Holiday!

“We’re going on a holiday!” cried little Mark.

“Yes, dear–somewhere distant and beautiful,” said his grandmother, her old face revealing genuine glee.

“We’re going on a holiday!” cried little Mark again as his mother tore up the old photograph.

“Yes, Mark. And don’t tell grandma that we have a surprise waiting for her there!” she warned.

“We’re going on a holiday!” cried little Mark to his father.

“Yes, son. Some of us might enjoy ourselves so much that we won’t want to come back!” his father replied as he carefully placed the well-cleaned pistol into the suitcase.

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Overdose

All Christine wanted was for the pain to go away.

It did.

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Thom’s Vision

Faces on walls. People in pyxides. Cigars. Cigars and screams. Luminescent dust and glass trees. All in a pyre. All in a pyre.

Turn a corner. Open a door. Seal a window. Cough a cough. Steal a glance. Say a prayer. Make a wish. Utter a curse. Breathe a sigh.

Darkness. Chaos. Sunshine. Rain. Seas. Sand. Stars. Night. Kismet.

She stands. An angel. Caresses your face. Scared. Don’t be. So beautiful. So perfect. So frightening. So monstrous. She stands. Caresses your face. Don’t scream. Don’t shout. Shush.

Dolls dragging about crying little girls. A talking wolf and a severed head. Chess with the woman of needles. Nightmares make love. Starched uniforms and polystyrene hearts. Acres and ashes. Crosses and criminals. A photograph album full of voices. A colour at the centre of the world. Marches. April. Maybe. Red rivers and scarlet feathers. Foetuses crawling and screaming bloody murder.

Music. Music like a photograph.

Man. Beard. Frown. Wrinkles. Stench. No clothes. Sitting on a rock. Thinking. Holding the universe together. Do not disturb him. Do not disturb him.

A creature with five hands and no legs. He laughs at you. Cackles. Snickers. Vampire masons. Illegitimate moons. Bastard kings.

Mouths on concrete. Eyes on glass. Tooth and claw. Bottles of snot. Bleeding hearts dangling on umbilical cords.

No. No.

You run. You run until you see a glint. A glimmer. A knife. Gouge out your eyes. See no more.

See no more.

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Don’t ignore me.

But the blog knew that her master was busy; and could only weep quietly.

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Wait.

The car didn’t. Neither did his five-year-old.

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Chip

Chip is a policeman, one in a long line of constables that thread the generations of his family together. He is proud of this fact.

Every morning, he rises at six. He takes a long time in the bathroom because he spends almost forty minutes in front of the mirror tidying up his hair. Chip combs it to a perfection. Not one strand can be displaced from the immaculate shape. It is the pinnacle of his pride, the representation of his love of his duty and the honour of generations.

Each morning, Chip, in his perfect stride and perfect uniform, with his perfect hair and perfect teeth, walks up to his station and undertakes his duty. Each morning, without fail, perfect as a portrait.

When Chip turns 38, he begins to lose hair. This causes him to convulse with all the panic in his limbs, in his heart, in his mind, in his soul. He trembles when he looks into the mirror.

He cannot stand going to work without his perfect hair. What would his ancestors think?

As he steps onto the stool and looks at the noose, he whispers a prayer for his family and hopes his fathers do not frown on him. There are tears in his eyes. As he touches his naked scalp, he finally admits that he takes too much pride in his work.

He’s not a policeman. Not really.

He’s just a security guard.

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Tour Group Girl

It’s only the second day of the tour, and you feel sleepy as heck. You’ve been like that ever since you boarded the airplane. You’re just tired.

Now you’re at the sake factory. You snap a few photographs. It’s a hobby of sorts.

When they go into the place, you head into the place too. When they leave the place, you leave the place too. You’re a ghost. Not uninterested, but not exactly as enthusiastic as all the other people are.

“Can you help us take a photo?” she asks as you prepare to leave. Sure–why not?

“Just press here.” Of course.

They’re all smiling.The whole family. The whole lot of them. The talkative mother. The stoic, silent father. All her sisters. And her. She’s sort of adorable.

One-two-three, snap.

“Thanks!”

You tell her: “Check it first.”

“Looks great.”

Phew.

“Steady hands, huh?”

You only smile. Your hands may be steady, but your heart is trembling.

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P.S.Yes, I’m in Japan.

I’ll be away for a bit.

I’m going on a holiday tomorrow, and after that there’ll be renovations at my house for a couple of weeks, so I’m not sure when I can resume normal service.

I just thought I’d leave you a note.

I’ll post when I can; but it won’t be quite as regular, surely.

Apologies! and have fun while I’m away.

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Earphones

I learnt long ago that if I put on earphones, people think that I can’t hear them past the music.

So they tell me all their secrets.

Because there is no music.

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Practical joke.

How was I suppose to know that he was going to die?

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