I sat with him at the table. He offered me bread, a goblet of wine. After I partook he gave me a quill, some parchment, his smiling eyes encouraging me to write. Somehow the quill took over, gliding across the surface with ease. Before I knew it I was looking at a line of words I didn’t recognise. I looked up at him, his kind countenance pitying my ignorance. “Try reading it again,” he said. I looked down — suddenly the script made sense. “Reading what I have just written, I now believe.” A gentle smile was pursing his lips.
It was at the Turner Exhibition. Hutchings was a quiet lad, for a copper; he had a passion which no one suspected — and it got him killed. I took the call and we all piled ’round. There he was, wrapped up in bubble wrap, sequestered in the store room next to ‘Snow Storm’; not one of my favourites. Someone had taken a scalpel to him, a right mess he was, poor lad. When we got to his flat there were art books all over, though not a morsel in the fridge. Evidently Hutchings — I shall call him George — used to feed on art.
Contemplate the rain, this fleeting season, changes I can do nothing about. Sitting, watching, listening; the hanging drops on vacant washing lines and leaves, all testimony to nature, that the laws of men may come and go, yet eternal truths stand starkly before us: Our choice to ignore. The harder I try the less I get in return. But the gentle rush of rain brings it back, the raucous calls of crows sitting in out in shedding trees; the clutter of my mind stands between what is me and my self.
The wind strikes once more, he’s tossing washing lines and turning trees, threatens to strip the ripe colour which makes the season tolerable. I wonder what’s made him so fierce: He’s giving me glimpses of winter, the lockdowns imposed, when stepping outside becomes a crime, where the only feature will be the trash blown starkly down our street
Our contact is painful, sporadic, remote, your response is typical, and so predictable. How can such a high IQ produce an attitude like this? “Wash your hands,” you’re told. You ask “how many times?” Now your silence says it all. I have always washed my hands, common sense suggests such practices are sound, though now especially when it comes to you.
You see the old lady over there? The one in the blue mask heading for the church. She delivered me, though no, she’s got no idea who I am. I see her quite often alone having coffee, a bagel and jam. Many times I’ve thought of saying hi, but what do I say? “You may not know me but you brought me into this world.” So I guess I’ll leave her again, to struggle with handbag and stick towards her cleansing nave, while I wrestle with my faith
tanks rolling through town escorting a larger entourage little legs running right along keeping up with the pace robotic machines with long legs & long arms marching & singing ‘one two three four who are we fighting for’ everything’s been canceled the parade is all there is children singing ‘one two three four’ lighting snakes […]
The way she’d creep up on you and just appear from behind like some cat, you’d think she was some trained assassin or something I felt her punch my shoulder and then her other hand falling on my nape and squeezing “Hey, lucky boy. You should be so damn glad you ran into me.” In the fist that hit my shoulder she held a bunch of crumpled bills and brought them before my eyes “What’s that?” I said “Our tickets to the bar down the street. And you’ve the honor to accompany me there. Drinks are on me today. But you do owe me, don’t think otherwise, okay?” “Where’d you get that money?” I asked. “Why’s it so dirty?” “I stole ’em from Ol’ Horn Nose while he was taking a shit.” “What?” Ol’ Horn Nose was the homeless guy who roamed around the block, usually begging in front of the supermarkets and pharmacies She brought the fist to her nose and smelled the bills and then shrugged “You can’t be serious,” I said. Of course I didn’t believe her but just then the old man rounds the corner and spots us and points his crooked finger at us and screams Immediately two cops round the corner and approach us with big strides but by the time they get to us there’s only me The assassin girl was gone I haven’t seen her since but she does cross my mind every now and then Especially when I pay with cash at the bar