by Simon Stratton
"Hi," she said in the same way a biscuit crumbles. But what did the "Hi" mean - why use "Hi" and not "Hey," "Hello" or "Howdy?" In these modern times there are so many greetings - like the variety of foreign fruit in the supermarket - but why would anyone want so many, almost a different fruit for each day of the week? What's wrong with having a banana in your pocket when you've kissed your family goodbye and headed off to the sewage works... but then "Hi" is not the ripe banana of greetings, no, if I was going to classify it, I would say it was more "green apple" - the Granny Smith. "I'm the reincarnation of your long lost daughter," she said, whipping her hair off her forehead like a postman delivering letters. "That's nice," I said, but then I thought: doesn't "Hi" sound a bit like "He," which could mean she's trying to tell me she wishes to become a man, a He-man?
6S
Simon Stratton, author of Hug Goodbye, lost his MA in Creative Writing in a curry fight.
20070531
The Drifter
Part 5 of 6 by Joseph Ridgwell
To the east the dunes stretched infinitely onwards, like a voluptuous yellow snake slithering sexily into the fuzzy horizons of the future, while in the west the sun shot out arrogant rays of perfect precision. I gazed straight into our nearest star, becoming blind and disoriented. I fell over and tumbled down the bank of the dune like rolling dice. When I stood up the left side of my face was covered in sand grains and I brushed them off and squinted at the trembling ocean. For some inexplicable reason the roar of the surf sounded terrifying and an intense feeling of panic washed over me like an ocean wave. Then an acute moment of clarity revealed that we are all born to die, the phrase repeating itself over and over in my head, born to die, born to die, born to die!
6S
Joseph Ridgwell lives and writes in London. Look for the conclusion of The Drifter on Sunday, June 3rd.
To the east the dunes stretched infinitely onwards, like a voluptuous yellow snake slithering sexily into the fuzzy horizons of the future, while in the west the sun shot out arrogant rays of perfect precision. I gazed straight into our nearest star, becoming blind and disoriented. I fell over and tumbled down the bank of the dune like rolling dice. When I stood up the left side of my face was covered in sand grains and I brushed them off and squinted at the trembling ocean. For some inexplicable reason the roar of the surf sounded terrifying and an intense feeling of panic washed over me like an ocean wave. Then an acute moment of clarity revealed that we are all born to die, the phrase repeating itself over and over in my head, born to die, born to die, born to die!
6S
Joseph Ridgwell lives and writes in London. Look for the conclusion of The Drifter on Sunday, June 3rd.
Posted by
Robert McEvily
20070530
Why Can't I Live in a Pair of Brooks
by Victor S. Smith
The pavement passed under her feet with a thud, thud, thud and she thought about how remarkable the human body is; she had been running for twenty minutes, and the pain that always started to radiate from the shins up into her knees, then to her hips that would then take up residence in her lower back at about mile two was starting to dissipate, as it always did at about mile four. She wondered if the pain was truly dissipating, or if her brain had just shut down those nerve endings that told her to stop, after her pace quickened and the message from her soul and heart was clearly sent: today I need this, and no pain is going to stop me. Pain was a catharsis for her, the aches and pains that accompanied a grueling run were the things that cleansed her spirit, that left her feeling pure again; water was the symbol in movies that she always associated with ritual purification and the perspiration pouring down her face, into her eyes and on her lips as the miles ticked away had to be a 90% water she thought. She marveled again at her bodies ability to compensate for obstacles as she, without realizing it, changed her gait by a fraction of an inch to allow her passage over the street curb at the corner of Traverse and Wickendon, her speed not broken, and then readjusted it again once she was on the flat concrete of the sidewalk. She asked herself as she charged up the hilly streets, that were lined with cherry trees and forsythia: why can't I do this when I am living my life, why is it so difficult to navigate the tiny obstacles? The answer she came to was remarkably simple: running is easy, you just put one foot in front of the other, over and over and over again, until you reach your destination; life, however, is not a run, it is a slam dance to a cacophonous, discordant tune, and there is no more a straight line than there is a destination.
6S
Victor S. Smith, author of A Route Forty-Four Chainsaw Massacre, is a recovering economist who caught a writing bug penicillin isn't clearing up. His two blogs are Like Pollution and Marlowe's Sketch Pad.
The pavement passed under her feet with a thud, thud, thud and she thought about how remarkable the human body is; she had been running for twenty minutes, and the pain that always started to radiate from the shins up into her knees, then to her hips that would then take up residence in her lower back at about mile two was starting to dissipate, as it always did at about mile four. She wondered if the pain was truly dissipating, or if her brain had just shut down those nerve endings that told her to stop, after her pace quickened and the message from her soul and heart was clearly sent: today I need this, and no pain is going to stop me. Pain was a catharsis for her, the aches and pains that accompanied a grueling run were the things that cleansed her spirit, that left her feeling pure again; water was the symbol in movies that she always associated with ritual purification and the perspiration pouring down her face, into her eyes and on her lips as the miles ticked away had to be a 90% water she thought. She marveled again at her bodies ability to compensate for obstacles as she, without realizing it, changed her gait by a fraction of an inch to allow her passage over the street curb at the corner of Traverse and Wickendon, her speed not broken, and then readjusted it again once she was on the flat concrete of the sidewalk. She asked herself as she charged up the hilly streets, that were lined with cherry trees and forsythia: why can't I do this when I am living my life, why is it so difficult to navigate the tiny obstacles? The answer she came to was remarkably simple: running is easy, you just put one foot in front of the other, over and over and over again, until you reach your destination; life, however, is not a run, it is a slam dance to a cacophonous, discordant tune, and there is no more a straight line than there is a destination.
6S
Victor S. Smith, author of A Route Forty-Four Chainsaw Massacre, is a recovering economist who caught a writing bug penicillin isn't clearing up. His two blogs are Like Pollution and Marlowe's Sketch Pad.
Posted by
Robert McEvily
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
