Poetry | Stories | Photography
Sitting on random park benches, gazing into the dirty river, talking to a power poll about the upcoming election, and walking alone through the busy streets.
To most people, she’s a nobody.
If only they knew she won the national planking cup; she also makes cheese.
As Matthew walks through the automated doors, a musical voice says, “Welcome, Matthew. We understand your appointment involves the storage of love. Please be seated in the red area.”
Unsure how to react, a smile and a slight nod are all he can muster.
The room has three areas. Green is for intelligence accumulation, blue is for family memory storage, and red is for the storage of love. Each coloured area has a certain number of seats with touchscreens and headsets, depending on what services the client requires.
Matthew takes in the room, notices the green and blue areas are quiet today and makes his way to the red section. A cyborg arranges unusual metal shapes in a line, looks up, scans him, and says, “Hello, Matthew. Please go to seat number 4.”
Uneasy, Matthew looks slightly to the right side and asks, “What do I do?”
Without moving, the cyborg says, “Sit down, put the headset on, select the number of years of love you wish to hold on escrow, and the headset will do all the work for you. You may feel a little lightheaded afterwards; however, most symptoms pass in a few hours.”
Unease intensifies, and an odd gut feeling threatens to take him from this place. However, there is no time to waste.
Disorientated, he finds himself sitting down. Those who wear headsets do not move. It is as if they are between life and death. The uneasy feeling has gone, and there is no longer a gut reaction. Doubt creeps in, then fades.
The neon red screen presents Matthew with several options. He can hold between one and fifteen years of love. He chooses ten years, places the headset on, and presses start.
Thoughts from when he was much younger come to him. He is no longer afraid, for he feels love. Then his first love and their first kiss play behind his eyes like a movie. The memories of love keep moving through his mind. Suddenly the memories stop moving, the word ‘finished’ appears in red on the screen, and he removes the headset.
Matthew has not felt this hollow in some time. It is as though he is missing a part, yet nothing replaced what is missing. Perhaps it is just as his boss explained when he said Matthew should do this to further his career. After all, love has no place in finance.
Tim’s friends describe him as a quiet introvert. They love his kind presence.
The news ran a story about the rise of an oppressive cult leader.
One friend swore it was Tim, and others weren’t sure; however, all agreed Tim would never do what that maniac did to those people.
Home from a long day and hungry,
looking in the fridge for inspiration.
Sitting down to take off the shoes,
floating away in tired mind clouds.
Inspiration takes hold, then “Fark!”
A single tear rolls down your face,
cursing your poor smashed toes.
You enter through a portal door,
innocuous, different.
A mistake I did make,
for you take the quiet spaces.
You invade every facet of my life;
no room left for my words.
I push back against the deluge,
you won’t listen.
You turn,
I close the portal door.
Spring has come to your heart, yet I sit here in my Winter world wondering what you’re doing with all of those so-called “friends“.
I love you, yet you are like a Hydrangea in bloom. Your love will last from early spring until late Autumn, yet it never sustains the Winter.
With a lick of the spoon,
your toes curl.
The taste on your tongue,
your senses heighten.
The warmth down south,
the feeling builds.
With the last spoonful of Creme Brulee,
you climax and fall off the chair.
Etched wooden chairs,
a French polished dining table,
ambient candle lights.
Beyond the dining room
your mind plays on your fears,
the shadows shift, move.
Petrified of the shadows,
a child too young to understand,
darkness frightened you.
Enlightened by knowledge,
you face the shadows fearlessly,
never taking a wrong step.
A touch along your neck,
terror has a name you remember,
you run out into the night.
A windless cold night,
movement within the front trees,
illogical ways of nature.
Those etched chairs,
your father died on one of those,
too long ago, father.
A whisper on the wind,
something I heard you say long ago,
“my darling daughter”.
Dressed in simple cotton robes, six gathered around the point of examination.
They hesitated. All were too afraid to touch such a foreign-looking living thing.
Braver than the others, one touched a branch a thumb. All followed, touching the last two trees.
Perspiration and a feeling of heat take hold within the stifling sheets.
Sleep comes slow, yet when it comes, events progress, and I’m standing in front of a light green house with gold-laced windows in a forest at the top of a hill at the end of a cul-de-sac.
Nothing makes sense, as a random stranger dances up with multiple women and says he’s been waiting for me to arrive.
Events progress, then I’m awake from one nightmare only to see something in the bathroom mirror. A heart can only miss so many beats as the sheets become a greenhouse.
Between the nightmares, your side of the bed is empty. You sit in another room playing a game at 2 am, while sleep is inevitable.
C & K 