She had never before considered the mortality of her lovers. In her less recent youth she had been somewhat intrepid with her sexual adventures, racking up numbers and nights and falling in love over and over again for just a few hours, and then folding each love into a little box and putting it on the shelf, or, on rarer occasions holding it to herself like a hot water bottle. Most of them she never saw or heard of again. Some of them she did. She had seen this one only once since their extended encounter, and it was a pleasant meeting, warm and familiar, and convivial. She learned of his death through a mutual friend, and on the occasion she was hit by a sharp sorrow. Not just for him, though he was nice and good and the recollections of him were treasure, but for each and every one, with each of whom she created a little pocket of another world, each of which would become extinct, one by one, each widowing another of her memories.
Tuesday, 12 January 2016
Telephone Owls
In the early days of telephony, before they had the good sense to invent the buzzer, or ringer, every telephone owner would have a specially bred telephone owl, which would sit on a perch at specific times of day to alert its master that someone was trying to ring them. The owl would watch the receiver patiently, until the little light flashed, at which point it would spring into action, swoop over to its owner, who was perhaps in the next room, or at the foot of the garden, and say “twit-twit-twoo-twoo!” and “twit-twit-twoo-twoo!” and then “twit-twit-twoo-twoo-twoo!”, at which point the phone owner would know there was a very important message and they would rush to the receiver and converse at a distance. If round-the-clock coverage was important, the owner may choose to have two owls working in shifts. And if no-one was home, the telephone owl would say simply “twoooo”, and then try as best it could to remember the message given to it by the disembodied voice, and then relate it to its master once they got home. Through mime.
Sunday, 10 January 2016
Curtain
On the sixth day of June, a Wednesday, just as morning awoke, the insurgents, having broken through the night before, detonated their pulse. Screens dimmed to a static fuzz, cars didn’t know where to go. And the sky cleared. The swarms of drones, delivering, watching, gently landed, all at once. For the first time in memory, the air was quiet; the sunrise painted itself onto the tired eyes of the a.m. commute. Amid the debris of crumpled machinery and broken windows, she, like the rest, still, watched the morning conduct its symphony of light: reds and pinks and blues, punctuated with pearlescent streaks of vapour, the curtain briefly lifted.
Saturday, 9 January 2016
The President’s Dream
The President of the United States awoke in the middle of the night. Her wife remained asleep beside her. She quietly arose, tiptoed across the room and down the hall to the bathroom, nodding to the guard on the way. As she came out, a little more refreshed, she stopped to taste the moment. The guard asked her if everything was alright, the answer to which is never really yes, but to say otherwise would be an invitation for sympathy, and she hated the sympathy of others. She tightened her robe and sat down on one of the hallway chairs. She began telling the guard about her dream, about the boat and the red rabbit and how Elton John was there, but he didn’t have any legs because of the war, or something. Dreams rarely make much sense. She then realised she probably shouldn’t be divulging the manifestations of her deepest thoughts to a guard, lest she give something away she ought not to give. So she bade him goodnight and went back to bed.
Thursday, 7 January 2016
Gloves
You can’t find your gloves, so you wear socks on your hands. Not so practical, but at least you’ll be warm this way. They are blue socks, with colourful dinosaurs in a variety of species. They’re a bit distracting, actually. You keep looking down from the road to enumerate the different varieties of beast. A diplodocus! Or is it a brontosaurus? Didn’t they rename one of those? You swerve. There’s a pterodactyl. Majestic beasts of the sky! Look at the road! There’s a stegosaurus, too. A bus appears beside you, a little too close for comfort. But it’s fine. You try to stop thinking about the dinosaurs. You realise they’re not the most important thing to be concentrating on right now.
Wednesday, 6 January 2016
Tic-Tacs
I bought a box of tic-tacs. They were the green and orange ones, I wasn’t after a breath-freshener. I just wanted a yummy treat with a hint of surprise. I opened them on the bus, and poured a few out. They were all orange, I didn’t think much of it. Doris alighted. “Bye Doris!” I said. She grunted. I poured out a few more. All orange. I shook the pack. I wanted some green ones! I gradually poured more and more, and kept shuffling, but still, all I got was orange, until nothing was left but green in the packet. I ate the orange tic-tacs, all at once, and prepared myself for a stern conversation with the remaining confections. I was stopped in my tracks before I could even tip the box. What I can only describe as a giant pearlescent tic-tac appeared with a puff of smoke, glitter fell from the ceiling. He gestured for me to come with him. Turned out I’d won at tic-tacs.
Tuesday, 5 January 2016
Transformation
KAREN: Pete, I have something to tell you.
PETE: Can it wait?
KAREN: No.
PETE: What.
KAREN: I’ve decided to gradually replace all my body parts with exact replicas made of Lego®.
PETE: That’s not really true is it?
KAREN: Pete, I’m sorry, it’s true.
PETE: But how are we going to afford it?
KAREN: It’s not actually that much Lego®, Pete. It probably won’t be too expensive. Anyway I’ve still got some of the reward money from when we found that lost cat.
PETE: That’s true. It’s a lot to take in, Karen, I’m not sure—
KAREN: Pete, this had been my dream since before I can remember.
PETE: But—
KAREN: And everything will still work, I think. I’ll do it gradually. I’ll probably start with the feet, or my belly button. Something easy.
PETE: [thoughtful sigh] I’ll think about it, Karen.
Pete smiles at Karen. They embrace. Karen smiles back, and wipes a small wet blue brick from her eye.
Monday, 4 January 2016
Post Office
Frank hobbled out the house at 8:46 into another January morning, package in hand. His feet slid and glid on the frozen dew which decorated the path to the gate. He kept one hand on the fence for stability. He did not want to sprain the other foot as well.
He finally arrived at the Post Office at 9:03, where he nodded to June washing the windows, which he thought was a silly activity for such a cold morning. She shot him a quizzical grunt. He shuffled to the counter at 9:04 and handed over the package. At 9:05 a gruff lady came up from behind and put a gun to his head. He did not know why. He reacted quickly, out of fear and confusion, and ducked to the side. She fired, but wasn’t quick enough. Frank was fine. Daryl, behind the counter, was not. The gruff woman fled.
Sunday, 3 January 2016
Words
She lowered her pen to the page. The words inside rushed to the nib, excited, expectant. Too many of them. They got stuck, they couldn’t get out. She could hear the squirming and clawing of sentences clambering over phrases, entwining and entangling themselves. “Calm yourselves, little ones,” she said, “play nicely.”
Saturday, 2 January 2016
Orange Peel
There is an old children’s game in which an orange peel is used to find the first initial of your true love. The idea is to remove the peel of the orange — or clementine, or tangerine, or satsuma, all work equally well, though some are easier to undress than others — in one continuous piece, and to throw it over your shoulder, behind you. Supposedly, the shape formed by the peel on the floor indicates the first initial of your future spouse. I misunderstood this game and married an orange. It was the best mistake I ever made.