A micro story: Sent to Bridges 


I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories and everyone is invited to write a story or poem constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is Menu


The Persistence of Memory by Dali. Image: Wikipedia

Sent to Bridges 

And to think it all began with a meadow and a songbird and a clear blue sky on a September morning as bright as a memory tacked to a wall… when the disc arrived hidden under my doormat in a brown envelope, and when I inserted it into my device and was presented with a menu overlayed on a poorly pixelated image of Dali’s The Persistence Of Memory, and a voice in my head saying: Man, you been doing this shit since 1929?

  • Option A: DREAM
  • Option B: DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
  • Option C: DREAM OF A DREAM

The risks were great: virtually entering a world such as I was about to but with both feet still planted in the real world of a surveillant society cracking down on coveted subscriptions to the principles of joy, pleasure and pain – subject to beatings, fines, imprisonment or simply becoming ‘vanished away’ based on the seriousness of classification (and sometimes whims) of an out-of-control government eating itself from within.

ZAP CLICK FLICKER as I pressed Option A, and all at once I saw myself at my desk staring into my device, and I was turned inside out and upside down, my guts and organs pulsating in the sac of my skin upon which hung the frame of my dithering skeleton, and I wished to scream in agony but no words parted the grim and deep orifice of my mouth, and I could only despair at the foolishness of what I had done as my finger bones pressed urgently at Option B.

ZAP CLICK FLICKER and I was transported to a winter forest and was set upon by all the dogs of the world: guard dogs, police dogs, army dogs, rescue dogs, sniffer dogs, the yapping and annoying little inbred dogs, the vicious cannonballs of raging Pit Bulls, Dobermans and Rottweilers and Blood Hounds, and the dogs that shit on your doorstep, and the dogs that piss up your car, and the dogs which we eat and the dogs that we dress in clown costumes and hats, and the dogs for the blind, and the dogs rabid and foaming with every madness known to humankind, and the devil dogs of Satan himself digging up graves in the non-stop search for bones, and the dogs dogs dogs coming at me just coming at me straight at me at me at me… oh… I hadn’t gone to the dogs… the dogs had gone to me.

ZAP CLICK FLICKER as my finger hammered at Option C and I was out of the forest and back at my desk, the right way round and the right way up, the dogs long gone, and I was no more the fool, and I thought I was safe, until, ah, BANG BANG BANG  and I could hear the cops breaking down my door with steel rams and decorated shoulders and an appetite for blood, and how well I could anticipate the hornet sting of their tasers, their boots at my ribs, their sticks in my face, a cold van, a cold cell, a cold sentence, cold, cold, cold… quick… ZAP CLICK FLICKER and my finger once more tapped Option A in that never ending search for my meadow and songbird and a clear blue sky on a September morning as bright as a memory tacked to a wall.

***


Words by Ford Waight

Song: Sent to Bridges written and performed by FLAW5 (Ford Waight)

Video edit by FLAW5 (Ford Waight)

Six Sentence Stories: a viral poem

Britains toys. 1983. UK.

I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and the cue word this week is Routine.


A viral poem:

The rime of the ancient healthcarer

 

07h: Colleagues arrive, smiles behind masks, Wuhan shakes all around, wash hands, clean-crisp uniforms, temperatures taken.

09h: Patients washed and fed, some ache, some throb, some sneeze, some cough, mask on, wash hands, gloves on, temperatures taken.

14h: Sanitize, sterilize, realize some don’t like their own company in isolation, oxygen, pills, hand gels and meals on wheels, change mask, wash hands, touch face – blast it, wash hands again.

16h: Mask on, mask off, wash hands, mask on, disinfect, tick boxes checked, temperatures taken.

20h: Wash hands, change clothes, mask off, go home, wash hands, change clothes, watch news with family, prepare sandwiches for tomorrow.

00h: A routine sleep brings bad scenes lathered in dystopian creams, because there’s not enough water to keep us clean in viral dreams it seems we all must share, day after day, day after day, they dropped down one by one; virus, virus, everywhere, and all the crowds were gone.


After The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

#Coronavirus #WashHands

Six Sentence Stories: The Girl in the Coat

FAO Schwarz Fall / Winter catalogue logo. 1980. US.

Greetings, vintage mates. I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and the cue word this time is Coat.


The Girl in the Coat

 

The harsh Winter was almost over, yet no less fierce with the promise of precious Spring about to come: that blissful, two, three weeks at best, tolerable weather event, before the incomprehensible heat of Summer broiled us in our skins.

The girl, she was shivering under blankets plundered from the last town we passed; the forsaken church we had taken shelter in, before the roof collapsed under the weight of snow as filthy and heavy as a Christmas scene postcard sent straight from hell.

The girl, feverish, with me as her guide, the endless walking, sleeping in abandoned trucks and barns, chicken coops long ago ransacked of fowl and eggs, the girl, the girl, the girl and me, hiding in trees from marauders and murderers, and those driven mad by Summer and Winter’s brutal empire… the girl, oh that poor girl, how she shivered.

The girl, in her fever, she called out to me: “Mommy…” and I wept for the girl, and for her mother too – and whichever cruel season had snatched her away.

And I wondered: should I give the girl my coat… if I did, she would surely survive until Spring, yes, but I would freeze, for certain, me… her weathered protector, her compass, her source of advice and well of resourcefulness, her hand to hold in countless blizzards and wind and rain and fog and storms, and heatwaves out to desiccate us.

The girl, I stared at her trembling bag of bones body, me… with no maternal feathers nor stripes to call my own, and she, the girl, the girl, no daughter of mine, just a girl I once found hiding under a bed; the girl who I take my coat off to and wrap around her frame, and fasten each button as her eyes at last brighten, and me, shivering now, the fingers of the wind entering my pores like frost-swords and ice-needles, my eyes glazing over as I give the girl up to the coming of Spring and all I had taught her.

 


#climate #change #care #love

The Girl in the Coat is inspired by The Road by Cormac McCarthy

Huge thanks to Denise for hosting Six Sentence Stories #inspiring