My cat died (traffic accident) but it wouldn’t leave. The first night I awoke, petrified, to find it, unflattened, on my bed, purring. Then the next night and the next. Now it won’t ‘go’. I thought it wanted my corporeal love but now I understand. It’s just waiting for me.
Evalina told me she’d escaped a violent man. I took this at face value.
We were lovers for two years before she struck me. What shocked me more than my black bloody eye was that I’d been so horribly naive. She may have escaped his clutches but I had not.
Sullen, sunken memories in stone. Like two sad imprinted questions waiting to be answered. What do they stand for? They’ve become as familiar as the ground that embraces them. If we follow in these where will we get?
Engraved in an anonymous street. A forgotten dreamers feet. Footsteps in concrete.
The kids hated it. They gave it back. If they’re the future of this country, what hope have we? I told them it was simple, fifty words: one story. They said they’d tell me a great story in one word. I never even knew that word when I was nine.
The first time she fell pregnant, she craved pickled eggs and tortillas.
The next time, it was Tabasco and chick flicks.
The third time, fine soap shavings, the fourth, woodchip and the smell of Waterloo station.
Now she craves a lover, forgiveness, more time. She craves life. But not hers.
Uninspired, Larry left the conference early and found himself driving through wooded countryside at 4.38am.
When his car broke down, he couldn’t help noticing shadowy faces amongst the trees.
His wife was spooning a lover and didn’t expect him home a day early.
But it wasn’t ‘Larry’ that came home.
It took her two days to figure out that faking appreciation for the obscure singer-songwriter he loved, would win his heart.
It took two weeks to win his heart.
It took him two years to realise that they weren’t like-minded.
It took twenty years for the kids to forgive them.
I didn’t ask about the scar at first. She was clearly self-conscious. Didn’t mention it at all as we grew closer and intimate.
One night, post-coital, I stroked it gently.
“Battle scar,” she said breaking ‘the silence’.
“What battle?” I asked.
“Love is a war.”
She curled into my arms.
Publishers be damned. Who needs publishers when you can self-publish on the internet? Ha! Cut out the middle man. I’m going to blog all my stories online just to give them a chance to be read. By anyone. Anyone? Modern technology thou set art free. Fly my children, fly verily.
They called him ‘Albatross’ because he brought bad luck. “You’re a stately sea-bird,” they lied. He didn’t know any better. One weekend, traveling to a match, the team bus crashed into a ravine. Albatross was the only survivor. As they pulled him from the wreckage, nobody noticed his chilling smile.