in a screaming arid host
tacitly phrased.
Copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: haiku, painful recollections, poem
From darkness to light...
Monday, May 28, 2007
Silence
brooding need twisted
in a screaming arid host
tacitly phrased.
Copyright, 2007. Verilion
in a screaming arid host
tacitly phrased.
Copyright, 2007. Verilion
Jamie Rush and the Special Beans
Jamie heard the toaster pop and knew that it would be the 17p ‘Special Beans’ from Lidl.
“Dad not home yet?” Jamie said slamming his books down on the peeling formica sideboard.
Mrs Rush looked up and smiled weakly. “Not tonight Jamie. Why don’t you read me one of your stories like you used to?” She pleaded
“Which one do you want? Further Maths or A level Economics?” Jamie spat out and turned on his heel slamming the door behind him.
At first, Jamie had felt sorry for his Dad and understood the draw to go to the pub and listen to Old Man Carragher weave those wondrous stories dripping his special beans between his fingers. As Carragher told the boys on the estate his stories, Jamie would watch the beans shimmer the different colours of a ray of light until Stevie Mack laughed at him. “They’re Haribo jelly beans from the corner shop lad.” Jamie tore his gaze away from their sheen. “Fuck lad! Next I’ll hear you still believe in Father Christmas.” No, Jamie had stopped believing in Father Christmas the year his Dad lost his job at the docks.
“Drink up Dad and come home,” Jamie ordered, standing behind his father.
“Sit down lad.” Carragher beckoned.
“Who are you my old man?” Mr. Rush sighed. “You’re in such a rush to grow up Jamie.” He pulled at Jamie’s arm then began to howl and whacked Carragher on the shoulder. “Rush,” he giggled.
“You’re pissed.” Jamie scolded.
“Oh come on.” Carragher soothed.
Jamie’s temper flared as he looked at the laughter lines around the old man’s eyes and he snatched the beans up and trickled them into the back of his throat. “That’s what I think of your stories and your beans old man.” He snarled and stalked away.
Days later Mr Rush pulled Old man Carragher through his home into his garden where a fresh green stalk, entwined with vine like leaves and blooming white flowers, reached up and up. All the creases in Carragher’s face ironed out in surprise as he realised what it was. There above the tree line was a split open trainer. “I, I don’t believe it!”
“What are you going to do?” Mr. Rush pushed Carragher towards the giant shoot.
Carragher’s jaw worked up and down for a few seconds before he replied: “There’s only one thing I can do.” And he began to climb up. He passed finger like tendrils reaching out.
“Carragher?” He heard a voice like the rustle of leaves and looked up to see a dark slit between the blooms beneath a nose shaped protuberance.
“Jamie?”
“The beans?” Jamie creaked as Carragher carried on climbing, over the chin, up to the plate sized green eye. “Carragher? Help me. Where are you going?”
“Lad.” Carragher called down as he crested the boy’s head. “The name’s Jack and me beans grew.”
“Where are you going?” Jamie pleaded. “Help me.”
“Lad me beans grew. What else is true?”
Labels: flash fiction, GBA(s)FC#2
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Unwoven
By the time the first frayed thread
snagged on your nail,
that sweater fell over your angles like
a reassuring comfort moulded to your form.
There it lay,
twisted at the back of your drawer,
ready to cosset you,
do your will.
But forced to see
by the pinch of the thread;
to become aware;
the holes materialised,
here and there.
You could have mended
those unraveling gashes.
But were you tired, unhappy,
with its uncompromising yarn;
its unwillingness to fit your changing self?
And as the fibre sliced into flesh,
numbing feeling,
you pulled and pulled,
until the fabric of your life,
slowly became unwoven.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
snagged on your nail,
that sweater fell over your angles like
a reassuring comfort moulded to your form.
There it lay,
twisted at the back of your drawer,
ready to cosset you,
do your will.
But forced to see
by the pinch of the thread;
to become aware;
the holes materialised,
here and there.
You could have mended
those unraveling gashes.
But were you tired, unhappy,
with its uncompromising yarn;
its unwillingness to fit your changing self?
And as the fibre sliced into flesh,
numbing feeling,
you pulled and pulled,
until the fabric of your life,
slowly became unwoven.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: painful recollections, poem
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
The Curtain Twitcher Watches
The path to learning
through voices of oral foliage;
autumn long ago.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
through voices of oral foliage;
autumn long ago.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: a voice from the past, poem
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Mind the Toes!
Mind the toes get their dose of
dew and wet blades of grass
between their inner most creases.
Mind the toes dig into the generations
of blunted glass
cooly cascading as they emerge.
Mind the toes dip and float
in the crystaline salty
blues and greens.
Mind the toes feel beneath them
the life, soul and grain
of the creaking floor.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: poem, skipping through grass
A letter to no one
Today I received a letter,
a long one;
a letter crying for something.
Begging for understanding?
Begging for forgiveness?
Begging for peace?
I cannot say.
What I do know is that I can give those things:
Understanding, forgiveness, peace,
But it is not from me that they will come.
Not now when we have a channel between us.
Those things have to come from you,
So I choose to save my words
And write a letter to no one.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
a long one;
a letter crying for something.
Begging for understanding?
Begging for forgiveness?
Begging for peace?
I cannot say.
What I do know is that I can give those things:
Understanding, forgiveness, peace,
But it is not from me that they will come.
Not now when we have a channel between us.
Those things have to come from you,
So I choose to save my words
And write a letter to no one.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: painful recollections, poem
Gosh!
A picnic? A picnic? A picnic it is then.
Tins emptied, veggies chopped, mayonnaise squirted,
garlic pressed, chipolatas fried, mango chutney packed,
sarongs, water, keys, tickets, phone, ready.
Text messages, roads closed, under the east pillar.
The smell of fried sausages assaulting the nostrils.
This bridge might be a good spot.
That field might be a good spot.
Here under the tower is a hard spot,
but here under the tower is a good spot.
Trip, tread, careful, slow.
A wave, a smile, no grass to be seen.
We three spread and open,
a salad, some wine, bread, dips
Munch, chew, swallow, sip.
Mm, perhaps we have too much.
The sun sets behind
And glows in the windows
of the tower in front.
What time is it?
Is it time yet?
Is it time yet?
No, it’s not time yet.
It’s not dark yet.
A voice booms out,
echoing incoherently across the wide open spaces.
Is it time yet?
No! It’s not time yet.
Le Tour glows green.
A roar from the crowd,
like a Mexican wave they rise.
Sit down we shout back.
The first notes swim across the champs.
Strings of lights beam up into the sky.
A lump sticks in my throat,
and a fountain of fire rises.
Dandelion heads
descending into a shower of golden fireflies,
twinkling brightly
Then dying out.
Hoops of red white and blue,
hearts reaching out to love you,
twirlers skittering into the sky
exploding loudly into a rainbow
It’s white brightness glowing on our open mouthed faces.
Explosions of colour upon colour.
A moments silence.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: poem, skipping through grass
A Vague Impression
Last night someone smudged the moon.
They got a big eraser and blurred its edges
into the black night sky.
Embarrassed by its uncertainty
the moon hid behind the trees
and the high ivy covered
stone wall.
The street lamps blinded me
and the sweeping electric gaze of the tower
led my eyes away.
But one lamp flickered out,
leaves shivered in the breeze
and if I stood on tiptoe
I could see a sliver of its translucent glow.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
They got a big eraser and blurred its edges
into the black night sky.
Embarrassed by its uncertainty
the moon hid behind the trees
and the high ivy covered
stone wall.
The street lamps blinded me
and the sweeping electric gaze of the tower
led my eyes away.
But one lamp flickered out,
leaves shivered in the breeze
and if I stood on tiptoe
I could see a sliver of its translucent glow.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: poem, skipping through grass
A Palette of Blues
If I timed my throws just right
I would hear the shush and gurgle of the sea as it lapped over my feet
followed by the ploop, doomp and putush of my pebbles.
And then I looked at the palette of blues before me
and I tried to name them all.
The sea laughed at my folly and splashed at my page
creating a water colour of its own.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
I would hear the shush and gurgle of the sea as it lapped over my feet
followed by the ploop, doomp and putush of my pebbles.
And then I looked at the palette of blues before me
and I tried to name them all.
The sea laughed at my folly and splashed at my page
creating a water colour of its own.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: meditations by the sea, poem
Scared of the Dark
I’m scared of the dark;
of the darkness inside.
The rotten mass of questions,
imagined possibilities,
of scarlet liquid endings.
I’m scared of the pain;
of the pain inside.
A memory not yet erased,
a reality not imagined,
the invisible incision not healed.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
of the darkness inside.
The rotten mass of questions,
imagined possibilities,
of scarlet liquid endings.
I’m scared of the pain;
of the pain inside.
A memory not yet erased,
a reality not imagined,
the invisible incision not healed.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: painful recollections, poem
Thoughts in my head...
I am,
Je suis,
I am an optimist,
Je suis optimiste,
I am too trusting of people.
Je suis quoi?... ouverte… naïf.
I do stupid things,
Je fais des trucs stupides,
I laugh,
Je ris,
I think,
Je pense…
I want…
Je veux…
I want…
Je veux…
J'espère
I hope...
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Je suis,
I am an optimist,
Je suis optimiste,
I am too trusting of people.
Je suis quoi?... ouverte… naïf.
I do stupid things,
Je fais des trucs stupides,
I laugh,
Je ris,
I think,
Je pense…
I want…
Je veux…
I want…
Je veux…
J'espère
I hope...
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: painful recollections, poem
Inspired by Parenthesis
Every day I fall in love,
as your voice whispers in my ear.
The melody of sounds
turns the corners of my mouth.
My eyelids flutter downwards in delight.
The construction of phrases so carefully placed.
My fingers follow your body;
caressing, lingering, underlining.
And as I trace patterns on your front and back
my love comes to an end
as I turn the final the page.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
as your voice whispers in my ear.
The melody of sounds
turns the corners of my mouth.
My eyelids flutter downwards in delight.
The construction of phrases so carefully placed.
My fingers follow your body;
caressing, lingering, underlining.
And as I trace patterns on your front and back
my love comes to an end
as I turn the final the page.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: poem, the passion of words
Communion
If the cold crept in and numbed my very soul,
Then the sun suffused my skin and washed it warm again.
If the moon caused my moods to sway back and forth like the ebbing tides,
Then the stars muted light offered hope and deliverance.
Copyright, 2007, VerilionLabels: introspection, poem
Who are we ?
We are inhabited by an other,
‘til their voice fades,
their story told,
Or ‘til they whisper:
'Not today, another time.'
Labels: poem, the passion of words
Observational Records on the Analysis of Dreams – 12/03/07
Subject x describes dreams full of bright streaming daylight,
yet senses the inner spirit is dark.
In the bright and almost fluorescent radiance of these dreams
subject x is profoundly lost.
What are the possible meanings to this opposition?
Are we to conclude that the darkness is merely the night?
Is subject x engaged in a struggle to wake up?
Or is the darkness a fear that subject x has buried so deep,
that even in the brightest glow cannot be found?
Further observations will continue to consider
each of these hypotheses.
Labels: painful recollections, poem
Two sides of the wall: a poem for two voices
This brushed steel wall is my protection.
(... is my prison.)
I stand far behind it surveying
(... pressed up against it)
the fact that it is tall, wide, strong, impenetrable.
made impotent by the fact that I do not know how to begin to
bring it down
Labels: painful recollections, poem
Time
I watched him play with time
between his fingers:
stretching it,
snapping it,
stopping it
as if it was a pliable material,
like plasticine,
instead of the steady march of
seconds,
minutes,
days and
years
that I knew it to be.
Labels: poem, the passion of words
Recollections of the Sea
Let us worship at the altar of the sea.
the sound of the waves rolling in
sssh
the wind whispering in my ears,
broar,
the sun beating down on my bones.
The sun setting behind the sea’s edges,
when the vermilions merge
and there’s no telling where the sky ends
and the sea begins.
The evenings spent inMazatlan
my head resting on my hands
hoping to see that elusive
green flash.
The moon rippling on the waves,
pulling them here and there
and me sitting hugging my knees
captivated by the splendour of it.
The sound of stones
plopping into the water.
The feel of salty spray
washing my face
as my fingers dangle in the wake.
My feet plunged in the water
being tugged by the current.
Come in, come further, let me cleanse you.
Copyright, 2007. Verilion
the sound of the waves rolling in
sssh
the wind whispering in my ears,
broar,
the sun beating down on my bones.
The sun setting behind the sea’s edges,
when the vermilions merge
and there’s no telling where the sky ends
and the sea begins.
The evenings spent in
my head resting on my hands
hoping to see that elusive
green flash.
The moon rippling on the waves,
pulling them here and there
and me sitting hugging my knees
captivated by the splendour of it.
The sound of stones
plopping into the water.
The feel of salty spray
washing my face
as my fingers dangle in the wake.
My feet plunged in the water
being tugged by the current.
Come in, come further, let me cleanse you.
Labels: meditations by the sea, poem
Scenes at the Garden Party
Celebrate!
Froth spills over the razor thin crystal edges
as adhesive smiles are pasted over
barely disguised dripping disdain.
Rays of heat illuminate the
staggeringly joyous resignation while
on the other side of the cool horizon
of sombre iron bars
lies freedom;
stretching into the last hours of the day
Labels: interruptions from real life, poem
Degeneration
It began gradually, little grey spots in the outer corners of her vision getting larger until she seriously thought about getting her eyesight checked. Sometimes they were like solar flares leaving the remnant of a familiar image embossed on her retina. And then as the haze enlarged preening her view, she knew.
It began gradually. As Pete watched her carefully picking at her food as if unsure where to place her fork, he realised that at some point in the past when he had not been paying attention she had stopped laughing, stopped finding his jokes funny. She wore that permanent squint on her face as if she was always questioning.
It began gradually; the affair. She found herself drinking more frequently after work with her colleagues, and he – Simon - was present more often. Their eyes met, they met and suddenly she found she was cheating on Pete. Simon was fun, until he wasn’t; until he began making demands on her time, her life, her future. She gradually realised that she was going to have to free herself of Simon.
The last time she met Simon was in a pub in the forest. As she clasped her glass she realised her hands were shaking and although she tried to keep calm, she knew her eyes were wide open. Her voice shook as she explained to Simon what she wanted, who she didn’t want. His head lowered with every word she uttered and as she left him lolling over his pint she had the impression she had deflated him.
She had parked in a lane away from the pub. In retrospect not a good idea, but the man who grabbed her arm and flung her against the car door was not a stranger. She heard her car keys skitter across the tarmac and saw where they came to lie. His hand was round her neck, his breath hot on her face, his words angry. She closed her eyes to keep out the fear, drawing everything she could into herself. He never saw it coming. His vision exploded into a million tiny flares as her fist impacted under his chin, his hand loosened around her neck and he felt it yanked away as her forearm butted his, as her knee connected with his crotch and the fire spread within him leaving him squirming on his knees. He heard her feet on the tarmac as he hauled himself to his knees, the key in the lock as he staggered to his feet. He tried to hold onto the door as the car moved from beneath him, and he stood uselessly watching the tail lights disappear and was still standing uselessly as the headlights reappeared at great speed and he realised she wasn’t going to stop.
She woke up one morning and screamed and screamed and screamed until Pete came and held her. All that was left of her sight was the negative imprint of a face on her windscreen.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
It began gradually. As Pete watched her carefully picking at her food as if unsure where to place her fork, he realised that at some point in the past when he had not been paying attention she had stopped laughing, stopped finding his jokes funny. She wore that permanent squint on her face as if she was always questioning.
It began gradually; the affair. She found herself drinking more frequently after work with her colleagues, and he – Simon - was present more often. Their eyes met, they met and suddenly she found she was cheating on Pete. Simon was fun, until he wasn’t; until he began making demands on her time, her life, her future. She gradually realised that she was going to have to free herself of Simon.
The last time she met Simon was in a pub in the forest. As she clasped her glass she realised her hands were shaking and although she tried to keep calm, she knew her eyes were wide open. Her voice shook as she explained to Simon what she wanted, who she didn’t want. His head lowered with every word she uttered and as she left him lolling over his pint she had the impression she had deflated him.
She had parked in a lane away from the pub. In retrospect not a good idea, but the man who grabbed her arm and flung her against the car door was not a stranger. She heard her car keys skitter across the tarmac and saw where they came to lie. His hand was round her neck, his breath hot on her face, his words angry. She closed her eyes to keep out the fear, drawing everything she could into herself. He never saw it coming. His vision exploded into a million tiny flares as her fist impacted under his chin, his hand loosened around her neck and he felt it yanked away as her forearm butted his, as her knee connected with his crotch and the fire spread within him leaving him squirming on his knees. He heard her feet on the tarmac as he hauled himself to his knees, the key in the lock as he staggered to his feet. He tried to hold onto the door as the car moved from beneath him, and he stood uselessly watching the tail lights disappear and was still standing uselessly as the headlights reappeared at great speed and he realised she wasn’t going to stop.
She woke up one morning and screamed and screamed and screamed until Pete came and held her. All that was left of her sight was the negative imprint of a face on her windscreen.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: flash fiction
Too late, he said, too late
“Where’s Inspector Harvey ?” Officer Garland asked the young PC at the front door who replied with a bored shrug of the shoulders then added: “Kitchen; maybe.” Garland followed the sounds of clinks and clatters and found Harvey with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hands plunged in a sink full of suds.
“No family then.” Harvey stated.
“No. How do you know?” Garland smiled. “Intuition I suppose?”
Harvey looked back and smiled sadly at the younger officer. “The curtain had fallen down.” He turned back to the sink a sudden lump in his throat preventing him from carrying on. She had had no one to call for help. She had lain in her bathroom for weeks before the neighbours had finally noticed they hadn’t seen her for a while.
“Sad.” Garland sighed patting Harvey on the shoulder. “I see you put the curtain back up.”
Harvey nodded.
Later Harvey surprised his boys by picking them up after school, telling his wife to go shopping and treat herself and even though he’d seen his mother two days before, he took the boys to buy Chinese take away and they all ate it round at Nanna’s.
“What came over you tonight?” Harvey’s wife asked as she bustled around the room putting away her purchases. Harvey shrugged. His wife turned round and pulled the well worn Adoption Services envelope from his hand. “Are you going to call your birth mother?” She asked.
“Nah,” Harvey shook his head. “No point now love.”
copyright, 2007. Verilion
“No family then.” Harvey stated.
“No. How do you know?” Garland smiled. “Intuition I suppose?”
Harvey looked back and smiled sadly at the younger officer. “The curtain had fallen down.” He turned back to the sink a sudden lump in his throat preventing him from carrying on. She had had no one to call for help. She had lain in her bathroom for weeks before the neighbours had finally noticed they hadn’t seen her for a while.
“Sad.” Garland sighed patting Harvey on the shoulder. “I see you put the curtain back up.”
Harvey nodded.
Later Harvey surprised his boys by picking them up after school, telling his wife to go shopping and treat herself and even though he’d seen his mother two days before, he took the boys to buy Chinese take away and they all ate it round at Nanna’s.
“What came over you tonight?” Harvey’s wife asked as she bustled around the room putting away her purchases. Harvey shrugged. His wife turned round and pulled the well worn Adoption Services envelope from his hand. “Are you going to call your birth mother?” She asked.
“Nah,” Harvey shook his head. “No point now love.”
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: flash fiction
Cheese Sandwich
Her eyes were closed and she was rhythmically stroking the spine of her book; up and down. He found this arousing, which was a shame: his words were the reason she had closed in on herself.
“I just don’t seem to be getting through to you anymore. You seem to get more pleasure out of eating a cheese sandwich in the bath than from me. I just don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
Labels: flash fiction
Untitled #3
The last time I saw him if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in myself maybe I would have noticed that for a bloke of his size he wasn’t supposed to be that size.
“Do you remember that nutty woman who used to stalk you in the cemetery?
I laughed remembering how my pubescence had hidden her black cloak and wild hair, I had seen breasts, a pretty face and my imagination ran wild until the day I had mistakenly tried to engage her in conversation and found myself momentarily locked into her insanity by her wild eyes. “Where is he? They put him here.” She scared the shit out of me and until today I hadn’t set foot in this cemetery again.
“Adam fancied the local crackpot, looking for her dead husband’s grave.” Christy burst into a lung spilling cough that he called laughter. “She said he’d died of influenza.” Christy’s red face could barely spit out the last words. “In 1875!” I should have noticed the way Caroline was looking at him.
Through grey drizzle I found a splash of floral colour, it had to be him: the grave was fresh and no headstone marked his spot. Plastic covered cards bid Christy Whelan farewell and I sank to my knees to do the same. “Sorry I was late,” I mumbled.
Behind me a voice I remembered sang out: “Christy Whelan. He died of influenza.”
Turning to see her face I said: “I thought you were her.”
Copyright, 2007, VerilionLabels: flash fiction
Untitled #2
Afterwards when she wondered how she had ended up alone in the remnants of his life, she put it down to this. It was raining. The lights were red. She hit the brakes. The bike slid. She slid along the slick surface, her head coming to rest by his boots.
Copyright, 2006, Verilion
Labels: flash fiction
Untitled #1
She had nothing more than luck and good timing on her side the day she locked me away. But one day I would be free, I just hope that she didn’t kill herself before I could. On my timescale fifteen years was nothing, but she had achieved what lesser demons only dreamed of and that PISSED-ME-OFF. And believe me, I am not someone you want to piss off; not when you’ve let me into your deepest fears.
Her hold had been diminishing for some time now and one day my world shook and a crack appeared, just a slither of light seeped through into my prison, but it was enough for me to slip through and there she lay. In fifteen years the
When she woke up she turned the place upside down looking for the powder for her nose. I heard her crying and moaning, she knew it was somewhere and I knew exactly where it was and finally she saw me. “Fuck!” She exhaled. “You! It can’t...” She trembled and her red-rimmed eyes brimmed over and spilled salt.
“Now don’t tell me you didn’t realise this day would come.”
“I, I, I...” She staggered around the room until her eyes fell on the box in my hand. “Fuck!”
“It’s in here. What you’re looking for.” I opened the box and the sweet poppy smell filled the room.
She fell onto her bony knees, grappling at my legs. “I’m sorry, you scared me. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“When did you not know what you were doing? The day you sold me your soul or the day you locked me away?” Dribble oozed from the side of her mouth as her eyes begged forgiveness. “It’s in here Lara,” I waved the box in front of her again. “Take it.” I waved the box before her.
“What is it?” Her feral nose wrinkled at the end.
“What you desire.”
“You tricked me before.” She curled up onto her haunches. I raised an eyebrow. “Just tell me?” She begged.
“Are you scared to look?” I took her by the wrist. “You were scared that day weren’t you? The day you held on and couldn’t look.”
“I couldn’t look. All that water, all those bodies.” Her body quivered as I laid her on the bed.
“And I took that away for you didn’t I?” I stroked her feverish forehead and opened the box a crack.
“What is it? It’s so blue?” She craned forward.
“It’s the sea my darling.” I cooed as I pushed her in and kept her under.
In the end the coroner wrote ‘drug overdose’ on her death certificate. He couldn’t bring himself to write drowning on an official document when she lived two thousand metres above sea level.
Copyright, 2007, Verilion
Labels: flash fiction
The Blank Canvas
“I know it’s not much of a view, but one day I’m going to make it better.” I frowned as I flexed Carl’s left leg. The only way that wall could be prettier was to knock the building down. “You never asked me how I broke my back?” Just because I was paid to feed them their drugs and make sure their muscles didn’t give up the ghost completely they thought they could pour their stories into me. He stared out the window as I swapped legs. “It’s my blank canvas, it’s stayed blank.” He turned his gaze towards me. “One day I’ll tag it.” His gaze full of belief froze the frown on my forehead.
We didn’t talk about the wall again, but as his mood darkened as the days got shorter I looked up at the wall relief flooding through me each day it stayed blank.
I smelled acetone before I saw them: three of them, faceless behind their oversized hoods. I could have walked away, but for some reason I kicked the crates out from under them and sprayed one of them with mace before I was grabbed by the shoulder and realised how stupid I’d been. I wondered how badly they’d hurt me when a can of spray paint bounced heavily off a hooded head. The other two were gone before he crumpled to the floor.
As I looked up at Carl clutching his window frame I wondered when I had started to believe again.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
We didn’t talk about the wall again, but as his mood darkened as the days got shorter I looked up at the wall relief flooding through me each day it stayed blank.
I smelled acetone before I saw them: three of them, faceless behind their oversized hoods. I could have walked away, but for some reason I kicked the crates out from under them and sprayed one of them with mace before I was grabbed by the shoulder and realised how stupid I’d been. I wondered how badly they’d hurt me when a can of spray paint bounced heavily off a hooded head. The other two were gone before he crumpled to the floor.
As I looked up at Carl clutching his window frame I wondered when I had started to believe again.
copyright, 2007. Verilion
Labels: flash fiction