I am so out of practice with pen and paper. I have been so excited by the letter set I bought and have yet to write a single letter.
I’d like to think that I will have the time soon but then I always like to think that.
Mocking bird paper on my desk covered in the decorative squiggles of my black Artline 200. It giggles at me in my sleep. Yes, I dream about such things. The bird turns into dragon made out of paper that burns itself to ashes with a single roar. Will a single sentence survive such fury.
In my dream I need to have a point, have something to say. I don’t. I am the writer who writes the least and the social networker who feels the least social. It is a temporary condition I tell myself, but I always seem to tell myself that.
In my warm little house with the warm berry cakes cooking in my warm little oven. I’m balancing the act of mum and master on my nose with the smell of those berries as they melt in the heat. Everything is so perfect, so sweet, so fairytale like. Is it too much like that? Will I discover after a year that I’m surrounded in fat, in bitter treats and words filled with deceit? Will I care or will I naively jump into the witches oven?
Somewhere I hear a bird singing.. a tiny bird.. a grey downy bird all featherless and new.
Eyes wide open and memories so clear. Can you see how she faces this world with no fears?
A bird in the ashes of where a dragon has been, and in my dreams I can hear her sing.
His mind was bruised and all he could remember was that “good things.. something”. His mind was bruised from too much booze, too many late nights and too many lies. The lies that stuck his beer to his coaster to the bar table and to his hand. He couldn’t really wash off the smell and the hell that he wanted to continue living.
They do like to handball the ball out of defence.
And tonight was no different as his hardened fingers pulled at the wrinkles under his sweaty skin. He did not feel so alone in the darkness and noise of the bar and his mind. So many tiny things to debate and agitate over the bubbles in the glass. So many smudging of the lights and the ideas, that the younger man at his elbow soon becomes a sparring partner and a best friend and a child and a fiend.
Will they take it to the sideline? Will they pass?
What did they talk about that was so important? He is struggling to recall the last five minutes or fifteen. It was so important, so clear. It all made sense and was a way forward and it could happen so easily if he could just remember. But as the seconds ticked by he noticed that his mouth always tasted the same and his eyes always fell into that middle distance where nothing mattered too much. The clinking of glasses and the damp beer mat beneath his hands seemed real enough but the young man, what was his name? That young man was no longer there.
Oh and they’ve missed another opportunity there! They must be kicking themselves. No pun intended Ron.
The bar stools and tables and the foot rail and the door are obstacles he can’t avoid. He bumps from one to the next like a tired pinball. All he has left is the mechanical necessities and one glorious prospect. His future, his chance, his one snatch at something better than all this is right there before him. He throws open the door to the bar and stumbles out into a street that he no longer recongises. There amongst the digital chatter of a thousand night goers in silver sleek shoes and suits and frills and phones, he remembers what that prospect is.
This is it folks, with this kick they can win the game and take home the prize.
“I need to wait”, he slurs, “Cos yknow good things come to those that wait”.
It’s all over folks, there was just no recovery from that last play. Shame for the team. Shame for the game.