raging breaking receding
clinging dragging groaning
again and again and again
In response to the Three Line Tales, Week 93 challenge, based on a photo by Alex Iby via Unsplash
Like a mighty conqueror he rises and explodes, majestic, electrifying, wrecking havoc; and then recedes with calm dignity, undisputed master.
I yearn to drown in the throes of his brutal passion and unbridled life.
Instead I stand, alone in my knowledge – the sea is not my lover, for he does not hurt me.
The room looked like they were tourists. Only the sheer number of vintage cameras lying around was baffling. Did people still use film rolls in this digital age! And why so many?
The backpack, duffel bag and boots clearly belonged to the man in the room. Two passport covers and neatly laundered clothes strewn around, implied the presence of another, probably a female.
Yet the landlord and neighbours claimed that the room had been unoccupied for the last month. If it were not for that one loud bang, no one would have noticed him.
“Where is she?” I ask him.
If only the dead could talk.
Steel dragons. As dead as the relationship that I called marriage. As cold as the man I called husband.
Everything unwanted should be recycled, he always said. So everyday, every moment, I strived for perfection. Always afraid that if I let up for even a moment, then I would be unwanted, discarded. Just someone to be recycled.
Reused. Refused. Recycled.
The security tapes and backup have been deleted. I always told him not to use birthdays as passwords. The man was too arrogant to listen. He never did understand technology. Never understood that the cameras recording the employee movements, recorded his movements too. Never understood the concept of remote monitoring.
In the forge, the furnace simmers leaving no evidence of its greed and rage. No bones. No ashes. No evidence of sweaty undulating bodies. No evidence of blood soaked steel.
Everything unwanted should be recycled.
Karma. The ultimate recycle.
It wasn’t a great camera, but to him it could just as well have been the world’s best.
To him, it was more than a camera. It was a promise. A promise of good times to come, of a world waiting to be explored, of adventures to be had and mysteries to be unraveled.
Plans had been made.
He had a comfortable retirement fund. Upon his pin-up board was a world map with places selected and colour coded based on priority, along with a smaller state map. It would be mighty unpatriotic to go globe trotting without first appreciating the magnificence of his own land. Pages were marked out in his scrapbook for his special places. A time would come when he would be too frail to travel. After all, old age was inevitable. Then he could go through it and reminiscence.
But life had its own plans.
The cells in his body decided to have adventures of their own. The retirement fund went trying to get them under control, but the little bastards just wouldn’t stop. Frailty came before old age could.
He now lay in bed, along with an empty scrap book on the table, and an unused camera in the cupboard.
Of late I am beginning to wonder if my aspiration to become a writer has been cut short by the short cuts I take.
I thought that starting with micro fiction was a great idea. Stimulate the mind. Think of different characters. Add flesh to those characters. Come up with a plot. But it’s been almost a year, and I’ve happily settled down at this point, refusing to go beyond 300 words. I suppose I could do an anthology of short stories. I am told I gravitate a lot towards female characters in angst, so that could be the common thread for the anthology.
I was supposed to start writing longer stories. Meanwhile I’m viewing my inability or reluctance to foray further as a shortcoming. Laziness. A major character flaw.
Am I unhappy writing micro-fiction? No. I am unhappy that I have not started on the path that leads to my originally planned goal. That which was supposed to be the sort cut has actually become the roundabout. But I’m not complaining. Not really.
‘Cause the roundabout is strewn with beautiful wild flowers, and rocks and streams and generous sprinklings of pretty pretty fairy dust.
So excuse me my goals. I think I’ll tarry, just a while longer.
In response to The Stream of Consciousness Saturday: shortcut/cut short
There are always two sides to every great story.
Some would say a rock has been broken,
some would say a path has been made…
In response to Frank’s Tuesday Photo Challenge – Broken.
My head thumped louder than the music, if that was even possible. Very soon, it would break the sound barrier and explode like a ripe melon. Damn! I wonder if my brains will look psychedelic through these glasses.
Man, what’s the saying. Too old for disco, too young to die.
‘Stop drooling and focus grandpa,’ my ear mic cackles.
I smirk as a pretty young thing brushes past. ‘This grandpa’s still got his swag.’
My eyes follow her taut ass as she walks up to a pair of guys. Despite the harsh lights I notice one pass her the pills.
‘North-east side. Two males. Alpha in burgundy jacket,’ I relay as my team closes in.
… ‘And these beautiful vases and pots are shaped by the students of our pottery class,’ the teacher proudly droned on.
‘Damn, stupid kid used the family insignia! How did she even remember?’ I hear Mark’s frustration.
Please no. I cant do it again. ‘No one will make the connection,’ I plead.
‘We can’t take the chance.’
The next day the school’s website proudly displayed the vase, with the dotted yellow cornucopia featuring prominently.
We started packing. The federal agents would be here soon.
New place. New identity.