Since the physician-induced coma following the second stabbing, the only smell I can distinguish is that of jasmine. How precise and pernickety our nerves and brain cells must be, that the odours and flavours of rose, of dog rose, of honeysuckle and of tiny wild orchid are all lost to me but jasmine remains. And grades of jasmine at that – how long it has been open, the time of the day, whether it has been shaken or lightly crushed, all of these make a difference. How wonderful are our brains; how wonderful the shades of jasmine.
Moments
Machine
The heart is a pump, OK. Arms, legs, OK, they’re levers, I’ve got that. But the spark, the spark that sparks the machine? You know.
Emoji
If a picture paints a thousand words, then why 😊💕🙈🎶🌒🌟🏊🛠❓❓❓
Sound
A whisper in the silence is the only sound; and then is gone. Sal turns in his bed but there is no one there. Then he remembers.
A blowup mattress
A blowup mattress on the roof; a single cotton sheet just in case. The whish of palms rocks us to sleep, golden stars our nightlights.
Apricot, forget me not
Apricot
Forget me not
The empty cot
The killer robot.
Phrases that until today I never expected to see together.
One lives, one learns, one dies.
It is not safe. I cannot return.
It is not safe. I cannot return.
Yes, I can read. In my language, not yours. I am trying.
It is not safe. I cannot return.
I thank you in my language, in my heart, in my prayers.
It is not safe. I cannot return.
I thank you for your patience, for the food you share with me, for the hand you hold under my elbow. For everything.
It is not safe. I cannot return.
Published on http://www.paragraphplanet.com 16 July 2016
Hand-in-Handily
“What’s the point of the adverb challenge?” he questioned, quite quizzically. “Seeing them clustering joyfully makes me feel well sick, physically.”
“But it’s all for charity, it’s thrilling, vicariously.”
“No, I’m feeling quite nauseous, please take me more seriously.”
“Quantifiably nauseous? Sickened reliably?”
“I warned you, I warned you!” he vomited copiously.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t do it purposefully.”
And so the two friends wandered off hand-in-handily, both swearing never again to do anything adverbially.
inspired by an adverb-writing challenge and first published on http://www.christopherfielden.com/short-story-competition/adverb-writing-challenge.php#Stories (Story 22)
On the winter beach
She screws up the letters he had written her, page by single page. Burning them would still feel too final, the ash too easy to smooth between fingertips. She imagines the powder-grey prints she would leave on the banister.
So crushing the letters is the best course of action. The only way. One by one she drops the pieces of paper and the wind sends them skirling across the winter beach.
She feels bad, of course she does. If the world were normal, she would never drop what in a normal world is litter. But the world is not normal, not now.
One page is caught in the dip before the rocks; others are held in the frothing shallow water. A single tear would be appropriate – the thought surprises her and she almost smiles. Then the smile fades from her eyes and she feels the chill on her neck.
She drops the last page and watches it skitter. The last one. Gone. She turns and walks away, into the wind.
Some years later, she returns with a dog and children. Of course there is no sign of his letters. No sign. Of course.
Hedgerow watch
Hedgehog
Blackbird
Sparrow
Sparrow
Newspaper (screwed up)
Bacardi bottle
Split bag of dogshit
Sparrow (same one?)
Macdonalds box
Burst balloon
Yet another sparrow
Single, grubby, running sock
Macdonalds bag, can of coke
Gap some idiot’s burnt in hedge
Burnt matchbox
