Under the Table

 

He led in the dark, his naked back pressed against the caffeine scented carpet and biscuit crumbs. It was 3.15 am, and he was staring at the underside of the table crying. The gum stuck to his wooden ceiling were his stars, the fading Black Sabbath sticker his cloud. It had been nearly a year since he’d been with the table, he could recount every absent day, the table itself could recall none. After all, it was an inanimate object, but it was his inanimate object. The winter wind blew through the broken window cooling the room.

Heart

He sent a heart through the post, confessing his love to me. At first I was aghast, but then I found it to be rather sweet, even if the pig heart was starting to stink.

I wrote him back with an illustration of a heart, saying that I could draw one but could never give him mine. I hoped he wouldn’t send a horse’s head in disgust.

He turned up at my door demanding the heart back. I told him I’d already binned it and studied him crawling through the trash.

I returned to my room and watched it beat.

Prize

The village supermarket always joked about gifting a price for the one millionth customer, advertising it on a sign. They even had a volunteer clicking in each customer, a good joke and good work experience for the kids.

Thanks to time, forgetting they had a volunteer, and the introduction of a road running through, the one millionth customer entered, and the volunteer screamed, driven to a frenzy through excitement, tackling the customer to the ground so they’d know. The staff just stared in half bewilderment/half panic.

The prize?

A broken leg, 10% off their next visit, and a lawsuit.

Not bad.

Hot Air Balloon Over Oswaldtwistle

A hot air balloon floats in the sky, blocking the sun.

People run rampant, I’m looking for my gun. I’ll throw a rope to the sky, climb on high, bring back the light.

The rope won’t reach, my gun won’t fire, the balloon which has taken away all sight.

Instead I wait, pop some sleeping pills, pass the time till the hot air balloon floats on by.

Days pass, weeks pass, yet it stays up high.

As people adapt, the balloon floats off, as the sun burns our eyes, we long for the hot air balloon for the first time.

Fragile

 

The kitchen floor is covered in fragments of glass. Splashes of red liquid glimmers in the morning sun, the glass sparkles like diamonds. It’s nine a.m., Monday, my hands now empty. I sit among the glass and start to weep, splashing the red liquid as if to wipe it away from my feet. Glass sticks into the skin, I grimace, I curse, I pick a piece from the floor, a long jagged piece, and start to push it against the skin on my arm. The glass cuts through and I watch as my own red liquid drip onto the floor. It’s warm.

Curled Up Dog

Not to be confused with a scarf or pillow.

He’s used to it, but should he be?

A Picture of Icy Water

And makeshift binoculars so you can see it clearly.

Welcome to the New Year

It’s the New Year, so here is a picture of a melting marshmallow.

The soft innards go in and out of the body, it was the year that was.

Anything that falls to the floor? That’s the mucky excess that leaves a mark.

That’s all the stuff you can’t just crap out of your life.

It sticks to the floor, your shoes, your hands, perhaps even your soul.

Happy New Year.