Sol finds the phone number on the side of a post box in a suburb he doesn’t often visit. He posts a letter there on the day only because he is passing through. Letters were not a great passion of his, yet he still knows a meagre few who prefer their correspondence written in ink and memories, not pixels and digits. The thought of recording himself would sometimes make him smile, mostly because he was the only one who wrote exactly like he did. His reasoning was that a letter, with his words spaced out just so, letters shaped each with their own little quirks, were like a portrait of everything you couldn’t tell about someone from a photograph. It was about the way their thoughts moved, sloppy letters raced across the page, with high peaks and rushing pen strokes of excitement. Or slow, with measured letters each sitting frank on their own line like a tiny little person, just waiting to be read aloud and freed.
The phone number is written on a piece of paper, stuck with scotch tape to the post box. The box is old, paint peeling red like pieces of sunburnt skin off summer noses. As he stares at the number, Sol’s mind thinks about who paints post boxes, and whether they ever get bored of the colour red. The number is a house number, local. Although handwritten, each number is carefully printed onto the paper, as though the person wants to make extra sure that whoever finds the number could read it. Sol gets one of his fingernails under the scotch tape and frees it from the post box. More paint comes with it, lamenting the removal of this new friend. The paper doesn’t say anything else, but in the number Sol thinks he sees something.
At home, Sol spends some time staring at the phone and thinking about the number. When he can’t figure out the mystery of it his brain turns to easier pursuits like the idea of phone lines as a spiderweb that stretches across the city. Conversations crawl all over the sticky threads like spiders. But then, what would be the flies? The phone number on the paper feels strangely heavy in his hand, and the tape keeps catching on his finger, looking for a new place to rest.
Sol picks up the phone, and then puts it down. He considers ripping the paper in half and throwing it in the bin. His fingers hover over the middle of the paper, not wanting to obey his brain, not this time. Once again the phone comes off the hook, and this time his fingertips dance over the keypad, punching in the numbers in a mystery ballet.
Ring ring.
Sol thinks about the people who leave their phone numbers on post boxes. Ring ring. He wonders why nobody else took the number. Ring ring. Perhaps, he thinks, someone had taken the number down on pencil, and left the paper on the box for someone else to find. Ring ring. He probably should have down that. Ring ring. It seemed that nobody would pick up the phone. Ring-
Sol can hear someone breathing on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” He ventures.
A woman’s voice releases a sigh that sounds like relief, a breath held waiting for a heart beat or a sign of life.
“Hello,” she says, “I’ve been waiting for you to call.”
The Other Side
Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~E.L. Doctorow
Friday, 2 December 2011
Monday, 29 August 2011
Burn
A spark in the dark begins it. The stolen lighter flares and goes out, flares again with the flip of a thumb. Tongue between lips he worries what she thinks of him, not even man enough to start a fire on a cold night in the middle of that bushland. The middle of nowhere really. Just a clearing with a random mass of rocks arranged in the middle. Someone else’s little construction he’s claimed as his own. This is his place now, and that his monument.
And she is his girl, at least for now, in this particular special moment in the history of their lives. He smiles as the lighter flares again, and the flame hold in the night. With shaking hands, anticipation maybe, or nervous fear, he inches towards the small pile of sticks arranged in the centre of the rocky mounds. Their craggy edges catch the light, a million tiny shadows that only he can see. Flame touches paper and ink flares purple and green as the fire grabs hold and the crackle of sticks whispers their surrender to the flames. A spark jumps towards his face, and falls onto his lip with a sizzle. With a slight grimace at the sting he licks his lips, tasting burn.
She is still sitting exactly as she had been when he turns to face her. A slight grin plays on the edge of her features. A strange expression, he isn’t quite certain. She’s unsure, that’s what it is. So is he.
Sitting next to her, the heat from the fire seems to barely matter. It is the body heat that grabs him, flared nostrils and resisting the urge to lick his lips again. Don’t want to be too obvious. Don’t want her to know. He wonders what she is thinking. Gathering up the courage for a glance he finds she is already staring at him. Hungry. Waiting. Opportunity enough.
A subtle lean with no confidence starts another kind of fire.
That burst of light at the same time his lips touch hers and neurones fire to synapses a million explosions of pleasure. She, reaching around the back of his head for a better grip on that mouth, feels the fire inside begin to roar, a burning growing from the patient embers waiting for the right wind. There is a taste in him that she longs for, that she craves. Tongues reach to the back of throats in a frenzy only known to desperate teens and those reliving teenage moments. A pause for breath, another grin pushed up close against his face. His breath is a tornado of fire, singeing the hairs on her cheeks, her eyelashes. More kisses, more tongue. Bodies mesh together, mould into one. He breaks off to whisper in warm words:
“You’re hot.”
“I know,” she whispers back, and her hands find his hair again, pulling hard. She can feel him flinch. This is her favourite part because they never notice the other hand reaching the chin and latching on. Muscles tense as she brings his head around to place it’s never been. There’s a slight tension, but she pushes through. A crack rewards her effort, and the fire shivers in return as one last hot breathe escapes the empty cavity of that warm mouth. Eyes roll back to blackness and the night sky shows no stars beyond the two lights in the girl’s eyes. She drags the body, no longer a boy, towards the centre of the clearing.
Another foundation for her rock pile, she thinks. That is her own little claim on this space. Her monument.
And she is his girl, at least for now, in this particular special moment in the history of their lives. He smiles as the lighter flares again, and the flame hold in the night. With shaking hands, anticipation maybe, or nervous fear, he inches towards the small pile of sticks arranged in the centre of the rocky mounds. Their craggy edges catch the light, a million tiny shadows that only he can see. Flame touches paper and ink flares purple and green as the fire grabs hold and the crackle of sticks whispers their surrender to the flames. A spark jumps towards his face, and falls onto his lip with a sizzle. With a slight grimace at the sting he licks his lips, tasting burn.
She is still sitting exactly as she had been when he turns to face her. A slight grin plays on the edge of her features. A strange expression, he isn’t quite certain. She’s unsure, that’s what it is. So is he.
Sitting next to her, the heat from the fire seems to barely matter. It is the body heat that grabs him, flared nostrils and resisting the urge to lick his lips again. Don’t want to be too obvious. Don’t want her to know. He wonders what she is thinking. Gathering up the courage for a glance he finds she is already staring at him. Hungry. Waiting. Opportunity enough.
A subtle lean with no confidence starts another kind of fire.
That burst of light at the same time his lips touch hers and neurones fire to synapses a million explosions of pleasure. She, reaching around the back of his head for a better grip on that mouth, feels the fire inside begin to roar, a burning growing from the patient embers waiting for the right wind. There is a taste in him that she longs for, that she craves. Tongues reach to the back of throats in a frenzy only known to desperate teens and those reliving teenage moments. A pause for breath, another grin pushed up close against his face. His breath is a tornado of fire, singeing the hairs on her cheeks, her eyelashes. More kisses, more tongue. Bodies mesh together, mould into one. He breaks off to whisper in warm words:
“You’re hot.”
“I know,” she whispers back, and her hands find his hair again, pulling hard. She can feel him flinch. This is her favourite part because they never notice the other hand reaching the chin and latching on. Muscles tense as she brings his head around to place it’s never been. There’s a slight tension, but she pushes through. A crack rewards her effort, and the fire shivers in return as one last hot breathe escapes the empty cavity of that warm mouth. Eyes roll back to blackness and the night sky shows no stars beyond the two lights in the girl’s eyes. She drags the body, no longer a boy, towards the centre of the clearing.
Another foundation for her rock pile, she thinks. That is her own little claim on this space. Her monument.
Sunday, 28 August 2011
Salt
There’s salt on my fingertips, and in the seams of my clothes. I can still remember what the beach felt like, that breeze coming off the breakers, a slipstream direct from the sea. When I try to sleep now, all I can hear is the ocean, like my ears are my very own seashell, echoing out into the silence of this winter. Or maybe, that’s just my heartbeat, whooshing past in my ears, a wave of blood, the beat and rhythm. My heart is the sea, a sea within me.
I can deal with that, but what I can’t handle is the salt. I can feel it in the cracks of my skin, the grooves where my curves fade to flesh. The salt is rubbing my memories raw, it’s rubbing away the things I want to keep close to my heart. Salt fills the cavities inside my eyes where I used to see the sun. Instead of tan, all I have is salt in my pores. I am yesterday’s salt pan, drying out and cracking into a million pieces of whiteness. I should lick myself up, stick my bones together with saliva, before I fall apart. I might be Lot’s wife, collapsing in on myself, a badly built pillar of humanity, all because I looked back on the past, over my shoulder into that tropical sunset.
What I want is that slipstream from the sea to pick me straight up on a breeze, and remake me somewhere near where the waves crash constant on a sandy shore. I’ll still be made of salt then, but that salt won’t scratch my skin to nothing as it laments its distance from the ocean. Instead that salt will drag my heart out of stupor, and bring it to a beat that matches the wave’s rhythm. With every pulse in my chest the salt will trickle out from corners of my anatomy I don’t have names for. Down the gentle rise of my knuckles and into the sand, that salt, which is half of me and half the sea, mixed with blood and summer memories, will make it’s way back to those murky depths.
There’s salt on my fingertips, and in the seams of my clothes. There’s salt in my hair, and in the corners of my eyes. There’s salt on my skin, and under it. There’s salt in the sea, and that sea is in me.
I can deal with that, but what I can’t handle is the salt. I can feel it in the cracks of my skin, the grooves where my curves fade to flesh. The salt is rubbing my memories raw, it’s rubbing away the things I want to keep close to my heart. Salt fills the cavities inside my eyes where I used to see the sun. Instead of tan, all I have is salt in my pores. I am yesterday’s salt pan, drying out and cracking into a million pieces of whiteness. I should lick myself up, stick my bones together with saliva, before I fall apart. I might be Lot’s wife, collapsing in on myself, a badly built pillar of humanity, all because I looked back on the past, over my shoulder into that tropical sunset.
What I want is that slipstream from the sea to pick me straight up on a breeze, and remake me somewhere near where the waves crash constant on a sandy shore. I’ll still be made of salt then, but that salt won’t scratch my skin to nothing as it laments its distance from the ocean. Instead that salt will drag my heart out of stupor, and bring it to a beat that matches the wave’s rhythm. With every pulse in my chest the salt will trickle out from corners of my anatomy I don’t have names for. Down the gentle rise of my knuckles and into the sand, that salt, which is half of me and half the sea, mixed with blood and summer memories, will make it’s way back to those murky depths.
There’s salt on my fingertips, and in the seams of my clothes. There’s salt in my hair, and in the corners of my eyes. There’s salt on my skin, and under it. There’s salt in the sea, and that sea is in me.
Labels:
heart,
oceans,
poetic prose,
salt,
sea
Friday, 19 August 2011
Red
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
A puddle, a river.
The steady flows weighs it down and pushes the liquid forward, forward.
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
It pools.
There’s no incline here, but the constant beat of drops from high suggest movement to the mindless substance. It is a liquid zombie. Moving forward. Conquering space.
Drip...
Against the concrete, it looks black. It is not. Dip your fingers into it. Catch a drop before it crashes to the floor. Your fingerprints fill, inked up for identification. Hold it to the light.
Red.
Crimson red.
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
The river dams around your feet. Your shoes aren’t white on the bottoms anymore. Raspberry lava. Ruby wine. A rust coloured waterway, snaking out, escaping the coldness of its host.
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
You look up. A shadow. The dull glinting of still wet eyes. A terracotta smile splashed across pale skin. Ivory vertebra show through from where a voice once resided.
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
Every drop falls into the puddle with a splash. Smaller drops rise, displaced. Not wanting to look up you focus on this.
Each drop.
A perfect bloody rose.
Thursday, 26 May 2011
A Photocopied Heart
I lost my heart yesterday.
Left, accidentally I think, on the last bus heading out of town and to the horizon. I thought the bus was empty, but then at the back I saw a time traveller, lost halfway to yesterday. She was crying, and her tears were like tiny universes caressing her cheeks, glittering and leaving only trails of stardust where her sorrow used to be. I wanted to catch one of those tears in a vial, so whenever I was alone I could hold it to the light, or cup it to my chest where my heart was and feel it shine. I could drink it, and replace my missing organ with a galaxy of supernovas.
But I didn’t catch a tear, and I left my heart on the last bus heading to the horizon.
I think that girl must have lost a lover. A time traveller, so her other half could have been Time itself, with his hourglass and his notepad, counting down the days to day’s end. It takes a broken heart to cry like that, not just a misplaced one. But it takes time to heal a heart, so I don’t know where that leaves her. Perpetually broken, a tribute to all things left behind.
Today, I went to the bus stop with missing posters of my missing heart. Photocopied hearts and I stuck them with glue and oily fingerprints to every spot that would hold them. I handed them out to the lost and the desperate, and those people that tend to find themselves at bus stops where all the buses leave and don’t come back. I think I found the driver of the bus I was on, but I wasn’t sure because every time he spoke his faced changed, like every word he said made him a different person. With my stack of photocopied hearts I painted that bus stop contrast black ink on white, and when the sun went down and the wind picked up, the steady whistling made the bus stop feel a heart. The passengers, looking around in a kind of wonder, considered their surroundings, a heart inside a heart, and me with my stack of paper, and a hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
When dawn came, I had no more paper in my stack, but all the passengers heading into the horizon had a glimpse of my photocopied heart and a whispered promise to hold eyes open and keep the heart safe for me, should it be found.
I sat on a bench, and had to keep digging my fingers into the wood grain to keep from floating away. I was too light now. I didn’t know that hearts were like anchors, but I suppose it makes sense. I thought again about the time traveller with the great unknown contained inside her tears. I wondered if she saw me somewhere between her idea of yesterday. I wondered if she found my heart.
“Yes,” she said, “I did.”
And there she was, standing next to me, her cheeks still glittering with stardust and the cracks in her face cleaved by a lover lost. In her hand she held my heart, bloody and pumping, red and once lost, sluggishly inviting me to hold it. I took it off her. It felt cold, and on the surface I could see where her tears had struck it, and painted space on the muscles that kept my blood pumping. It fit just like the last piece in a puzzle, and felt like it too, perfect and accomplished. The hole in my heart closed over, and then the skin stretched back into place, leaving only a tiny ruby on the surface to show where it had once been opened. My feet held tight to the ground, and my brain didn’t worry anymore, and my photocopied hearts went out into the world anyway and kept the beat going.
And the girl disappeared as soon as I looked up to thank her, but I suppose time travellers do that.
Left, accidentally I think, on the last bus heading out of town and to the horizon. I thought the bus was empty, but then at the back I saw a time traveller, lost halfway to yesterday. She was crying, and her tears were like tiny universes caressing her cheeks, glittering and leaving only trails of stardust where her sorrow used to be. I wanted to catch one of those tears in a vial, so whenever I was alone I could hold it to the light, or cup it to my chest where my heart was and feel it shine. I could drink it, and replace my missing organ with a galaxy of supernovas.
But I didn’t catch a tear, and I left my heart on the last bus heading to the horizon.
I think that girl must have lost a lover. A time traveller, so her other half could have been Time itself, with his hourglass and his notepad, counting down the days to day’s end. It takes a broken heart to cry like that, not just a misplaced one. But it takes time to heal a heart, so I don’t know where that leaves her. Perpetually broken, a tribute to all things left behind.
Today, I went to the bus stop with missing posters of my missing heart. Photocopied hearts and I stuck them with glue and oily fingerprints to every spot that would hold them. I handed them out to the lost and the desperate, and those people that tend to find themselves at bus stops where all the buses leave and don’t come back. I think I found the driver of the bus I was on, but I wasn’t sure because every time he spoke his faced changed, like every word he said made him a different person. With my stack of photocopied hearts I painted that bus stop contrast black ink on white, and when the sun went down and the wind picked up, the steady whistling made the bus stop feel a heart. The passengers, looking around in a kind of wonder, considered their surroundings, a heart inside a heart, and me with my stack of paper, and a hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
When dawn came, I had no more paper in my stack, but all the passengers heading into the horizon had a glimpse of my photocopied heart and a whispered promise to hold eyes open and keep the heart safe for me, should it be found.
I sat on a bench, and had to keep digging my fingers into the wood grain to keep from floating away. I was too light now. I didn’t know that hearts were like anchors, but I suppose it makes sense. I thought again about the time traveller with the great unknown contained inside her tears. I wondered if she saw me somewhere between her idea of yesterday. I wondered if she found my heart.
“Yes,” she said, “I did.”
And there she was, standing next to me, her cheeks still glittering with stardust and the cracks in her face cleaved by a lover lost. In her hand she held my heart, bloody and pumping, red and once lost, sluggishly inviting me to hold it. I took it off her. It felt cold, and on the surface I could see where her tears had struck it, and painted space on the muscles that kept my blood pumping. It fit just like the last piece in a puzzle, and felt like it too, perfect and accomplished. The hole in my heart closed over, and then the skin stretched back into place, leaving only a tiny ruby on the surface to show where it had once been opened. My feet held tight to the ground, and my brain didn’t worry anymore, and my photocopied hearts went out into the world anyway and kept the beat going.
And the girl disappeared as soon as I looked up to thank her, but I suppose time travellers do that.
Labels:
flash fiction,
heart,
photocopy
Friday, 15 April 2011
Beautiful
You are beautiful like nightmares are beautiful
Because the next day everything seems better
And those memories are just that
Shadowed in corners and easily forgotten
The screams that woke you from your slumber
They’re still there
But you barely believe they’re yours
Looking in the mirror with your mouth open
Trying to see where they came from
The chasm of your soul
But you’re still beautiful
You are beautiful like wrecked cars are beautiful
Because everything breaks in the end
And it makes those machines seem human
Crumpled and ruined in scrap yards
Like us they can still be salvaged
It just takes someone special
An enthusiast
Searching inside that collapsed wreck
For something of value
You might have scars and baggage
We all do
But you’re still beautiful
You are beautiful like graffiti is beautiful
Because it breaks the grey up in cities
And not everyone likes it
But for those that do, it’s magic
A splash of creation
Splattered on the bricks and cement walls
If you have the eyes you’re caught
Wondering if everyone can see this
If everyone can see you
So don’t pack away your colours
The right person is coming
And you’re still beautiful
Because the next day everything seems better
And those memories are just that
Shadowed in corners and easily forgotten
The screams that woke you from your slumber
They’re still there
But you barely believe they’re yours
Looking in the mirror with your mouth open
Trying to see where they came from
The chasm of your soul
But you’re still beautiful
You are beautiful like wrecked cars are beautiful
Because everything breaks in the end
And it makes those machines seem human
Crumpled and ruined in scrap yards
Like us they can still be salvaged
It just takes someone special
An enthusiast
Searching inside that collapsed wreck
For something of value
You might have scars and baggage
We all do
But you’re still beautiful
You are beautiful like graffiti is beautiful
Because it breaks the grey up in cities
And not everyone likes it
But for those that do, it’s magic
A splash of creation
Splattered on the bricks and cement walls
If you have the eyes you’re caught
Wondering if everyone can see this
If everyone can see you
So don’t pack away your colours
The right person is coming
And you’re still beautiful
Thursday, 14 April 2011
Something Made Of Glass
There is something here made of glass
It is us
We here
All of us are made of glass
Collected together from tiny molecules
Like star dust and crystals
Melted in the furnace until you can’t see the
Cracks
But we can
Or at least we feel them under our skin
They rub against our bones
Push against our flesh
Time passes
We feel the cracks widen and suck us down
Down into their darkness
Their depths
We are all glass
And this world is a hammer
Crashing down on top of us
A drunkard
Breaking bottles in the dark
A child
Smashing plates in the kitchen
All to drown out the world
Because we are glass
And the nature of glass
Is to crack
But you and me
We’re each other’s glue
When I see the cracks showing in your façade
I will stick you back together
And hope you’ll do the same for me
I hope we all would
But lately we’ve been ignoring this
Ignoring the cracks
We pretend not to care
When someone shatters next to us
Exploding into a billions shards of sunlight
On the side of the road
We walk on
Over the fallen
Noting the sounds
As we crunch on top of what is left
What a wonderful melody, we think
So very melancholy
It is us
We here
All of us are made of glass
Collected together from tiny molecules
Like star dust and crystals
Melted in the furnace until you can’t see the
Cracks
But we can
Or at least we feel them under our skin
They rub against our bones
Push against our flesh
Time passes
We feel the cracks widen and suck us down
Down into their darkness
Their depths
We are all glass
And this world is a hammer
Crashing down on top of us
A drunkard
Breaking bottles in the dark
A child
Smashing plates in the kitchen
All to drown out the world
Because we are glass
And the nature of glass
Is to crack
But you and me
We’re each other’s glue
When I see the cracks showing in your façade
I will stick you back together
And hope you’ll do the same for me
I hope we all would
But lately we’ve been ignoring this
Ignoring the cracks
We pretend not to care
When someone shatters next to us
Exploding into a billions shards of sunlight
On the side of the road
We walk on
Over the fallen
Noting the sounds
As we crunch on top of what is left
What a wonderful melody, we think
So very melancholy
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Friendship Haiku
J
The women’s business
Secrets held in jars in tins
Yours to mine and back
M
Bad jokes, black humour
I’ll race you to the finish
We are still the same
S
Inside is madness
But if we keep our mouths shut
Nobody will know
ALL
Minds out of gutters
But nothing is off limits
Laugh until we cry
Obviously I went haiku crazy with my bad haiku. Oh well, it's the thought...
The women’s business
Secrets held in jars in tins
Yours to mine and back
M
Bad jokes, black humour
I’ll race you to the finish
We are still the same
S
Inside is madness
But if we keep our mouths shut
Nobody will know
ALL
Minds out of gutters
But nothing is off limits
Laugh until we cry
Obviously I went haiku crazy with my bad haiku. Oh well, it's the thought...
Sevenling (What's Left)
Tears, memories and unanswered questions.
This is what you left behind.
We looked for you everywhere.
Searching hearts, homes and histories
For some trace of you
Some sign
Where are you going?
(The sevenling is my newly discovered poetry form. Google for more info.)
This is what you left behind.
We looked for you everywhere.
Searching hearts, homes and histories
For some trace of you
Some sign
Where are you going?
(The sevenling is my newly discovered poetry form. Google for more info.)
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
Your Hands, My Eyes
When I die I want your hands on my eyes
Hold them closed so my spirit doesn’t boomerang back
Into my body
When I die I want to just go like I’m meant to
Nobody lives forever after all.
When I die I want your hands on my eyes
They might be shaking but I won’t notice anyway
I’m already gone
But I’ll still take those tears, that sob and that whisper
There’s a part of me that knows that’s goodbye
When I die I want your hands on my eyes
I want you to cut loose the spirit of my vision
Let it roam the world
They all thought you needed a body to live here
But I have proved them wrong, and so should you
When I die I want your hands on my eyes
I swear I can feel your fingerprints on my eyelids
And that’s your pulse too
So you better not worry about tomorrow
Because I know you’ll be fine without me
Hold them closed so my spirit doesn’t boomerang back
Into my body
When I die I want to just go like I’m meant to
Nobody lives forever after all.
When I die I want your hands on my eyes
They might be shaking but I won’t notice anyway
I’m already gone
But I’ll still take those tears, that sob and that whisper
There’s a part of me that knows that’s goodbye
When I die I want your hands on my eyes
I want you to cut loose the spirit of my vision
Let it roam the world
They all thought you needed a body to live here
But I have proved them wrong, and so should you
When I die I want your hands on my eyes
I swear I can feel your fingerprints on my eyelids
And that’s your pulse too
So you better not worry about tomorrow
Because I know you’ll be fine without me
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