Category: Short Story

Ice Cube Heart

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Ice cubes sit in the freezer. I think about how they used to be liquid from the tap, and now they are blocks of ice. My thoughts remind me of a story once told by an old sentimental fool.

A man and a woman loved each other. When his love was new to her, his heart was warm. He and she moved through life easily, for the days were sunny despite the weather. His laughter was so infectious to her that she would often bloom with a smile.

After some time passed, his heart turned into those ice cubes. In her heart, he remained dear despite the cold feelings that crept into his arteries. Although there was no warmth in his heart anymore, she never gave up hope that his love was real.

Then, on a day like any other, they travelled together in the car; He was driving and calling her names over something trivial; She was very upset. He did not realise that soon she would leave this world, and he would no longer have the sunshine of his heart.

An accident occurred. As she lay dying in the passenger seat, his heart began to melt. He then realised how much he loved her. He promised to honour her memory by climbing many mountains and exploring the Earth with her ashes so that they could both see the world together.

That sentimental old fool is the man in this story. He died a few years ago and had her ashes sprinkled all over him before he was cremated.

Cullender of Colander

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At home, she rinses the vegetables in the Colander. The water washes the vegetables and then flows down through the holes and into the drain to head to the water treatment plant. Once the water arrives, it is treated and cleaned so that humans can consume the resource again.

You stand in the kitchen talking to her about how unsuitable she is to cook your food, then how everything about the two of you is disintegrating. She wonders what you are on about or if you have lost the plot.

Unable to deal with your talking after many attempts to obtain a resolution, she turns the Colander into a Cullender, places your head in it, and washes water over you until you cool down.

Now that you are her vegetable, all the rubbish flows down through the drain from your head for the water treatment plant; Perhaps they can clean up your bullshit.

My Knees Squeak

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You fucked off.
Where you went is none of my concern, now that your heart and mine don’t sing a pretty song.
Now, all I can do is talk to myself about regrets and shit. I’m alone, in my 30’s, and my bank balance is small. You even took the cat with you because you said fluffy loves you more!
In my desolation and decay, I put on five kilograms from eating too many Swiss chocolates, my clothes don’t fit properly, and I look like a frump.
Now that I have taken the path of least resistance and succumbed to watching shit loads of television and listening to crap music, my knees squeak as I move from the couch to the coffee table, and I talk to myself in a morphed language.
When will you acknowledge that I still love you, or am I just blowing hot air up my arse?

Tablecloth Blues

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“Darling, dinner is almost finished. Will you scratch my back? It’s so itchy…“

He gets up from the table, heads towards the man cave, then says, “I’ll think about it…“

You’re still itchy, and you know even if he is taking the piss, he’ll make you wait for a scratch.

The tablecloth has embroidered bumps that move along the fabric in perfectly proportioned lines. It suits your obsessive nature.

You take off your top, and then you begin to rub your back against the tablecloth.

The salt and pepper shakers fall over with a bump, the tomato sauce bottle rolls onto the floor, and the plates start to move towards the edge.

He comes out to investigate the cause of the noise, only to find his pretty girl scratching her back on the tablecloth.

“Are you quite alright there?“

“I’m itchy!“

“I’d better scratch you then…“

“No groping! Be nice!“

“I’m always nice, and you know it.“

You turn her head and give him a sideways eye smile as you start to moan from the nails down your skin.

Your Extreme Ironing Nature

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Your passion for extremes has always given me a sense of excitement and this newfound energy. I got caught up in your adventurous nature, that dark curly hair, and those sparkly eyes.

I never understood why your ironing basket was always empty, why you had those strange contraptions hooked on to your ironing board, and why you always took so much care of that ironing board.

I began to question our love, for you would sneak away and then return unkempt and exhausted. What were you doing? Did you find someone else to touch and tingle?

Then one day, out of the blue, you took me into your world and showed me your soul. You showed me how much you love to go on adventures, how to conduct extreme ironing in exotic locations, why adventures together are better than adventures alone, and why power points never seem close when you are so far away.

We continue to embrace your ironing board until this day. We have photographs on our walls of that ironing board, you and me.

Hills Hoist

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Since they were young, Claire and Ann loved to hang out together. Whether they were wagging physical education, using liquid paper to deface their school desks, plotting someone’s demise, or simply being fatalistically cool, these two were inseparable.

They lost touch until they were in their thirties. Instantly recognising the other, these friends decided to make an afternoon of their long-overdue reunion.

Ann loves nature, so they decided to go back to her place while the gents were out.

Claire forgot what a hills hoist looked like. It had been so long since she had seen the clothesline of her childhood. It reminded her of simpler times and the feeling of freedom.

They began to roll around together under the hills hoist. There was much chatter, chirping, and burping from these two as they re-acquaint one with the other.

They giggled as they once did as schoolgirls, despite leaving all of that behind long ago.

Under the hills hoist, they watch it spin and spin as they hallucinate about Unicorns, Dragons, and more. Colours fill their minds, and the world seems to feel so right.

Under the hills hoist, they make merry for they sampled magic mushrooms.

Saucepan Dancing

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Saucepans of stainless steel sit within the kitchen cupboard. They lament the days when their forms connected with the stovetop often and tasty meals were prepared within their confines.

Lately, they seem so sad. Are the saucepans sad, or am I sad?

What should I do to help these poor objects reach their full potential? Is it me that is the problem, for I do not cook anymore and buy too much sushi?

These questions fill me with a sense of excitement as I reach for the cookbooks; a cake for one is a bad idea, but then one can be eaten for breakfast each day.

I reach for the saucepans and smash them in the air for luck.

Then it begins.

Running and jumping,

banging and clanging,

mumbling and humming,

singing and spinning.

The oven is hot,

the cake takes shape,

the saucepans tell me they are happy,

and we celebrate with a glass of champagne.

My Trusty Steed

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There was a day when the washing machine decided to display an error message. It was a Saturday. Birds chattered in the trees outside. A couple of visitors were coming over to critique the state of your furniture and interior decorating choices. There were many things to do. There wasn’t enough time to visit a repair person or find another machine.

The thought of connecting your foot with this innocent looking machine sent a jolt of joy to your demeanour. You thought how lovely it would be to throw this machine at the visitors when they walked into your home to inspect and patronise you and yours so ardently.

Standing in front of your trusty steed of a washing machine, you could do nothing but think about how the washing would be washed.

Would it be by some divine hand that the clothes would become wet and clean?

Would there be another option, such as a personal servant?

Would you give up and throw them out the front door?

The error message jolted you from a life of comfortable bliss, in which the clothes went into a machine and then came out smelling sweet and feeling wet yet dry.

Now you’re faced with manually scrubbing the little beasts with your hands, wood, kitchen utensils, perhaps the dishwasher, or God knows what else.

That day you realised that the washing machine of your life keeps fucking with your clothes.

 

The Laundry of my Life

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The laundry is full of our clothes. Some clothes are small, and others are large; some display a lack of fashion sense, others are sexy, some are sloppy, and some do not function.
We wear these clothes because of our monetary constraints, the temptation to buy designer labels does not appeal to our sensibilities, and the thought of shopping sends a feeling of dread down our spines.
Sometimes, I wonder about these crumpled clothes piling up on the laundry floor.
Why do they keep piling up so high?
Will I die with a basket of unwashed clothing in my house with pictures of cats on my knickers?
Will I be remembered as the person with bad fashion sense and a taste for kinky underwear?
Does Jesus exist?
So many thoughts move through my head, contemplating important ideas about washing, clothing, life, and all that stuff that occupies no place in other minds.
The laundry is like my life: crumpled clothes keep filling up the washing basket of my life to clutter my day, making me question so much and giving me a sense of pessimistic dread at the thought of leaving connubial constraints laid bare for the world to see when I die.

The Lounge Chair of Luxury

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His study is a place of bourgeois reflection and hard-won luxury for a man of the people.
He reflects on the day and sometimes other things as he prepares to mix a drink.
The leather lounge chair smells so expensive to him that no candle could ever compare.
As he sits down to ponder his life, he feels youthful as a renaissance man with a full head of hair and most of his teeth.
The lounge chair of luxury is beautiful and stern, just like the interior decoration and his mood.
He reclines on the lounge chair of luxury, unable to find a comfortable spot.
The leather lounge chair cannot replace that hollow feeling felt so often, now his heart feels no love.