Saturday, June 16, 2018

Bitesize fiction. The hithhiker

We had to drive across the country recently to get to a sporting event.

We were both rather tired and it was the last leg of the trip. It had already rained and the sun was just barely peeking from behind the clouds.

I was driving and the cement on the road had seen better days but I had also seen worse roads than that one.

All of a sudden, we see a hitchhiker.

"Where to, friend?" I ask him as he gets on.

"Oh, jast diawn the road at the manastery." He had the lilty accent of the locals. Very picturesque.

"Very well. Just tell us where to stop."

He seemed unused to the car trip and gripped the side of his seat a bit shakily. I decided to drive slower for his sake.

"Are you ok? Sorry if my driving is too fast."

"No, it is fine. Viry camfy in yer car." He wiped his brow. "Oh. The manastery."

I stop and, sure enough, there was our camp right across the street.

"Thenk yee. How mich do I pay?"

"Nothing at all, this is also our stop." I smiled and my husband offered to help him down but our hitchhiker refused.

"Thank yee, thank yee. I am fine. Ghid day."

We watched him leave, obviously happy to be walking on his own again. Perhaps he just didn't go by car that often...

He definitely doesn't go by car that often.

Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Bitesize fiction. The great migration

It is like a forest, a mathematically correct forest, with threes in rows and columns, piercing the burnt evening sky like soldiers.

They stand still, quiet. They loom over the ground, their canopies tightly gathered around the metal trunks. They seem dignified and stern, refusing to ruffle even with the wind.

The lights appear, one by one, weaving a tight black net over the metal trees like spiders drawing in towards their prey. Menacing, glowing evil, sure of their victory.

Then the trees breathe sharply, all in unison, the white branches lifting and dropping back down with a thud.

A second of silence.

One of the trees extends a second trunk to the ground, spreads two gigantic white fabric branches into a pair of wings, lifts a sharp beak to the web above and bites sharply into it. The lights break helplessly, the web is viciously torn.

The other trees also lift their beaks towards the clouds, clamping loudly, deafeningly.

The first tree that had moved flaps its wings and lifts off the ground through the hole in the net, followed by its siblings. All the while, they keep clamping their beaks like a flock of storks, three meters tall and made of steel and fabric. But who says you shouldn't fly if you are made of steel and fabric?

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Broken pencil poetry. Green

23 may 2018

I close my eyes.
It is warm -
It is all melting like white chocolate in the sun.

I scrunch my lids together and hold my breath.
It smells like sawdust.
The big round saw starts turning,
picks up speed, whirring,
Like a loud roar, a cry out
for a huge injustice.

The tree trunks are lifted,
placed on the long table,
pushed forward
into the blade.

I open my eyes
and scream with the tree trunk being split open.
A whirr. A screech.

Dont't tell me how it ends.
Tell me how it begins.

Saturday, March 10, 2018

Bitesize fiction. Almost poetic...

 Water. It freezes at 0°C. If it doesn't have any impurities. Then the freezing point is higher.

Ice. It has a bigger volume than the same amount of liquid water.

Deciduous trees. They lose their foliage every autumn and grow new leaves in the spring.

Wind. It... brrrr. It bites into your skin and brings tears to your eyes. It is the single soul that animates the frozen winter landscape. Running, flying, dancing to its own music. Almost poetic. Almost...

Bang! A gunshot, then silence. Bang-bang-bang!

I scurry behind one of the thicker trees, holding my breath, listening. Even the wind has stopped, seemingly listening too. Bang-bang! The shots are coming from somewhere to my left, maybe 50m away. A rifle, from the sound of it.

The wind picks up again, this time from the right. The shooter takes a small break and I hear rustling, faint, but still audible. He is trying to move closer in a loose circle, to get a better aim. Still going left.

I quietly slide around the trunk of the tree to the right. Now I see him, rifle muzzle turning left and right, he is searching for movement behind the trees. So far, he hasn't seen me, or he would shoot without remorse.

He is so focused on the trees, he doesn't see the frozen puddles that have formed in a depression between the trees. Just a little further... make one more careless step.

Crack! The thin ice breaks underneath his boot. The water is not deep, just enough to splash up his leg and distract him from his hunt. "What the hell..."

Bang! He looks up surprised, and brings his hand to his right shoulder where I shot him. He sees me. I see him. The wind is still again, waiting for one of us to make the next move.

"Ok, you got me, I'm dead." He finally concedes, pulls out a bright red scarf and starts for the respawn area. "I was this close, man..."

The wind whistles mockingly and this time I agree with it. Time to advance. To my next target.

Friday, November 24, 2017

Broken pencil poetry. You thief!

If you rehearse it... you are a thief.

You thief!
24 Nov 2017

Walk this way
On your synapses,
From one neuron
To the next,
On your way
Through your own dreams.

Have you left breadcrumbs
On your path
To your imagination?
Have you picked all the locks?
Jumped all the fences?

You thief!

You are treading carefully,
Wobbling on the tightrope -
You have rehearsed this so thoroughly,
Why are you so afraid
To perform
Without a safety net?
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