His dirty hard fingers touch me again. In the ribs, then the back, then they slide down and I’m awake, praying that those little pills kick in. There’s enough in me, and he forced three whiskeys down me to ‘loosen up’ before he took his gloves off. They usually like me tight. He likes me as long as I’m quiet. He pays well and often surprises me with little gifts. I tell him to put his gloves back on and shut my eyes. Tight.
Category Archives: short fiction
Something wasn’t right, not right at all. I took a sniff. The brown caffeinated bubbles of liquid gas tasted like death. I figured, after a while, that someone had put raw meat on the ice tray again. Most probably me, as I lived alone.
Mom keeps bringing bits of flesh over, dripping with blood and unidentified juices, as a way of saying ‘we know you’re struggling, we don’t want to pry, but eat something real’. I don’t digest ex-living critters, haven’t done in three years, but I’m sure if ma ‘n’ pa knew they would be phoning the nearest priest to come over and exorcise me. Or at least send for the local doc again to give me a pill.
I drank the coke down anyway, thought of the extra nutrients. I decided to make a meal of the cubes too, crunching the little slithers until I had the vague relief of brain freeze. ‘Shit’ I thought for no apparent reason and carried on with whatever it was I should have been doing.
And in the event of another outbreak
Please leave in single file
Do not panic
Respect those around you
Avoid the pot holes
And tentacled robots
And remember you are in a Spectrum game.
Sometimes you have to choose
A simple life, a 9 to 5, a wife your fond of and who will never stray, children to make you feel achievement, a mortgage, a car that runs, though you always wanted a Bentley. No tricks, no surprises, no real hope, almost contented, you will never be alone. Flatline
A life on the edge, no fixed abode, imagination, love, passion, creativity, spontaneity, highs so high and lows thunderously low, no time to catch a breath, so many thoughts, never quite catching up, a real muse you can probably never truly have.
I choose living.
And as the hail and snow kicks in, and resolutions are made, the hidden questions in your mind spring out like broken Jack-In-The-Boxes, the ones you had buried all year, the ones you thought you didn’t have to answer.
Where are you going? who do you trust? how can you love in a world like this? Is it all just pointless? is there a goal we all score in our final days? What is the reason for it all?
And so you pick up your drink and trying to drown out the voices, become numb again. It makes more sense when you’re cold. No answers and no questions, just speaking bollocks to anyone who will listen and not remembering the words in the morning. Then, like a broken record, do it all over again as soon as you’re able to stomach it.
Just keep on running.
And then a quote from a film makes you laugh – “I stopped believing in God as its Dog backwards” and you can suddenly tolerate the world just a little bit more then normal, and maybe without that pint in your hand.
Think straight, stand up and move on
Don’t let them in or get to you
Smells like cat sick and dead monkeys
And it make you feel dispondant
Protect the strong, kick out the weak
Settle into the sound of your two flat feet
Walking to the sound of clangs, booms and bashes
Never let them under your skin
And don’t forget to wipe.
The welsh barman started singing Delilah at me, full pelt, my good friend who sat next to me laughed, I laughed, we were almost in tears of by the chorus. His friends were laughing too, at him. It was a peacock fanning his feathers at a hen, a human mating call involving drink and sounds. It was a true distraction, and though my feathers did not stir, it was good to smile again.
Spending days waiting for something that never came, wondering if I had said something wrong, taken the losing chess move. It was always cryptic, and I was too naive to work it all out.
But in the bar I was laughing, putting bets on a mongoose and drinking gentle ales. Tunes had changed to ‘Run To The Hills’ but for once I didn’t want to. Settling is a very hard thing to do but this town was pulling me off the high-wire and cushioning the fall. For once I was letting it, running is so tiring.
Lost love, a lost tooth and a lost job. All comes in threes.
It makes the winning all the better, when it comes.
And I followed the bluebird home.