I see you and I jump with joy;
landing has no more importance.
Lake, wasteland, wherever –
my heart continues to soar.
Open air cinema in the wood
Open air cinema in the wood
this evening.
Tickets five euros
including free drink.
Bats cut across
key scenes in counterpoint.
The Legend of Castro
The northerly breeze gently rolled the screen
while the Turks waited for the scirocco
to bring them to land.
Bari airport
Pigeons court in the fire tender shade. A hawk hangs beady above the radar stirring the air. The plane is late. Oh well.
A dog ran out
A dog ran out into the traffic. Santos, the good-hearted wise guy, twisted the steering wheel and the getaway car ploughed into the side of the security van. Sirens sounded and in the bank a bell began to ring. The three men in clown masks shook their heads. “Come on Santos” Pete shouted, “let’s get out of here.” The car was dead; steam or smoke billowed from under the hood. They climbed out of the car as the traffic behind them smashed to a halt. The security guard dropped the case he was holding and pulled out his pistol. Pete saw him and raised his semi-automatic. The guard shot first and Pete fell backwards, spraying bullets left and right, through the car and his companions. A block further down the street Levene wondered why they were a minute late. The dog disappeared behind the bins up the alley.
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
No comment
Many people saw him running along the top of the crag, outlined against the sinking sun, “leaping and bounding”, “like some big old deer”.
After the fall, a very few wondered, for no more than a moment, where he had gone. “He’ll have gone down the path by the side of the burn”, “heading down before the darkness”.
He lay there a night and a day and most of another night, thinking he was shouting and screaming but making noises like “a feart wee dog” or “a morning gull beside your chimney”.
The media were interested for a day or two, only because of who he was “loving and leaving”, who he had been “kissing and telling”.
Now only the chemtrails believers think he was tripped both that time and this, now that he has “slipped on the stairs with his crutches” and “gone to meet his maker”.
The thin man looked at the report and today’s front news pages and smiled. “No comment.”
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.
simonsalento 