0004 | fluff

A tiny scraping sound coming from the ground. I stop, take my weight on one leg and examine the underside of my shoe, expecting to find a leaf or paper wrapper caught between the ridges of the patterned grip, but there is nothing. I start off again and now the sound is gone and its memory evaporates almost instantly too and I can recall only a blunder of mind or ear. It’s cold and my naked hands have no choice but to seek warmth, and so it is that both find shelter and industry: picking at lint from the insides of my coat pockets. Each one seems to harvest an almighty store of it. To tease it out from the…

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0003 | the orange cup

The orange plastic cup into which my father used to piss sat in the windowed recess in the kitchen of the house that was the first place I ever called home. In that same kitchen: a second orange plastic cup, one used for drinking from. The drinking cup hung from the limb of a pine mug tree. The piss cup sat in its alcove. Each cup defined for use by its station. Twin vessels: one to piss into, one to drink from. One to be filled for use, one to be emptied. Functioning and malfunctioning, the kitchen was but one broken room connected to another broken room, the one in which my father laid, broken. Broken. That first orange cup,…

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0002 | spinning coins

The fifty hits the floor awkwardly, but its briefly accelerating metal form transfixes her. I’m crouched next to her, my face a breath away from her face, the clumsy square edges of the coin clanking below. Whilst I watch her, her own gaze tracks the coin to the skirting at the far wall where it spits back from the board and collapses. A little smile kicks into life on her face, which I reciprocate, because it is a smile intended for her father, to acknowledge this small, ephemeral gift of glistening silver. I walk over and retrieve the coin. I grip it tight and strike it hard against a soft belly of thumb. This indisciplined jolt jerks the coin violently,…

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0001 | clouds

On the plane, thirty-two thousand feet clear of the everyday, I slip my hand underneath my wife’s hand, wrap a bandage of fingers around her fingers, and tell her that I love her. Not that she hears it, for it is not audible, not spoken. There are so many moments of complacency and distraction between two people, so many demands on the individual parts of body and soul. This is the person who engages harmoniously with all of those separate components. This seems as good a definition of love as any that I know. I love you. How that phrase has become marred by life in all its forms. Bad literature. The tyrannies of television. The people that meet, the…

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