A torn photograph of a turbulent sea
A crawling ladybird, its wings plucked free
A stained jacket sleeve, a discarded shoe
These foolish things remind me of you
A bruise and a stitch I can’t fathom at all
A mysterious stain on the bathroom wall
A doll dismembered and reformed with glue
These foolish things remind me of you
Drops of blood leading out of the door
A chalk outline, half-drawn on the floor
Your name crossed out in a botched tattoo
These foolish things remind me of you
– Hey there pretty lady, are you sitting all alone? A beautiful lady like you shouldn’t be alone.
– Oh, erm, hello, I’m just waiting for my friends, they’ll be here soon. Any minute now.
– Why don’t I keep you company then, hmm? You look like you could do with some company, just until they get here.
– Well, um, I’m not sure… it’s a bit of a school reunion, you see? Not an official one, just the old gang getting together again. I’m really quite nervous, it’s been so long.
– That’s why you need me to talk to, make a new friend while you’re waiting for the old ones.
– Well maybe, I mean. Maybe they’ll think it’s rude if I’m talking to someone else…
– Hey now, you shouldn’t be worrying about that, when we’ve got this chance to get to know each other, hmm?
– Well, I suppose. And it’s the kind of thing that we used to do back then, just start chatting to some random stranger. Kirsty especially, I could tell you some crazy stories. Whenever we took the train we’d end up talking to some boys or making friends with an old tramp.
– Well that’s great, I think you and me already have a real connection, don’t you? How about I buy you a drink?
– Oh I don’t want to start drinking yet. Once the others get here, then I imagine it will be a free for all. More alcohol than you can shake a stick at, you know? Not that we were alcoholics, but we did like a drink.
– You don’t need to be so uptight about it, just have a drink with me.
– Oh Kirsty would love you. She did like a pushy fella who’d buy her a drink, she liked to play with them, she liked the risk. Oh, I can’t wait to see the old gang, I haven’t seen them in years, not that it should matter, I mean when you’re friends with someone, that’s it for life, isn’t it? They say your teenage friends are your greatest friends, right? Didn’t they say that in a film once? We were all very different back then though, and there were reasons we stopped being friends…
– Right, well that’s interesting…
– Kirsty especially got out of hand, not violent exactly, but, well there were incidents. Not that it was her fault, if I’d had that man as my father I’d have done a lot more than throw bottles at a car. Of course it would be all different if we were kids now, we’d spend our whole lives on the phone chatting to paedophiles. And you know kids today, the only time they actually look at one another is when they need to take a selfie, or a we-lie, or is it an us-y? I don’t know why they need to keep making up new words, like there aren’t enough words to deal with already. I mean there’s a whole dictionary full of the things.
– How about I get us that drink…
– Anyway, I was telling you about Kirsty, you’ll like her, all the boys did at school. It’s odd because she was never that fastidious about personal hygiene, but then they say attraction is all about pheromones, so maybe she just didn’t wash hers off as much. You’d think the feet smell would mask the pheromones though wouldn’t you?
– Mmm.
– Fastidious, now there’s an interesting word that kids today never use. They’re too busy with their OMGs and YOLOs. But anyway, Kirsty, apparently she’s a big shot consultant now, earning a fortune in the city. Well it’s not really surprising, she was always clever. Clever and bored, that was her problem, school just wasn’t enough to occupy her, she could pass exams without even studying, lucky cow.
– Well that’s great, but maybe…
– Anyway, we all found each other on Facebook, it’s amazing isn’t it? Modern technology? Fifteen years, all five of us scattered across the globe. All going about our business never expecting to see each other again. Then a few clicks of the mouse and there you are, the whole gang together. Kirsty, Jennifer, Archisha, little Sarah and big Sarah. Of course big Sarah is not so big now. She actually looks fantastic. Not that she didn’t when she was a teenager, but, well, you know what it’s like for larger girls, it’s tough. Except it’s probably fine now, now that obesity is so common. Big Sarah would probably be considered quite svelte. Quite svelte Sarah we’d have to call her. Although I expect we’d be arrested under the Political-Correctness-Gone-Mad Act for it. You know at my son’s school they actually have a points system for bullying? Like with driving, you get too many points for picking on other kids and you have to take an anti-bullying test. Well, I said to the teacher, that’s just another form of bullying isn’t it? You’re bullying my son now, how about you take a test? How about I set that damn test? And yes, I did swear, but you can’t let these teachers push you around, can you?
– Ok, um, I really need to go now…
– Oh sorry, sorry, I got totally side-tracked, I was telling you about the gang, wasn’t I? Well there was Jennifer, sweet, mousy Jennifer, all the boys who didn’t go for smelly Kirsty, went for Jen. I never really understood why, I mean, she was pretty in a bland, unthreatening way, but there was no spark to her. Maybe that’s what they liked, someone who’d make them feel sparky by comparison. Boys don’t like to try too hard do they?
– Lady, let go of my arm…
– But I haven’t told you about Archisha and she’ll be here any minute. And hers is such a lovely story. When she joined the gang she was much like Jennifer, mousy. She followed us around with those big eyes, trying to make jokes, but she wasn’t funny, just awful. Then one of the boys took a shine to her and then she started to take a shine to herself, you know? I mean, we helped her out with make-up, lent her clothes and so on, but it was a total transformation, she blossomed. Became a bit full of herself to be honest, and she didn’t stop cracking those awful jokes, but the boys would just laugh and laugh, trying to impress her. I suppose they thought she was exotic, or is that impoliticly correct now too?
– I need to go, please let me go…
– Yes, that’s right, you run along now. Run right along.
(I struggled for ages figuring out how to write these…)
And just like that, he vanished.
The army he commanded was tiny.
A flattery chain: Ponzi ego scheme
A crack appeared, the world split
One by one, the cities sank.
Basement sealed. It won’t escape again.
Thanks to Wisp of Smoke for inspiring the title. Some more very small tales, unconnected, although I always end up imagining a story that ties them altogether. Anyway…
Inside the locket she kept a demon’s egg.
He carved and whittled, preserving the faces of the dead in fruit. It was the least he could do.
“It was just easier to be clever, when there was so much less to know,” said the polymath, mournfully.
She sat on the bus, gripping the seat in front, with her eyes shut. ‘They ripped him out of me’, she whispered to no one in particular.
His expression flicked back and forth from hopeful to blank to hopeful; as nothing helpful continued to happen.
The memory is like an ache in my teeth and a twist under each moment. Like a sodden, dirty rag wrapping my feet to a stumble. The abyss hangs sac-like below my eyes, beckoning me to throw hope away and climb inside. But in a wink and shimmy the bone dead is up and walking. I freeze my fear and keep on keeping on.
The memory is like a distant hammering that I can ignore if I keep the music loud. An interruption that warps my words when I speak, so I try not to speak. Like a phantom tickling my toes, but powerless to hurt unless I believe. I can’t believe, I stare ahead.
The memory is definitely gone and my feet are flat on the floor so I can’t fall down. It’s gone and I’m a busy, busy bee with things to do and see. Like the juice of rotting meat seeped into the world, but cleaned and leaving no stain, it’s gone. Like it was never here at all.
The clouds rolled around the sky, raining only dust. Nobody looked up anymore.
So, drunk again, thought William proudly, easing himself into his favourite chair and lighting up a cigar. You give it a few generations and nobody will be doing this anymore, too busy vaping and running, he mused. I’ve always been an upholder of tradition.
We sit on stools of balsa wood, in the kitchen. There are no windows, so we keep the door open to let the night in. Under the floorboards is the grunting and squealing of three pigs in a constant state of wretched panic, one has tumour hanging from its face. Chickens keep trying to sneak in the back door to steal the kitten’s food and clouds of termites whizz aimlessly around the room before shedding their wings in my drink and crawling away to eat the house.
A hippy and I are playing cards, gin rummy, and I am winning, again. Being a hippy he is pretending he doesn’t care that he’s losing at cards because “hey, it’s only a card game” and “all good”, but I can see a Rumplestitskin rage leaping furiously under his face. He says,
“Oh so you’ve won again have you? Well, I’ll win next time you know? I will. I always win at cards.”
I win again.
I don’t consider this any particular triumph, I sold my soul to win cards as a child, and I now consider it only right that I win. If I ever start to lose then I can rejoice at the thought that my soul maybe growing back and I have nothing to fear from death. Either way I’m happy.
But then he pulls a trick. He gets up, walks once around his stool and sits down again. He has a smug look on his tufty-bearded face, his red apple-cheeks are glowing.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Magic. You’ll see, I’ll start winning now.”
I flick the ash from my roll up, made with pipe tobacco and a toilet roll wrapper held together with spit, through the crack in the floor.
“Surely if that’s true then it’s cheating,” I say.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I believe that magic can only be used for good,” he says.
“But cards is a game of skill and luck, if you use magic then that is cheating.”
I know at this point that I’m a hypocrite, but he doesn’t know that.
“Actually, it’s not magic” he backtracks “I’m just messing with your head.”
“But that’s even worse, messing with my head in order to win at cards.”
“Well, it is magic after all and now we’ll see who starts winning,” he says, his eyes a-twinkling, milk drops glistening in his tufty beard. I pick at the blisters on my hands and pretend not to care.
And then the bastard starts winning. One game after another, and it turns out I’m wrong, I do care.
“Hee hee hee,” he says gleefully with a loud fart, “you didn’t believe it, but now you see, eh?”
“But if it works, it’s only because you are foolish enough to believe it, not because it is real magic,” I say sulkily. I flick my cigarette again, half of the tobacco falls out of the paper and through the gap in the floor. There is a frenzy of squealing as the pigs beneath our feet fight to eat it.
“But you wait, soon you’ll be doing this too,” he says.
“No, I won’t,” I say.
“Yes you will, if you get that desperate.”
“What could make me so desperate?”
“If you lose the next three games.”
“And what could make me care so much about a card game that I try using a magic that I don’t believe in, in order to win?” I say, feigning loftiness.
“Hee hee, you’ll see.”
I can’t bear to look at his foolish grinning face another moment, so I wander out to the outhouse to keep my calm. The cicadas are singing up a storm, a thousand thousand stars litter the sky, and beneath them, a thousand thousand glow bugs flash on and off like a broken reflection. The outhouse hole is glistening with maggots, so I piss under the tree that is thought to be a cure for cancer. A storm is flashing over to the east, thick clouds are creeping through the mountains. Over to the west is the shadow of the forest, a lush dense twist of foliage, each tree struggling to stay upright under the weight of moss and orchids, their insides stolen by woodpeckers and ants. I walk back to the house but I’m not ready to rejoin the game, so I sit on the porch watching the moon overload on light, letting my attention drift wherever it chooses. There’s a smell in the rainforest that gets under your skin, like wood smoke; like fresh leaves and mud. One by one, each buzzing voice of discontent and paranoia drops away from my head. The clouds drift lower down the mountain, like ghosts. Lightening silently empties the sky of stars for a moment. Bats swoop, zancudos nip at my ankles. And then a loud hippy voice twangs behind me,
“I’ve always had a real mystical connection to the moon.”
I turn to see him, the tufty, fake-magic-spinning gimp, grinning up at the sky.
I fold up my serenity. Pull my cloak of bitterness and irritation around my twisted features and skulk back into the house to sweep the roaches aside and win that fucking card game.
“Oh look there! Is that a slaty egret? What a lovely bird!”
“Gerry? I don’t think we should have climbed that fence.”
“Don’t be silly I’d never have seen the slaty egret otherwise. I really didn’t expect to see one those here.”
“I think we need to climb back over the fence.”
“Not yet. Can you pass me the zoom lens?”
“I think this may be a wildlife park.”
“Hmm? If I can get the angle right, I can get a shot.”
“Gerry, we really need to run away now.”
“Stop hissing woman, you’ll scare it off.”
“They’re starting to move. Gerry? The rhinos are starting to move.”
“The what? The…oh dear.”
“Run, Gerry! Run!”
From Sunday Photo Fiction
Thanks for the prompt!
The link: Ronovan writes
The challenge: Take your favorite quote from a movie and use it as inspiration for your entry this week. If you want more direction, make it the last sentence in your piece
The movie quote: “Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need roads.” from Back to the Future
Length: 620 words
I take the blame for this. When I suggested the road trip I was just trying to think of a way to break my flatmate Joe out of a bad habit. Every night he’d come home from the bank and spend the evening sitting with a puzzle book. Curled up over his Sudoku and cryptic crosswords like an old man. It didn’t seem healthy.
“We’ll drive down to Cornwall, stop off at a few pubs, camp out in fields. It will be a total change from the humdrum,” I said, pleased to see his glimmer of interest. Time to break free.
It was week of pub lunches and getting lost on winding roads before Joe began to change. By day we’d carry on as normal, bickering like a married couple. But at night, as I’d shout at him to help me with the tent, he’d ignore me and just stare up at the stars. Every night, red-faced and huffing from battling canvas I’d ask him,
“What are you looking at, you numpty?”
And without tearing his eyes from the sky, he’d whisper something obscure like,
“What does it all mean though? All those lights blinking on and off, there must be a pattern.” And then he’d carry on staring while I stomped off to find firewood.
By the eighth night I’d had enough and told him we’d be sleeping out under those stars, since he liked them so much. After we’d parked, I pulled our sleeping bags out of the car and threw them into a field. Sitting on a clump of grass, he gave me a faraway smile as a response and let his eyes drift upwards, while I climbed into my sleeping bag in what I hoped conveyed an irritated manner. I was just dozing off when he started speaking again,
“I think I’ve nearly worked it out.”
“What?” I asked, as if I didn’t want to know at all.
“The puzzle of the stars.”
“It’s not a puzzle, Joe,” I said with a sliver of patience. “They’re just stars.”
Maybe we should pick up a bumper book of crosswords from a cornershop tomorrow, he was clearly suffering from withdrawal. I should have tried to wean him off slowly. He started speaking again, his voice suddenly intense. After a week of this star-gazing wispy nighttime musing, it was a bit of a shock to hear actual inflection to his words, as if he had woken up.
“You’re wrong. It’s a puzzle. Like a treasure hunt, you just have to work out what the clues are, where they’re pointing. That’s how you find the treasure.”
“Sure thing, Joe,” I sigh, and turn over to sleep.
I don’t know how much later it was when he woke me.
“We’re going,” he said, shaking me. Too close, his eyes reflecting light, but all around us was blackness. There was a mischievous fire to his voice, like a drunken goblin on a mission.
I was still saying,
“What?” while he was jumping up and running for the car.
I was saying,
“What?” again, as he started the engine. In panic, I stumbled from my sleeping bag, staggered to the car and leaped in the passenger side as he drove away, my door not even closed. But he didn’t head down the road, instead he swerved into the field.
“I get it!” he shouted, driving alongside a line of trees and further into nowhere. Branches shrieked against the windows, leaves slapped at the windscreen.
“What are you doing?” I wailed. With a euphoric grin he said,
“Solving the puzzle.” His face pure wild innocence, free of sanity.
“You’ve left the road! We’re not on the road!” I howl.
“Roads?” he said, “Where we’re going we don’t need roads.”
inkbiotic 