If you sit on the edge, the wood shakes you when the trains go by. It makes me feel like the plastic dentures Johnny got Granny as a joke one … Continue reading All my thoughts are winding
The music crackles and he takes my hand for the very first time. The record spins, he spins me with it. We laugh. We dance. We kiss. His song is on repeat.
It becomes our song.
It plays at our wedding.
It plays our daughter to sleep. She plays it herself when she is sad. When she leaves home the house feels empty so we fill the rooms with music.
It plays as we grow old.
It plays when he is ill.
It plays at his funeral.
It plays when I get sick too.
The music crackles and he takes my hand for the very last time.
He emerged from the shadows. A streetlight shone down on him, turning his blonde hair into a halo and forming a pool of ethereal light at his feet. His piercing green eyes spoke directly to her heart. She was instantly enamoured. Love at first sight.
He smiled and she felt warm. He beckoned her over, towards the light. She went without question, amazed he’d noticed her at all.
She stepped in to the light around him. His outstretched hand turned in to a claw. He scooped out her eyes. And love at first sight became the last thing she ever saw.
The lovers stilled to watch their hearts dance.
Between them was more than chemistry, more than sparks. It was a charge that buzzed through the air, crackling over the goosebumps of the crowd.
They were electric. Magnetic.
In the right mood- pulled together and impossible to unstick. Circling one another, always touching and never looking away.
In the wrong mood- violently repelled and relentlessly repulsed. But even then every action was reactionary, unable to do anything that wasn’t tied to the other.
Two halves of one force of nature.
Mum keeps his bedroom door shut.
His pictures are still in the living room. They used to gather dust, but not any more. She must polish them when I’m not looking.
She’s taken his coat off it’s peg and his shoes out of the hall. It’s like he’s just gone out. Or run away, like everyone says. Kids run away all the time. He’ll be back in a few days. Days turn into weeks. Then months.
In the bathroom there’s the piece of evidence that mum clings to.
His red toothbrush still stands next to mine.
He didn’t pack it.
Death smells differently depending on which side of it you are on.
To those left behind it is stagnant, rotting and somehow… cold? It slows down the air until it is thick like soup. It makes people around it still, but uncomfortable.
For those who walk with the Grim Reaper, death carries another fragrance as it will peacefully shroud you in your favourite scent. It won’t be anything generic like freshly baked bread or cut grass. It will be something you thought couldn’t be recreated. Your childhood home. An old pet. Your favourite person.
Follow that smell into the Night.
Silver skyscrapers rise towards a titanium sky. Trees made of tin line the streets. Nobody remembers who sculpted them, they are a left over relic from the people who came before. The ones who were not made from metals.
A man in a iron hat and a woman with copper hair walk towards the outskirts of Alloy City. He takes her hand, carefully, because his is made of steel and hers is made of lead. He has packed a picnic in a golden basket. They take it to the top of a bronze hill and eat under a brassy sunset.
It takes three of them to tear him apart.
They pull him from limb to limb, carve open his chest and unravel his soul. There are threads of silver for every laugh and ribbons of blue for his pain. Very little love.
Their fingernails dig out his secrets. Their teeth rip out his lies.
They find everything- everything he was responsible for, every sin. Every life he took. They find no trace of remorse.
They see the truth of him and his guilt stains their hands.
They piece him back together. And send him to Hell.
The people who came to her were cold and lonely. They drifted in from elsewhere. Some only stayed for a night. Some stayed longer.
They were drawn in by the light of her fire. She invited them to sit and listen. As she spoke she would take her words from the air and spin them in to yarn. She collected the yarn and wove together narratives that they could wrap themselves up in.
When they left they would take the story she had spun with them, no longer feeling lonely or cold, and share it with the next solitary soul.
Her first word was “bird.” Then came “beak” and “wings” and, most impressively, “feathers”.
As she grew she became an avid birdwatcher. She didn’t know them by their Latin names or type, but by personality and movement. She learned which ones she would see at night and which ones came during the day. There were many she would only see during certain months of the year and she wondered where they went for the rest.
She wished to go with them and fly away from her humdrum life. She watched them from her cage and envied their freedom.