The weeks are fair flying by, it won’t be long until we’re all fossils with only a few printed pages of our stories to remind the world that we had been here.
As you can read, I’m in a happier mood than normal as I write Week 239!
Continue reading “Week 239 – Cat’s Insistence, Hero Worshipping And Inventive Funding.”
Everyone’s queued up in the cafe, a string line of heads, some with hats, waiting. It’s a fairly conventional straggle and Drew stands with it. Good to have some order. The line’s almost out the door. Lights fall bright around him, with invisible music. Something by the Soul Twisters. He feels a huge space above him, compared to his regular quarters. His official security man Cody stands assertive and blocks the view ahead.
Everything is opposite. That’s what I tell my therapist. Like a snakebite, the first-aid is not to wash the wound. You suck the venom out because whatever you swallow, your stomach kills. Or a concussion. People say never sleep after a concussion. But sleep is how your brain recovers.
Leila Allison slipped past security yet again. We could hear her rustling and cursing and she emerged, dusty and dishevelled with this Rerun from the One and Only Hugh Cron:
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Four Bars by Hugh Cron”
Here we are at Week 238.
Yet again, the number is as interesting as listening to a conversation about moisturising. And before anyone thinks I’m being sexist, I’m not. Not being gender specific is an even sadder state of affairs.
The amaryllis appeared on the windowsill one Sunday morning in June. The bulb protruded from the soil in the cream-coloured ceramic pot, and sat next to the basil plant we had diligently kept alive for four whole weeks.
The cobbled streets bloat, filled with petrol fumes, birds’ droppings, and old receipts discarded by office workers returning home. A clock chimes seven times.
Mum opens the windows each morning to let the birds in and closes them at night to keep the darkness out.
Olivia squeezed the handle of her wheelchair so hard the veins stood out on her bony wrists.
Early evening light, what was left of it, spilled near Jack Wilkens in his one lone room in the big house, a house once flaunting and imposing in its stance, now cluttered like an old shed forgotten in a back lot, debris its main décor. Despite his reputation as the town drunk, a ne’er-do-well from the first day, an inveterate crank, there had been an instant and subtle attraction between me and the old codger, an attraction without early explanation.
Continue reading “A Secret Study of Jack Wilkens, Drunk by Tom Sheehan”
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