First the electric scent of the burning sand as the greasy black clouds roil up from the sea horizon.
Then the hiss of the rain hitting the beach and the steam and the smell of the earth beneath the sand.
First the electric scent of the burning sand as the greasy black clouds roil up from the sea horizon.
Then the hiss of the rain hitting the beach and the steam and the smell of the earth beneath the sand.
She breathed in the hillside mist and the mist became myth and, as she exhaled, once-untrue stories became.
He said I had no bottle so I hit him in the face with one. Job accepted, job done. Now who’ll tell me this is no work for a girl?
Sleep, sleep well.
Then keys, keys fell.
Hell’s bells! he yelled, sleep-freed.
We wake, woke, woken.
We speak, spoke, spoken.
Promises break, broke, broken.
Fade in to the music that plays in his head when he thinks of her. The chorus arrives then sticks sticks like old vinyl. Fade out.
“I often feel sad. I want to be happier.”
“You should eat more lobster.”
(Sponsored by the Lobster Marketing Board)
“I ate more lobster and I’m less unhappy. But still a little unhappy.”
“Try smiling even when you don’t really feel like it.”
“I’ve tried smiling when I don’t really feel like it and still feel sad. And a bit of an idiot.”
“Of course! Wear this hat.”
“Thanks but I still looked a grinning idiot. And I’m no happier.”
“Try flipping a coin as you walk down the street. Take the hat off.”
“I lost the coin. And my wallet. So I can’t afford to buy any more lobster. Sad.”
“Save up! Save up for lobster!”
(Sponsored by the LMB)
A game of innocents, collecting flowers. Buckled shoes, smiles and hay fever sneezes. Then a cloud across the sun and cold shadow.
My story held tigers and bears, fierce, clawed. Held them. Just. Then she softened the boundaries and freed the imaginary.
Sometimes spelling is important, thought Ringo in his afterlife, rolling dung into a ball. The bird locked up for stealing nodded and pecked.