Domestic.

2017-10-03.


Midnight in mid-urbia. Domesticated animals prowl the streets. Street-lamps flicker. Cars line the asphalt. Driving home from the shops, chicken stink washed down by star-light air. Oxygen rich, poor in everything else, two enter a cold house. No lights, no need. Ninja up the creaky stairs. Sit silent, devouring the burgers and cola. Not the best kind of date, but one of them. Being together more than makes up for it. Dawn in the window, finish dinner. Lie on down, the bed is soft. Forbidden romance, chicken dinner. There is probably a metaphor in there.

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Unromanced.

2017-10-02. 98 words.


Irradiated parking space, the night sky’s skin bleeds points of light through soft vapour. Thick concrete, asphalt, metal boxes lining the streets. Step from parlour to park, medicinal light floods the shop where the chickens burn. Greasy animals, the sun slowly cooks everyone, others cannot wait. Find a way to beat the heat death, randomly generate entropy in your innards. Sit on the hood of a car, metal metaphors for parts unknown. Huff cigarettes, puff clouds. Soft fucking dreams of middle-urbian chicken shops and waiting on an animal to walk back into life. Chicken burgers, coca-cola. Life unromantic.

Daily. 21/03/2017.

Prompt: Lit Up by The National.

###

I press myself against the wall. Try not to stand out.
You stand there in all your friends. Laugh at something dumb.
I dream of being here all the time. The best part of sleep.
I’ll be dreaming a while longer.

Sand blonde hair gets me going. I can’t even tell you.
You’re like an angel amongst demons. So lost and afraid.
I dream of being with you, always. The only dream I have.
That might be a little sad.

I slip of the wall and creep over. I try to blend in.
Everyone notices immediately, I’m fucked. But you smile real nice.
“Hey, where’ve you been all night?”
My heart skips a beat.
“I’ve been here, just chilling, you know?”

They all look at me like I’m crazy. I’m so goddamn fucked.
But you just laugh and shrug, like no big deal. I almost die.
“I’m glad someone can have some fun.”
I don’t get what you mean.
Your friend starts saying, “So anyway.”

So, I’m in? Am I? Really? Fuck me. I never even really expected I’d get along with your friends. I’ve got… nothing. Nothing. At all. I’m doomed.

But then I start thinking of how I was just myself, just like everyone is always telling me. I spent so many years just trying to be cool, trying to be in my head and thinking of everything. I know you’re just another human being with like thoughts and dreams and shit but… why did I spent so god damn long trying to impress her if. I can just be myself – fuck… those afternoon specials I always laughed at were right.

Then you catch my attention with a wink. Is that to me?
My mind is racing again and I try not to let it. But I’m still here. Stuck in a crowd I have no clue about. And I’ve missed half the conversation. At least no-one is expecting anything from me.

“Him, really?” “Yeah, him.” “Why him?” “Dunno.”
You are talking about someone with a sly grin on your lips.
“I mean…” “Come on.” “What?” “Seriously?” “I like him.”

I realise you are talking about someone else. But that’s alright. I still want to be friends, you’re cool. Then again, your friends… I wonder what they’re into, how I can connect. Is that stupid of me? I mean, look at them all fancy and shit.

Meanwhile, I’m in my head and I’m thinking about trying to make friends with people. If I don’t I get so twisted up that I can feel myself choking. Like, anxiety hits me so hard that I freeze up mid-sentence. And that’d just make me look stupid, oh shit, I look stupid don’t I? “Hey, Luke, right? You coming back to my place for the after party?”

I snap up. Her name… Wanda? Maybe. I don’t know her name, shit… I struggle to think of it and nothing comes to mind but fucking Ws. Wendy? Wenona? Whitney? Wilma? “Uh, can I?”

I resist the urge to run away screaming. She smiles approvingly. “I’m Karen by the way,” she tells me. I turn my head away. “It’ll just be a few of us, nothing too big.” She smiles again, melting. “You know, if you’re keen.”

“Yeah, I am.” I am. “Sweet then.” “Yeah, sweet.” A few hours pass as I blend in, Karen hangs out with me all night as you fade into the crowd. I’m cool. I’m chill. Relaxed. Calm as. Calm as fuck.

Then we head over to Karen’s place for a little while longer. Midnight goes and we’re out in the backyard. One AM hits and it’s just me and Karen while everyone is inside asleep. I’m glad I’m so in my head, because this’d be fucking hard.
“This was cool. You’re a cool guy. Like, real chill.”
“Yeah, uh thanks. This was pretty nice, you’re pretty – nice.”

She just smiles. Leans in. Kisses me. On the lips.
I cup her cheek with my hand, she is deep cold from the frigid morning air. So sweet. So clever. So pretty. I’m swimming. In my anxiety.

Flash: Literal Idioms #2.

Strained.


Bed of Roses.
Bite the bullet.
Burn the midnight oil.
Break a leg.
By the skin of their teeth.


There is a bed of roses in a crate, I stare at it vacantly as chaos breaks out around me. My girlfriend anxiously bites the bullet pressed between her lips, pulling it apart by the skin of her teeth. Her gums are bleeding from the task but we need the powder. In the back three men toil away – they break a leg only to reset it in its proper place. Again I’m looking down at the roses wondering if the thorns would make me bleed. We’re already burning the midnight oil just to see what we’re doing and I’ve been awake all day. The revolution will wake me in the morning.

Flash: Literal Idioms #1.

Lets try literal idioms.


A bitter pill.
A dime a dozen.
Add insult to injury.
At the drop of a hat.
An arm and a leg.


I take my bitter pills with a glass of whiskey, it helps with the metallic after-taste that stains the mouth. They’re dime a dozen, my healthcare keeps them cheap. When I was first diagnosed that had been my biggest fear, my second was the names. Some people just like to add insults to your injuries – even if the injuries are on the inside.
I swallow a pill and unfold my newspaper – the bar is mostly empty at this hour and the television is on some sports game. I’m roused from my reading at the drop of a hat, the young woman across from me has tipped over her table trying to get up.
I jump up myself offering her an arm and a leg to pull herself to her feet. She smiles and begs my apologies, she is having trouble with her boyfriend and somehow that made her clumsy.
I offer her hat, “I’m all ears.”

Word of the Day. 22/4/16.: Card.

Card – Board
Board – Room
Room – Mate
Mate – Ship
Ship – Yard


Is it still wrong to be a card carrying communist? I know it is wrong to wear a sandwich-board and proselytise – particularly in the board room where the businessmen gather. If they don’t like my ideas, why’d they hire me? I take the board off and sit down in my chair. Enough room to breath I suppose.
“Chairman” they address me.
“Mate,” I address them back, “I ain’t in this for money.”
It will take them time to acclimate themselves to my style.
“See, this company is like a ship.”
But the analogy ends there, too often do ships sink – not that I’m worried. I own an entire ship-yard.