I had an artist friend, described creativity as a need to get back to the point of origin; tie up loose ends. He lived with a woman hooked on heroin. She despised me without knowing who I was, described me as the type of man she detested. In slack moments she’d smile.
“I see you now. You can’t hide.”
I would like to get a few things off my chest. I have been asked so many times why I do this. Most of the twats have some knowledge and will always use the healing argument. Well, I am about to explain. No-one else, only me. If you want to know about anyone else, ask them. I would say that your training days have put you close but not quite right. I hurt myself to experience controlled pain. Have you ever hit a wall after you have stubbed your toe? It is something like that. I can’t suffer the pain that is in my head but I can handle the cuts and blood from my arm. Maybe you are right, it does give me release from the problem for a few minutes or hours depending on how ragged the cut is. But please don’t insult me by saying if I watch the wound heal, I am envisaging myself healing, that is a pile of crap. My pain doesn’t go! So no amount of crusty scabs are going to make me feel any better.
Continue reading “Suicide – My Note, My Plan by Hugh Cron Adult Content”
May this year was freezing. No snow just cold nights. Raw days. I went to the allotments every morning to check on the hens. Feed them. I don’t go any more. They’re all dead. A virus Harry sez.
When I used to walk down to the allotment along the narrow paths The Gardeners keep free of weeds the frost made that sound under my feet only walking on frost makes. Crunchy-crackly Jen calls it, like she would know.
“Pines everywhere. And we have been driving in this stinking Volvo for three hours without a break.”
“A much needed coffee break, indeed!”
Joe tapped the car window a few times. A clear blue lake could be spotted behind the pines, but Joe turned his head and just missed it. He turned on the radio.
“Listen. What the hell is he talking about? Is he talking Elvish?”
“No I don’t think it is Elvis, it sounds Swedish to me.”
Ulriksberg 4 km.
“Drive towards Owhlricksburgh. It must be Norway.”
Midas Brown stands at the door of his shack and spits into the rain. When the storm broke an hour ago removing the oppressive heat of the day Midas was a happy man. Now, on reflection, as he scratches his sunken belly and listens to the water drumming against the iron overhang, he would gladly take the early evening sauna over this big shitty noise.
He digs around the cracked remains of a lateral incisor, works a sliver of tobacco loose and spits again. He knows the storm outside will pass soon enough.
He is less sure about the storm within.
They were running everywhere, the children. There was this confident little girl running around, Judith, the one who’s name we wish we’d have thought of before Jennifer was born. She ran around within that, wearing this little pink polka dot dress. It was the kind of thing that if Patricia were here she’d talk about how she wishes she’d have been able to give it to Jennifer for Christmas and talk about how it would have suited ‘ours more’. Patricia wasn’t here today, she couldn’t be. The agency was taking off and at least one of us had to be there to man the phones and those phones had been ringing lately. It was finally working. That dream we’d had was getting there and was breaking the wall that had stopped it for the last five years. But she’d have been jealous of that kid of all things.
Monday – Shopping.
Tom knew Steve and Carol well. They were residents where he worked. They both relied on certain chemicals to function. In fact they relied on any chemicals to function. They were rattling big time. He gave them a nod as he headed into the pound shop. They called him back. There was no way that he was going to give them any money. They surprised him by not chancing it. They shot the breeze for a few minutes and then asked what Tom was buying. He told them he was looking for note-pads. Carol whispered in his ear that if he wanted, they would lift them and only charge him half-price.
Continue reading “Seven Days … A Bag Week by Hugh Cron – Adult Content”
Sylvie looked down at the dishes. In the slightly greasy water her fingers disappeared under the foam. The light sparkled and popped as tiny globes exploded and infinitesimal rainbows vanished in the blink of an eye.
She had always loved bubbles, the luxurious bath type ones that wrapped you in a quilt of scented foam. The ones children, and sometimes Sylvie herself, made blowing through a plastic ring, and the sort that floated out of wonderful bubble machines. Of all the things she wished she had, and there were many, a bubble machine came pretty high on the list.
Spring 1938.
Lars said to Miranda, “Understand this…” and left the table.
A series of explosions shook the six storey building but did not deter Miranda’s study of him; his untidy egress.
Through the narrow living space towards the sash window, she watched him go. Observed him at the window and after a time wondered why he found what was on the other side of the glass – a post-siesta pre-bombardment tableau in the still spring air – more compelling than whatever it was she supposed he intended to spout next.
If indeed there was more.
There’s a temperature – not too warm, not too cold, just right – where I am caught for hours. Thousands of tiny water drops form like islands in an ocean upon the inner wall of the shower stall. Streams run down, connecting the islands and growing bigger to eventually drop to the puddle at my feet. As the water hits my forehead, eyelids and cheeks a comfort settles, knowing no matter how long I stand here, the water won’t stop. Sooner or later all of the thousand islands will be connected and new ones will form. The streams reaching my feet will not stop streaming and the flow will keep wrinkling my hands. I lean left and the shower hits my shoulder creating a waterfall.
literally stories 