Tag: writing

Intentions

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For her birthday, he gave her flowers
With a glass vase to place them in
But she reminded him of her hay fever
And he threw the shards in the bin

For their anniversary, it was chocolate
She placed it on the shelf
She had always been allergic
So he ate it all himself

For Valentines it was a book
That she had already reviewed
She had told him about it years ago
An article he said he’d viewed

For his birthday she gave whisky
His favourite drink, she knew
She encouraged him to drink it all
And an old dependency renewed

For their anniversary it was a laptop
With all the newest software
And hidden in the hard drive
Were sordid details of his affairs

For Valentines it was dinner
With ingredients made covert
She worried she’d used too little
Until his heart stopped before dessert

The Broadcast (Part 2)

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Part 1: https://sketchedtext.com/2023/10/18/the-broadcast-part-1/

It wasn’t just that station that was wrong.

My first idea was that the station was some postmodern art piece, giving the wrong current events to draw attention to our inattention. But, as was generally the case, my creative arts degree would not help me.

Other channels proved to be similarly out of sync. I was hesitant to tune too far at first. The bar wasn’t numbered, and I felt like that original station was a home base from which to venture.

The next non-numbers channel I found was in a language I didn’t recognise. Using my phone, I got a mostly-translated block of text.

“it is coming I know you sit in your homes gazing at your loved ones but soon you must make a choice who can you let go who must be sent outside who must be forgotten it cannot wait it is coming it is one of you or all of you I am alone in this station so it must be me oh god it must be me it must be me it must be me I will loop this message but you must forget me I am just a recording forget me it must not be me you hear I will be gone it is coming I know you sit“

The random numbers channel became infinitely more interesting after that.

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Two Sentence Stories (part 20)

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I spent months distracting myself from the headaches and increasingly blurring vision, but I finally found myself in a doctor’s office reviewing scans. I had worried over worst case scenarios, but in none of those did the doctor use the terms “hatched” and “hive”

Lily proudly showed her grandfather the keys she had dug out of the back garden, not noticing the look of horror on his face. As she showed him the hole, her grandfather could find no part of the hand that once gripped them.

The Broadcast (Part 1)

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I wouldn’t have bought the radio if I knew it actually worked. It was a gorgeous old thing, all curves and panels, like a cathedral window. It caught my eye in the antique stores window, brass knobs glinting atop elegantly carved wood.

I immediately had plans to gut it and install Bluetooth speakers. All the classiness, with none of the fuss, I thought. Certainly the price and the handwritten “sold as-is” warning on the tag made me think it couldn’t have any functional value.

I was surprised when the storekeeper picked it out of the display and a new power cord uncoiled from beneath it, bright white in contrast to the grainy wood of the radio. Someone must have gone to some effort to get this radio working. I remarked as much to the storekeeper, but was meet with a shrug and asked if I needed a box.

By the time I got home, I was excited to try it out. I hadn’t listed to the radio since my parents used to drive me to school. I now had no need (or money) for a car, and while I thought that there must be an app for the radio, it didn’t have the same novelty.

It took me an embarrassing ten minutes and a resigned web search before I found out how to turn the radio on. I was half expecting voices from its apparent era: fast talking radio hosts, smoking between reading ads for baby morphine and housewife amphetamines. But it was a disappointingly cheerful man giving the weather report. It wasn’t even right. He said that the rain was expected to continue until Tuesday – it hadn’t rained for weeks.

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Peer Pressure

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Daryl stared at the coffee, watching the larger bubbles pop amongst the foam. He tried not to notice the stares of the other customers of the coffee shop.

They had been in line behind him, each ordering the same as him. A latte, skim milk, and a chocolate brownie. He only noticed when the barista drew attention to it, making a joke about us making her job too easy. Then, as Daryl sat at his usual table in the corner, the group of four sat at the larger table in the centre of the café. He had thought it bizarre that they crammed around one side of the table, but thought they wanted to share food. But they all stared. The barista brought out the coffees, his first, then theirs. He took a hesitant sip, testing the heat, before putting it down.

Clink.

Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

He looked up at the synchronised sound of 4 cups being placed onto saucers. The four stared back, all still holding onto their mug handles, as he was. He tried a smile, which was returned after a moment across four faces.

It happened again, minutes later when the coffee had cooled.

Clink.
Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

He looked up again to see the four faces staring at him. He could not focus on any one of them, the uniformity of their attention was too intense.

He tried not to look, taking larger sips of his coffee and trying to place the cup down quietly, so he didn’t hear them copying him.

Clink.
Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

He thought it must have been a joke. While pretending to check his phone, Daryl looked up at the group’s table. It was empty except for their orders. It must have been cleared. Well then, he thought with the spiteful spirit of an older sibling, you can’t copy everything. He took a sugar packet out from the holder on his table and poured the sugar into the half-full coffee. He looked up to see all four miming shaking an almost empty packet into their coffees.

So it was a joke at his expense, Daryl thought. He was in two minds: he could finish the coffee, take his brownie away and leave these idiots behind, or he could savour them until closing and see how long it takes from the four idiots to get bored.

He downed the rest of his coffee.

Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

They were much more on the ball that time. There was almost no difference in timing.

Daryl was about to take the plated brownie to the counter, to ask for a container, when he instead found himself reaching for the fork. Across the room, the group did the same. He took the bite his hand offered. He chewed and put the fork back down.

Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

He looked up, against his every instinct. Four faces grinned at him. Daryl grinned back, rictus grins matching, apart from the glistening of tears on his cheeks.

*

A week later, Susan sat at a café, wondering why a group of people would try to fit around the same side of a table.

She put her coffee down.

Clink.

Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

The Perfect Roommate

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I have never met my roommate.

His door was always locked and he never spent time in the common areas. The only signs of life were the light under his door and the cycle of labelled foods in the kitchen being used and replaced.

It was odd at first, but I grew used to it. I might have even considered our relationship friendly, in an odd way. He communicated to me with notes, always typed for clarity. I responded with the neatest handwriting I could manage. He offered me the use of his kitchenware, even replacing my old knife set. His note said he’d noticed that the wooden block was moulding and the blades were dull.

He never pushed for a formal lease, which was a relief as I was supposed to be the only tenant.

I thought I was lucky to have found him so easily. I posted online and his was the most polite response, and said he had the deposit in cash, so I agreed. I deleted the post immediately after, in case my landlord found out. Of course, I was away the only day he could move in, so I left the door unlocked. Why, yes I do think I told him the dates I was unavailable first.

I don’t know where he has moved now. I’m not sure when he moved out. I only noticed when I saw the door was cracked open and got curious. It was so clean, apart from those dark stains on the carpet.

No, I don’t know what happened to my old knives.

You believe me, don’t you?

A Simple Tune

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It started as a simple tune
A verse hummed around a fire
It travelled with its owner
Until it met a liar

The man took it as his own
And dressed it with his words
It travelled now on velvet voice
And they went across the world

Fame and wealth soon followed
For a tune no one could mimic
But the liar now twisted words
The tune strung by the lyrics

Twisted between poetry to attract
And lies meant to beguile
From his throat the tune refused to rise
But choked him on his bile

Two Sentence Stories (part 19)

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Capgras syndrome, Dr Miller told me, was responsible for my conviction that people in my life had been replaced by copies. He claimed he told me that last session, but that Dr Miller has a mole on his other hand.

The housewife held the door open as smiling man entered to demonstrate his new cleaning solution. He endorsed the product, having seen how easily it removed the bloodstains left by its original salesman so recently from his own carpet.

While watching TV, the couple were interrupted by a child’s voice requesting a glass of water be brought upstairs. Approaching the front door, the childless couple froze when the same voice asked them to come outside.

Updates and Promises

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Starting tomorrow I’ll take up daily writing for October.

It’s been busy since my last post. I’ve had two weddings (same spouse, different hemispheres). I’ve moved into our first home. I’ve experienced unquantifiable loss from the death of a loved one.

I intend to write again. I can’t promise quality, but I can promise consistency.

See you tomorrow

The Perfect Day

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It had been the perfect day.

Her white dress was immaculately pressed and fit perfectly. Her hair and makeup were exactly as she had envisioned. The cars were on time and her bridal party followed their steps precisely as she had instructed.

The groom as well-dressed in the suit she had selected, and he repeated the vows she had chosen. She was proud to be his wife and as they travelled to the reception venue, she thought that everything would go just as smoothly as the ceremony.

Everything went according to plan, right up until the cake cutting. She had told him she would not abide him trying to shove cake into her face. He had told her he understood. He had promised he would not. But in that moment, egged on by relatives, he dabbed it on her nose.

It had been the perfect day until that moment. Ever the perfect bride, she had laughed and excused herself to clean up.

Later that night, in their honeymoon suite, she used strips torn from her once-pristine dress to wipe up the mess. Their honeymoon luggage was now packed full to bursting, its original contents placed in the rubbish bags the concierge had brought up. She hoped that the bags lining the inside of the luggage would not leak. Blood was so hard to clean.

She had been so close this time. She was certain that the next time it would be perfect.