sea. Although I’ve visited it
countless times since, I’ll never forget when it was nothing but
a mile-deep desert. The idea of turning it into a swimming pool
was one of my best. All it took was a few earthquakes and the
natural dam gave way. The ocean poured its salty water into it
and, one year later, no clue remained of the arid area it once
was. It’s now a thriving island-dotted pond and I’ll keep it
that way for a few years.
#05
Old Couples Look Alike I Quip
An old man leads an old woman into the office.
Matching blue coats, shuffling in sloppy boots, wild white hair.
Funny oldsters. Such wit. We smirk.
He inches her forward. She picks her way among things visible
only to her.
Choking, the man says to another clerk “My Glenda is going into
a nursing home tomorrow. We need to send certain mail there.”
The woman startles. Who’s called her name? Who? Her husband sees
her distress, buries his. He kisses his wife on the forehead,
smoothes her hair, takes her hand. She finds his eyes and smiles
to be home.
#06
The Fire
The blaze was closing in. Smoke permeated the room. Dazed and
coughing, she retreated to the window, leaned out on the fourth
floor. In her arms, her baby cried.
“Drop the baby down. I’ll get it.” A man in the street shouted.
The infant came unexpectedly. The father vanished before it was
born. The helpless girl was too young to understand her destiny.
Depression grew. Life was ruined.
“Get rid of it,” a voice in her head repeated.
The moment the mother let go the baby, she realized it was her
everything. She passed out before it reached the ground.
#07
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
I'm sitting in a bar, sipping a beer, wondering if she's going
with me tonight. The door bangs open, a man with a gun.
“You bitch,” he yells.
The barrel is pointed at me, not her.
I waken with a bright light in my face.
“Turn it off,” I say.
A gloved hand holds a blade, it glimmers from the light above.
He shoves it in the side of my chest.
“Wish you could feel this, you bastard.”
“I can, asshole.” I mumble.
“A quick twist should do it.”
The nurse behind him asks, “Doctor, ready for the chest tube?”
#08
The Shirt
Steam from her morning cup of coffee climbed up the window, yet
she did her best to look through it. Sultry sun beams shone down
and bounced onto the garden. Small birds perched on the tree at
various heights, all singing at different pitches; which
beautifully morphed into a single sweet song. The washing line
grasped a shirt.
His shirt- not hers.
She wondered how pathetic it’d be if she rang for him to come
get it. Come get his favourite shirt.
But for him to get it- he’d have to come back.
Everything would require him to come back.
#09
I'm Not Really Listening
Heard any rumours about me and that girl, you asked. They’re not
true ― there’s only you. Only me? I said. We’re neighbours
in a small village and we hardly even speak. Discuss. She’s
just a friend, you said. Okay. Whatever. I believe you because I
know we’re special; fated to be together once we figure out how
that works. Then I saw her getting out of your car. She was
walking on air. It took my breath away. Now I’m sick in an empty
playground in the dark, pushing our baby on the swing because I
can’t go home.
#10
Naomi's Four-Stage Plan to Get Out of This World
In sum, the critics said: "Naomi, get out of the world of
comedy. You're unfunny." I sulked. Then I devised a four-stage
plan.
One.
A clinic transferred my brain into a body that matched Heidi, my
best friend. Heidi was due to go to the moon station as a
physicist.
Two.
Heidi disappeared (I'd rather not talk about this).
Three.
I travelled to the moon in Heidi's place, as Heidi.
Four.
At the moon station meet-and-greet, I declared, "Stuff physics.
Let's open a comedy store, starring me."
The moon scientists were desperate for comedy, good or bad.
They loved me.
#11
Magic
Roger toddles in without knocking. Daddy’s face is pink above
the water. The hair on his arms looks dark and oily, like it’s
been combed.
Eyes closed, Daddy says, “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Roger twists the dummy in his mouth. “I’ve got a magic trick,”
he squelches.
Daddy shifts but his eyes stay closed. Roger pulls out the
dummy, wipes it on his pyjamas and swings a soft, plump arm
above his head.
“Look” he says, waggling and pointing at the rubber teat, the
colour of amber.
“The slobber’s gone!”
But Daddy can’t hear him from under the water.
#12
There Are Days...
There are days were everything is too much. Days where I’m glued
to the sink, washing my hands under scalding water without being
able to stop. Days were obsessions assault me, bring me to my
knees, leave me a quivering, sobbing mess. Days where I don’t
know why you stay, why you wrap your hands around me and kiss my
head and tell me that everything is okay, that compulsions don’t
change a thing and exposure is the only way out of this
hellhole. I don’t know why you stay, but I’m glad you do. I’d be
lost without you.
#13
The Storm in My Head
It’s me, Jane...are you there? If you are, I know you must be
fed up but I need to know you’re there for me, especially in
these times when I can't be there for myself. I get these
storms, you see, more so after Bill left with that Tracy! It
feels like they’re so big they could eat me all up and I get to
feeling so small and I can’t get out...all I can do is wait but
the waiting feels longer every time, and I don’t know if you’ll
be able to get to me...before I’m all gone.
#14
A Bike Was More Than a Bike
A bike was more than a bike. It was time, power, control,
friendship. Freedom. Being part of the gang, that cloud of
freewheeling kids. It meant from here to there in no time.
Flying home, no hands, down the boulevard, you were alone in the
universe, slowing only at stop signs, the holy wind kissing the
hair off your face. A bike meandered down the dusty road,
surrounded by the smell of summer close enough to touch.
Dripping fudgesicle in one hand, you steered with the other. The
sun warmed like favourite clothing. Your bike was you were your
bike.
#15
He called me again, I think its love!
I knew that I shouldn’t do it but there’d been a change in her
lately and being the mother of a 16 year old girl curiosity had
gotten the better of me and I had to know that she was okay.
It was in the draw next to her bed, wrapped in a pillowcase,
covered in girly sequins – her diary.
And there it was ‘He called me again yesterday, I think its
love!’ Who was he? Where did she meet him? How old was he? Now
the worrying would really begin! She was growing up, I had to
accept it.
#16
Chemo
Like tiny fish hooks on my skin, licking, licking.
Stop.
I know, you’re hungry, I’ll get up in a minute, just one more
minute.
Let’s wait for the nausea to pass. Purrs vibrate through my
chest, or lack of it.
Now.
OK enough, get off me. Get down, I can’t right now, my head
burns.
Head back, eyes closed, galaxies explode in the blackness, too
bright, I open them again.
I love you, but please stop licking me, the brine from my eyes
encouraging him more.
My hands go to my head. Handfuls of hair free fall to my
shoulders.
#17
The Silence
​‘What’s that, sir?’ the conscript asked as a streak of
green light hit the ground.
‘I don’t know.’ The sergeant muttered as he peered through the
dense woodland. ‘But I don’t like it.’
The squad of soldiers were fidgety. Uneasy. There was utter
silence. The owls were hushed. Foxes and badgers stopped
barking.
With shaking hands, the soldiers took aim at the shimmering
light creeping, slithering towards them.
‘Sir. Sir. There’s something moving,’ the corporal called.
‘Serg, should we fire? Serg?’
The bright light vanished into the night sky. Nothing remained
in the forest except the trees and the silence.
#18
Out of Time
I looked up the word ‘palliative’ after they told me; ‘the
provision of relief from the symptoms of a disease but without
effecting a cure’. For fucks sake! I have cancer and
palliative care is apparently all they can offer. I suppose I
just assumed that at some point, one of the treatments would
work and everything would go back to normal.
Thirty-seven-year-old people don’t die from cancer, do they?
That logic is probably the reason I haven’t told anyone about my
diagnosis; the now rebranded palliative one. Maybe they won’t
notice until it’s too late to cause an argument.
#19
The Cave
A wide-set man stood at the mouth of the cave as Jason Gardener
stood behind a rock. “Jason! We’re all going to leave this world
someday… So let me at least have a nibble of your flesh! Your
mother ought to have taught you basic manners... You’re being
quite inconsiderate, keeping those bodily nutrients all for
yourself.” “I’m inconsiderate! You’ve gone and disturbed all the
bats with that racket. And your mother ought to have taught you
to be more respectful of one’s bodily autonomy!” in feeling he
had won this argument, Jason promptly slipped on a rock and
died.
#20
​A Lesson in Thought
It was a cool afternoon, a slight breeze whistling through my
blond hair as I walked towards home. I breathed a sigh of relief
and relaxed, school was out! As I approached the local corner
shop, my heart skipped a beat. I rubbed my eyes in shock, not
believing what I could see. MY grandma was walking home with the
neighbourhood gang. The gang infamous for multiple stabbings and
muggings. Even worse they held her shopping and she allowed it.
I followed them home until they arrived and asked what was going
on. They said it was out of respect.
#21
Freda Allsop's Cat
Taking my usual evening walk up Colliery Lane I was thinking
about Freda’s missing cat when as I passed the old mine I heard
a ‘mewing’ sound.
The mine is where years ago an unfortunate accident tragically
claimed the souls of five miners and their bodies were never
recovered.
Looking down a recently exposed hole I saw the cat struggling
to get out and knelt down to grab hold.
Suddenly a bleached white skeleton hand reached out of the
slurry and pulled the writhing cat slowly down.
I’ve not mentioned it to Freda but now I walk in another
direction.
#22
Journeys
Why do weirdos and drunks insist on sitting next to me on the
train? I note a near empty carriage as he plonks himself down.
He smells of cigarettes and BO. He’s talking to me, oblivious
that my noncommittal grunts and active concentration on my book
are hints for him to shut up. He’s telling me about the job he
hates, how his wife left him and the ingratitude of his kids. I
start to feel pity and anger in equal measure, no doubt it’s all
his fault but I know he’s only human.
Journeys with my dad are stressful.
#23
Ahead of the Mark
What's the deal with your new head?
Nothing. No big deal. It's just my new one.
Right... but where's the old one?
Next to the compost heap, eyes staring at the spaniel, right
before he chewed them out.
Didn't that kind of hurt?
Nah, already had my sights on the mark 2. Plus, my deposit was
down.
What's it like having your eye-balls licked?
Not bad. You know that feeling, when a migraine is waiting in
the wings? Like a smudgy, sand-paper-y, brain exfoliation.
Sounds awful.
What did you go for?
The mark 3.
Nice. Who took yours?
The cat.
#24
Nursery Visit
The orchids were up on benches. Though taken down for her to
see and smell, she quickly got bored with the docent’s tour
and dove under the benches to explore.
She found a “dragon” in a shaft of light, relaxed until she
reached for him. Then, he magically vanished behind the plastic
pots stored there.
Mom called, and she bolted for the door.
Dad apologized, “She’s too young to appreciate what she sees
here.”
He didn’t notice she discovered gemstones leading to the car,
and, as her parents left with purchased blooms, she clasped rock
treasures from the graveled drive.
#25
Eveline's Ashes
He placed the urn containing Eveline's ashes on the coffee table
they used to sit at to watch TV together.
Looking at this makeshift memorial to their relationship, he
recalled the uneasiness he had felt at first about not
fulfilling his side of the bargain. She had been so sure, so
insistent.
But it was her illness, not his. Why couldn't she have seen
that? Just because he signed that stupid pact, it didn't mean he
had to see it through.
Now for the very first time, he was in charge, and he felt
intrepid, glorious.
'Goodbye, Mother,' he said.
#26
Watercolours Bleeding
Paint me a picture, she said.
Of what?
Of you.
Swirls of colour spreading on canvas. Light touches the places
where her tears fall. Maybe we can piece this thing together.
This ethereal thing that comes between us as if a knife through
skin. Piercing, bloody and torn – us. Can this thing ever be
repaired? I want to believe it can. This thing pokes and prods
and makes fun. Of me. Of you. Of our life together. Once a fine
thing but now a thing outdated. Old. Ephemeral. A temporary
moment blown away in the heat of passion. Watercolours bleeding.
#27
Collision Course
Initially she thinks nothing of it: in her peripheral vision,
another figure on a collision course. She shifts direction,
turns her head, “I’m going this way,” but the other person
doesn’t follow her cues. When she has to stop, or else walk into
this stranger, she finally looks up. She is toe to toe with a
man. Face blank. Eyes unblinking. He says nothing, but his
posture radiates hostility, and for a potent moment she is
afraid. She breaks the stalemate, steps around him. As she walks
away, she can hear the sneer in his voice. “Yeah. I thought so.”
#28
The Gift
​“It’s Blonde on Blonde, digitally remastered,” Lucy
emphasised, passing me the vinyl album. “To replace the one I
cracked.”
“That was Blood on the Tracks.”
“It was only a little crack!”
“Finding your Martha and the Muffins album in the sleeve for
Blood on the Tracks was more traumatic than coming home to find
you’d cleared out all your belongings.”
Lucy looked momentarily perplexed. “I’m sorry- I should have
spoken to you face to face.”
“I appreciate the thought, even if you got your Dylan mixed up,”
I replied, motioning towards her gift.
She smiled. “Occasionally, I make a mistake.”
#29
The Struggling Author
The chair creaked as he leaned back and stretched.
With a loud sigh he stared at the screen, the words seeming to
float in front of his eyes.
His back ached. He hit the ‘save’ button, just to be doubly sure
- he never quite trusted that auto-save feature - and got up to
stretch.
“How’s it going love?” came his wife’s voice from the doorway.
“I’ve brought you a nice cuppa tea and a few biscuits.”
“What!! I told you - I need complete solitude to write.” He
grabbed the poisoned tea and slammed the door in her face.
#30
Late
“You’ll kill yourself with all this work!”
With his ex-wife’s last words echoing through his head, Michael
repeated his agenda, each item synchronised to a gear shift as
he accelerated: new proposal to the marketing director by
twelve; media launch at two; potential client meet at four;
overdue car service at five; pick up sales portfolio at seven.
The list, like some sort of regenerating monster, could never be
vanquished and he was already behind.
The red light was an afterthought, much like the brakes he had
put off changing for months. He died as he lived; he never
stopped.
#31
Celestial Equator
He was building an imaginary wall around the circumference of
the world.
“Crazy, old man!” I said. “Your bricks don’t exist!”
He peered over his unreal wall and provoked me with a riddle:
“These bricks are words!”
“If each brick is a word,” I laughed, “your language is
transparent!”
Suddenly, his face shone power and glory and I was struck dumb.
Wherever he reached through the perimeter of the wall, he found
my hand.
I decided to help with his diplomacy. I mixed mortar,
replenished his bucket and hauled it close. I and others were
needed for the heavy lifting.
#32
Madness Marches On
Spring’s sprung. Leapfrogged over Winter’s final week. Energetic
breezes blow daffodil trumpets, deafen hyacinths and anemones.
Strips naked early cherry trees, scatters petals. Pale pink snow
drifts. Sticks to the bonnets and windscreens of passing cars.
Moves, not melts, beneath sashaying wipers. The trees are
stirring. Dry twigs, dipped in life, unfurl, green and renewed.
Power up industrious leaves, the eternal photosynthesis reactor.
Prepare for another year. The re-assuring cycle repeats.
Forgives. Below endless plastic cartwheels. Strident blue.
Logo-emblazed. Single use… Bushes snare it; excavate themselves
from beneath it, ask- ‘this yours? Something’s got to change.
You’ve got to change.’
#33
Green Seas
He always promised they’d buy a beachfront property overlooking
the sea; one similar to the one her father had when she’d stay
with him on the weekends.
Kevin, never really having grown accustomed to the idea of
leaving their apartment on the outskirts of his hometown, always
promised that one day he’d take her.
Though standing here now with his wife in his hands, all he
could do was be jealous of the paradise she would marvel without
him.
“Welcome home.” He whispered to her for the last time, watching
her as she sailed off into the setting sun alone.
#34
Rocks in the Water
I hug my best friend so tightly I imagine his eyes bulging out
of his head, cartoon-like, as it rests on my shaking shoulder.
When life was going well and I was wave-jumping on the water's
surface, he was lying in the sand at the bottom, waiting for
now, for when I would eventually sink.
My acquaintances are the other fish, swimming and not stopping;
my friends are the seaweed floating close by, on hand if I need
them; but he’s my rock, my support, waiting at the bottom,
because he can't move from me even if he wanted to.
#35
Murder in the Dark
The pansies had massed in the flowerbed near the back door. It
had been an invasion, a take-over; they had staked their claim
on the territory and had left no room for anything else. They
were feral. Their smudged, black ninja eyes stared at us as we
sat huddled in the kitchen, drinking hot, sweet tea and looking
at pictures of petunias, begonias and lobelia in catalogues we
kept hidden under the table. We waited until dark, then took a
spade and crept upon them. We held a torch, a simple light; I
could not bear to see their faces.
#36
What Miss Austen Left Out
‘If another teenager calls me feisty in her essay, I’ll scream.
What kind of word is that?’
‘It means–’ piped up Mary.
‘I know what it means. They’re so unoriginal,’ replied
Elizabeth.
‘Better than being ‘virtuous and pleasant,’ said Jane.
‘They call me bookish and pedantic,’ said Mary.
‘They have a point,’ said Jane.
‘Let’s write a blog saying it like it is.’
‘Wickham writes one. Claiming he’s a nice guy. As if.’
‘People’ll think we’re trolls. No-one’s going to believe Charlie
and I hooked up long before he came to Netherfield, are they?
Mama squashed that rumour stone dead.’
#37
Malaika
"just wanna say, no matter what you decide to do from here: I
really feel happy every second we spend together. I love you."
What read on Malaika's phone's screen as the sheriff ordered
that corpses be taken away.
Certainly the most horrendous accident ever witnessed by Billy
in all twenty two years of being sheriff of Darensville. Sweet
Jesus! Why destroy something that beautiful? he thought,
hovering about the young girl's remains.
Meanwhile on the other side of town, an anxious Michael was
praying to any God listening for Malaika to acknowledge his text
and talk to him again.
#38
The Cat Article
"Did you read it already?" I finally asked.
"Read what?" She looked at me.
"Well, the thing I sent you?."
"Oh, that," she dozed off, then proceeded, "you mean the '10
Funniest Cat Photos In The World'?"
"Yes... well, did you?"
"I did."
"Quite funny, don't you think?"
"Indeed."
"I liked the one with the black cat the most."
"Ah."
"Did you like it?"
"I suppose."
"What do you m-"
"Goodbye," she cut me off abruptly.
"Are you leaving?"
"I am."
"Oh, okay. You sure?"
"Goodbye."
"Yes, uh... good day!"
I am actually glad she left, she lied to me.
#39
Hit and Run
I’ve worked out within the last few minutes that I hate the
smell of tarmac. Burning tarmac, to be precise. I choke on
ragged breath, chemicals working their way down my throat and
clinging to my lungs, coating them with an irreversible black
sheen. I concentrate on forcing down my urge to gag. It’s easier
to focus on my spinning head than to think about what’s just
happened.
He’d darted out in front of me like a bullet. I’d hesitated
before braking, no more than a split second. That’s how quick he
was moving.
Now he’s not moving at all.
#40
Every Breath You Take
I don't know why I bothered. I knew she wouldn't like it. It's
so stupid to have even believed she'd appreciate the gesture.
That's the difference between herself and me - I quite obviously
care more than she does! I just mean who doesn't like having
their feet tickled or hearing sweet nothings whispered into
their ear?! I notice every detail. Every crevice of her body.
She doesn't even notice me lying under her bed. If she paid a
bit more attention, she would notice when I slip out during the
night, just when the shadows are changing - to embrace her!
#41
The Hero
He sat on the wooden step, the uniform weighed down by the rain
and the mud. With a sigh he took off his helmet and brushed the
back of his hand over his forehead.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter from his
fiancé. With delicate fingers he pulled the little black and
white photo out of his new born son.
“Grenade, Grenade!” The words echoed around the trench,
reverberating through his heart when he saw it at his feet, he
jumped onto it; his eyed still glued to the picture of his son
and whispered “William”.
#42
Cold Cut Ridge
Five weeks since he’s seen her. Five weeks of trailing, snaring,
shooting, skinning, gutting. Five weeks of days filled with
drag, nights unslept thinking about, longing for her.
Folks are saying she left three days ago. Pa was right, all any
woman’s good for is bedding.
He pulls a cloth bag from his pocket, tips a ring into his hand.
Lifting his head, he launches it into the creek, sees fading
sunlight kiss its diamond, his hopes his, trust in her goodbye.
Upstream, slipped while gathering Alaska Violets to pretty his
welcome home she lays alone in shade, face down.
#43
Goodbye Veronica
Embarrassing, you coming home early. The misuse of your Rabbit
was bad enough but sorry for wearing your best dress. Usually, I
wear the old red one. Your reaction was understandable but
crockery is expensive, remember.
My new flat is small and cold. You’ll think that suitable
punishment, no doubt. It could be a metaphor for our marriage. A
peck on the cheek is all you could give, but only in public.
I’m not asking to come back but to say I have found Gerald. He’s
wonderful, loving and warm. All that you are not. Your Rabbit is
enclosed, unwashed.
#44
Scarecrow
I spied the sparkly thing and it peered back at me, glinting in
the dazzling sunlight. It was a shard of glass splintering
light like a beacon of hope. Hay in my arms fluttered in the
breeze as I watched the point of light glow white; then it
exploded into red and gold fingers and ignited the dry grass.
I had never seen anything so beautiful and shivered with delight
all the way to the top of my old hat. I realised all too late,
when the light started to lick at my old boots, that I was a
gonner.
#45
Baby
I awoke alone, my mouth empty and dry. An initial feeling of
inner peace quickly shattered by the sudden realisation that
baby was missing. In the darkness my fumbled search proved
fruitless and finally panic ensued. I began to cry
uncontrollably , tears streaming down my anguished face.
Suddenly through the bars I sensed a familiar presence making
sounds that I did not yet fully understand but found consoling,
before reuniting me with baby and disappearing back into the
night. Comforted with its’ safe return I soon drifted back to
sleep. It's true I do sleep better with my dummy.
#46
Life Underwater
I saw Winston at the bar the other day. He told me he had
finally moved out of his studio apartment. I asked where he had
moved. He told me he had found a nice place underwater. I
couldn’t understand why. Winston told me that the commute was
hell, but he had to move because his mother lived underwater and
she wasn’t doing too well. Winston wanted to be there while she
still had her memory and was still herself. I can understand how
somebody can wish to treasure what time. I can understand why a
man would live underwater.
#47
A Memory
A figure in a hooded coat reaches for me. He is dark and fills
my view. He grabs me. I do not feel the pain. I am not afraid.
Somewhere, a woman is screaming.
Footsteps. A hand grabs the hooded figure and throws him. He
hits the wall with a crack that echoes everywhere and makes me
shiver.
The woman is still screaming. Hands cradle me and rock me back
and forth.
My father strokes my hair. “You’re safe now.”
But I am looking at the hooded man lying dead near the wall, and
my father’s touch makes me afraid.
#48
Jeans
Seventy-five. Not my age, not even the year, but the price of a
pair of jeans!
‘Can I help you, sir?’ Some kid asks; wet milk on his top lip.
‘Yeah, you can sell me these for half the price.’
‘They’re already reduced, sir. They’re on sale.’
'Sail? Boat?
She loved the water. The waves lulled her when medicine would
not. Vitamin D and fresh air, the doctor prescribed. We watched
the sunset from the shore. She fell asleep on my shoulder.
I’ve worn these jeans all my life. “Them jeans is your genes,”
Patty would say. Used to say.
#49
Drowning in Milk
The grains of cereal moved, clambering over each other, I
suppose in an attempt to save themselves.
It was every Rice Krispy for himself in that bowl. I wondered
why they didn’t just climb out using the spoon.
As I lifted the spoon, I fell straight into the bowl.
Falling, falling, then splash.
I kicked my legs and gasped loudly as my head emerged from the
bodies and milk. There was dead Rice Krispies as far as I could
see, and I felt awful for squashing the ones around me but like
I said, it was every man for himself.
#50
Time
‘I think it’s spitting, Chris’.
‘Right you are,’ he says, unfurling an enormous green umbrella,
which easily covers Dad’s wheelchair.
Cathy joins me on the bench. ‘I hope Dad’s enjoying himself,’ I
say, pulling up the hood on my parka.
‘I think they both are,’ Cathy says. ‘We had a young chap with a
guitar last week, and some of them were up and singing,
clapping. Lovely, actually.’
Cathy chatters away. Chris reels in a small fish and holds it up
for Dad to see.
Before long, matron is shuffling along the path towards us.
‘Time’s up,’ Cathy says, standing.
#51
Being Human
The boy—sitting alone. Loud tears cascaded down crimson cheeks.
His head was buried behind arms, but he couldn’t hide pain. The
teacher sat.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Stuff.”
The teacher wasn’t dissuaded. He remained—waited. If the student
explained his agonies, he’d be teased. The teacher wasn’t
deterred. The teacher smiled encouragingly.
“What’s wrong? You can share,” he promised.
“Sure?”
“Yes. I’m listening.”
Kids sniggered—mocked.
“Ignore them.”
The teacher waited. The boy sniffled loudly.
“My parents.”
“What about them?”
“They’re divorcing. They don’t love each other anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know if they’ll love me.”
The teacher hurt, too.
#52
The Lake
The sun was fading, its warm glow and dull shade began to
disappear behind the white, fluffy powder. The large points of
the mountains began to draw an eerie shadow over the frozen
forest. Each tree trembles in the breeze, beginning to draw its
leaves against its trunk, to seek comfort and protection from
the oncoming storm. The clouds began to darken; the forest was
silent. Branches overlooked the crisp, frosty lake; all the
creatures were burrowed away in the undiscovered heart of the
forest. Tear drops of water trickled from the branches; yet to
freeze in the low temperatures.
#53
Into the Unknown
Finally reaching the peak, I breathed a sigh of relief. My hair
danced gracefully; whereas my coat swished violently in the
wind. Hauling myself up, I surveyed the glorious view. Clouds of
mist swirled elegantly; creating eccentric patterns. Peaks of
rocks just barely surfaced above the mist. Just barely.
Underneath the layers and layers of endless mist, hid a Kingdom.
A Kingdom so great- it's name was feared among many people. I
closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Then I fell. Falling into
the endless abyss little did I know of the dangers ahead. Little
did I know.....
#54
Moving On
The leaves crunched under her feet as she walked. She knew she
would have to turn back soon, she’d been walking for hours and
it was beginning to get light.
They’d notice that she was missing soon. They’d find out what
she’d done.
She had to make her choice now, keep going and chase the sunrise
or turn back and face the truth. It was too late to turn the
clock back, her fate was sealed.
Walk on she must lest she be haunted by the vision of the face
of her heartbeat as he discovered her cold, lifeless body.
#55
The Avalanche and the Goat
I was eating an apple when who should approach but a man and his
goat. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said and growled on by. I
looked past him and spotted the large amount of snow. The
mountain top had lost its white mop as it slid down the nape of
its neck. The man walked towards the avalanche, the snowy
impasse. Soon the man looked small, a matter of perspective, and
distance. The snow engulfed him. I should probably move, I
should have moved earlier. It may already be too late. Oh, the
faint bleat of the man’s goat.
#56
They Did This
His veins looked like those sweets you get, you know the fizzy,
acidic, powdered kind, guaranteed to give you the rush of sugar
you crave. Except in this case the water has caused his face to
balloon up, so he looked out of proportion. His face normally
looked serene, but the hours spent in the ocean has changed his
body to resemble of those horror films with unrealistic looking
monsters. Then there was the tattoo he was never supposed to
have gotten, it’s the first thing I saw and the one thing I
couldn’t forget. Our Secret will die here.
#57
Shoes
It was his shoes.
The heels worn angular at either side.
The mark of a heavy foot, an unaligned balance.
The leather creases above the toes, worn in, a good pair of
shoes.
Re-heeled twice, they don’t make them like this anymore he would
say.
The paths they had walked, taken their owner to, I imagined the
many places the shoes had been & had seen.
They looked comfortable & familiar, broken in.
He would sit & polish them & buff them black after the day had
ended, ready for the next again morning.
They lay empty now. The shoes.
#58
Trying to Please Mother
Boyfriend Gary's shaven pate gave Mother the shivers. "It's like
half a bottom," she said, "Only shiny, like it wants to be
noticed more than a buttock should." Always attempting to defer
to Mother, I asked out the swimming-pool attendant. His wavy,
auburn locks, tied back in a ponytail, promised to caress his
shoulder-blades and when I reached up for our first kiss I set
them free, ran my fingers through their fragrant undulations
and, when he pulled me close, took a strand in my mouth,
experimentally. It shouldn't have tasted so delicious.
Fortunately I still have Gary's phone number.
#59
A Jealous Statue
Water runs down my face as though it’s in a marathon sprint, and
I am the track. I am a cold edifice, my body hewn from concrete
and riddled with old cracks. I stand bedaubed in a mixture of
tears and rain and you pass me by. You part the sidewalk seas
beneath your feet as you trot so gracefully. Though you surely
have pores and crevices marring your body as proof of your
perpetual motion, I cannot see them. I stand beneath my liquid
veil and yearn to move. My feet are stone, so I stay; a jealous
statue.
#60
Acid Test
Blue or red? He had to decide quickly. He checked his watch.
Time was running out. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow; his
heart pounded and he felt his breathing become ragged. It was
vital he stay calm. He had to choose. But what if he chose the
wrong one? The consequences were too awful to contemplate. He
had been in this situation before and each time it had never got
any easier. He nervously wiped his hands on his trousers.
‘Blue!’ Yes, it had to be the blue one.
‘That’s what I thought too, darling. Now, which handbag?’
#61
Beam Me Up
He’s sitting two tables away, holding his head in his hands.
I’m always studying people in the café and trying to read
between the lines of their lives.
But this guy, he's different somehow... Is he crying? I have to
talk to him…
“Excuse me,”
He sniffs, “Yes?”
“Are you OK?”
“No.” His head rocks from side to side. “I’ve lost my dog…” He
doesn’t look up at me.
“I see. Well, when did you last see it?”
He is silent for a few moments before he stands.
Something falls.
I look down and stare at the white stick.
Shit.
#62
Uncertain Vision
She has been waiting for the beloved one, a woman called Allice.
Ten years passed quickly. Now, they are different. No feeling
towards each other. Neither love, nor hate. She is lying on the
bed. Staring at the trees covered with snow fully. Alone. She
recalls all of the moments with Allice, who grew up too fast and
leave her. The halicon days stopped by their home. Today,
everything is flipped. She no longer is a mother worsty. Relying
on her own feet.
Midnight comes. She is staring at Allice, a baby girl. Her
imagination about uncertain future ends completely.
#63
A Bush
My boys and I are as usual, talking about our fantasies as we
stroll through the woods just like our mothers had warned us. A
quick ruffling in the bushes has everyone’s skin painted in
nothing but goose bumps. I closely walk up to the bush and just
as am about to pick up a stick; a green, red-haired cat with
horns appears. Everyone runs screaming while the monster renders
me dumb-founded. My legs start shaking as sweat trickles down my
forehead. The creature jumps on my head and I quickly wake up to
the reality of a licking dog.
#64
Cryptic Clue
He loved crosswords.
He would try and complete them during his breaks at work. It
relieved the
boredom. It helped him focus, too.
Just one answer to go. He checked his watch. Could he finish it
in time?
Suddenly, he solved the final clue and wrote it in.
He had an appointment to keep. Before the completion of every
job, he'd tell
the person that he was, 'A. Mathin - a man of my word', and then
present his business card.
It read: A Hitman. The answer to his clue.
Then, with great precision, he'd take out his gun and shoot.
#65
Being Late
I know I am late. I always am. Hence, I daily almost run the few
blocks that separate my home from work. And I daily see the
woman with the red apron in her corner balcony on the first
floor. Every day the same relaxing scene of her sweeping her
small balcony. The same rhythmical movement of her torso and
shoulders: left to right, left to right. The broom is shifting
some invisible dust to the street. Today, I stop to observe.
What difference would it make to me or to her? She does not know
about my being late.
#66
Forget
A young man knocks on an old house door, the beige paint peeling
off. At the entrance sits a rusty
mailbox, overflowing with letters both old and new.
Shuffling steps. The door opens and there stands an elderly
woman, cane in hand.
She waves weakly, cane shaking slightly. “Oh? It’s not often I
get visitors.”
The man greets her. “How have you been, mother?”
She blinks at him. Empty blue eyes gaze at him, then drift
towards the cloudless sky.
“I’ve been well.” A pause as she adjusts her glasses then smiles
toothlessly.
“It’s always nice to see new faces.”
#67
Long Lost Lover
I pulled my knees up to my chest trying to breathe through the
hole in my heart. The burning hot water pounded down on top of
my cold naked body, still not loud enough to drown out my
thoughts. I’ve tried so many times to come up with the words, to
come up with a way to make heartbreak sound less brutal, but for
once the words failed me. In the end I could not make anything
beautiful out of it, in the end it was exactly what it had
always been, a love that turned into a hopeless tragedy.
#68
Last Day of June
June’s canvas rests upon her worn easel, palette and brush
loitering aside while her husband stares longingly at her self
portrait, and lets tears cascade from his eyes. Scenes play on
a loop in Carl’s mind; daggers tear into his morose soul,
ripping him apart from within.
Cruelly, he was sent back to that fateful day, supposedly of
happiness, prosperity, hope.
Unaffected, they say love is proven in the letting go, yet Carl
couldn’t bring himself to, never, not her.
Like the anchorage of time itself, she was his... everything.
Alas, that day was the very last day of June.
#69
9AM-5PM 7PM-12AM
The alarm, the light. The buzz, the fight.
A rush through a daze of awareness before you finally make it.
The next bit is a flash, a spick of light.
You get back home and see what is left for you.
Finally you sit down behind the piano and play until late that
same evening.
At the stretch, of what feels like forever, you stand up. Walk
towards the kitchen.
35 minutes have past.
And at that point you wonder:
How can it ever be that 35 is equal to, or grater as, 480?
Let’s find out, you tell yourself.
#70
Current Times
The masses spread across the land like rusted steel sheets and
rotten woodwork drifted a shore from the bow of a coastal
shipwreck.
Cascading wide with torn welds and cracked emergency lights
barely blinking on the tidal waves.
Evaporated ocean waters slowly solidify around the propellers of
culture, leaving nothing but the corrosion and bitterness of
salt...
But yet, somehow, still managing to glisten like tiny diamonds
at the heart of stars, reflecting the highest of exulted desert
suns.
There's a toxic smell of burning hope and dense diesel fumes
that breach the mornings air... This is the current times.
#71
Target
From his high vantage point, he watched and waited, bag by his
side.
Five years of suffering the constant bullying and humiliation.
“New directive “ they enthused “young blood to improve sales”.
Promoted after six months, he had given twenty years.
Summoned into his swish new office, “Letting you go” he said
“not achieving required targets”.
No job, behind on payments, house repossessed, his wife left.
Resentment growing, he unzipped the bag, taking out the hunting
rifle, the cause of his woes exited the building opposite,
adjusting the sight, he took aim.
One target he was determined not to miss.
#72
The Month Gran got hooked on The Wire
I wouldn’t have thought foul-mouthed drug dealers would be
Gran’s thing, but as the credits roll on the finale, she’s looks
as gutted as if Blue Ribbons got discontinued.
‘Afternoon tea at Betty’s will cheer you up,’ I shout (hearing
aids are, apparently, too fiddly).
A waitress wearing a 1920s lacy cap leads us past ladies who
shop at Waitrose and the dusted and polished kind of tourists
whose hotels have bathroom phones. Daintily eating doll-sized
sandwiches and tastefully-pastel macarons, they chat using
library voices.
Gran whisper booms over her menu: ‘what do you think these other
motherfuckers are ordering?’
#73
Splinter
I picked my way through the rubble under the blue sky. It was as
idyllic as any day in Damascus could be. I crouched by the
stream in the shade and started to fill the cracked bucket. I
watched miserably as the dirt swirled in the water. It was then
I heard the whistle. The whistle of a bomb. It was so close. I
had a vain hope that I was far away enough to escape and wise
enough to know that running would make no difference.
I remember the day of my death perfectly. It’s as clear as dawn.
#74
Sinking into Betrayal
The metaphorical blade sinks into your back as it happens. Or
perhaps it’s a literal gun aimed at the base of your skull.
A strangled sob escapes your throat and your heart hits the
floor with a sickening thud. Sickening. Sick.
Nausea roils in your throat. The unwavering, impenetrable trust
you felt. Penetrated.
You reach out for the metaphorical support of the person who
broke your trust and your hand falls through. You reach out for
them to steady you and they step back, a serpent’s smile on
their face.
You sink further down into the darkest depths of betrayal.
#75
Objectivism
I like being an object. It calms me down. It makes me relaxed.
Nothing depends on me anymore.
‘Look at her lips again! And nose! What about her nose?’
Minutes are like little waves. They come and go. But I am a
cliff and a shore.
I am just the object of everyone's attention.
‘No, no it won’ t do. The light. You should use it!’
‘ok, I see.’
Light or shadow I am where I am and I don't move while students
are drawing a model at their art class. Linguistically speaking
I am the object of this sentence.
#76
Humans Are Not Allowed
“I’m sorry sir, but as you can see humans are not allowed.”
“What? And these people?”
“They are hardly characterized as humans.”
“They look human to me.”
“The correct terminology is Resemblers, used by Dr. Ishikawa in
the year 3002 after developing the first sentient artificial
intelligence, Laura.”
“3002? I was in my house a moment ago ... in 2019. I don’t
understand. How did I get here?”
She had lost interest in him. The line to the nightclub
stretched down the alley, while people who were not people lined
up to enter a nightclub were humans are not allowed.
#77
Morning Performance
Silver gleams, polished to reflective perfection, as your cloth
caresses each tube and pipe. Valves are released with perfect
timing, the pitch and timbre of every note enhancing your
symphony. You know your instrument intimately and the years of
practice show. Studied nonchalance creates the illusion of
improvisation, but this is a complex composition.
The crescendo of steam brings the piece to its climax. After a
coda of low notes and some tinkling of percussion, you re-tune
for your next performance. An image remains etched in the foam
– an ephemeral echo of your artistry. Barista, I think I love
you.
#78
Die After Live
Roy left his friend’s party returned to an apartment near the
cemetery, He stumbled into the house and heard the sound of a
door closing.
He tried to switch on the lights. Sounds came from everywhere,
shouting at Roy to leave.
Roy didn’t believe it. Then he got angry, “Do whatever you want,
I’m staying!”
A dark shadow appeared. It was a girl, Three days before she was
badly hurt in an accident. She died, Roy didn’t help, so she
looked at him sadly, Roy knew he had to make amends and she
didn't leave her body for entire life.
#79
Iniquity
Iniquity simply means injustice. Other synonyms include
wickedness and unfairness. It is a sin.
The society has passed through the process of “evolutionary
refinement” but this crime still persists. It manifests itself
in form of murder, persecution, extortion, nepotism and many
other inhuman acts.
The world is inequitable. Inequality breeds iniquity even within
the committee of nations. Some nations are well-blessed. The
well-blessed become economically powerful, turning economic
power to political advantage over the less-blessed, poor
nations.
Apparently, all religions abhor it but some hypocritically
practice infamy and persecution. It’s paradoxical that
religiousity fuels iniquity. It’s part of the world.
#80
I Don't Have a Tail
I wear a beautiful face. I am incredibly offended by these
depictions of me. I have no horns… anymore. And I certainly do
not have a tail. Never have. EVER.
The girl next to me is staring fascinated at the painting of
definitely-not-me, while her friend tries desperately not to
stare at the physical me. They would be easy prey. I wink at the
staring one and they blush to the roots of their hair at having
been caught. Their begging to move on is ignored by their friend
and they are forced to stand, uncomfortably waiting. Ha. Too
easy.
#81
Monochrome
I am a painting. Guests are surprised – yellow, annoyed – red,
energized – green, dreamy – blue. But they lose interest.
I wait until they’re out of my house. Then I let my body vomit
those colours. I lose that version of myself that makes a canvas
stand out in a gallery. When you looked at me.
I wake up seeing your green eyes turning monochrome. I run in
the garden and rip some leaves and cut your eyes to bring that
colour back to life. I cannot stand seeing you, my home, turning
monochrome. Guests won’t come again.
#82
Vanity
She heard it all, narcissistic, self-absorbed, vain.
She loved to make herself look good. Slapping on this
bronze-coloured eyeshadow, and that matte red lipstick; hours a
day she would dedicate for her ‘aesthetic’. She heard it all,
and disregarded it all. Really, it was almost as if people were
desperate for her to remain bare-faced. She never would, for her
bare face was sunken, grey and the embodiment of one’s childhood
nightmares. For they would damn her to the deepest pits of hell
upon seeing this creature.
Yes, she heard it all, but narcissistic, self-absorbed and vain
she would remain.
#83
True Freedom
45 years ago, our freedom was forcefully inflicted on us. We
were young. We thought we were free. Some say we were stupid.
Bullshit. The victims shouldn’t bear the guilt. The pain was
enough.
Today, they finally caught the man who raped and killed us.
Ironic: searching for potential relatives through a DNA website.
They rejoice like it would make a difference.
The living want consolation. Comfort. They need the illusion of
choice and safety. They would even give up the illusion of
choice for a stronger illusion of safety. The dead want nothing.
The dead are free. We’re free.
#84
Vanitas
You were three when you loved bubbles.
Iridescent, you loathed to pop them.
Your face was reflected in the fragile outline, as it does now;
exactly a century older, and your
grandchild skips around your room, blowing bubbles.
One drifts near a painting that you like. You carry this
fulfilment with your departure, you muse.
Except you will not, and the skull gazes back at you. You are
but a mortal shell, and only now do you
see the worth of the wealth you sought pleasure in.
The bubble pops.
You wish it did not.
Vanitas, he whispers, you gone.
#85
A Decision Well Made?
“Wealth,” she lifts her left hand. “Love,” she lifts her right
hand. “Choose”.
And so, he did.
Now he sits at a table for two. It’s his fourth first date of
the week and the twenty-first of the month but surely, it’s
never too late to find the one.
He wishes that his decision seven years ago was the most
difficult he ever made but that would be a lie. It was easier
than choosing which tie to wear to this date. You see it didn’t
feel like a sacrifice to him Why should it, he can have both,
right?
[move]VOTING IS NOW CLOSED[/move]
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