photo by Neslihan Gunaydin
Gwen knocks on Alex’s door. He’s probably at the hospital. She could go to A&E, the cut was an accident – she’d been careless with the secateurs.
‘Where are you? Need patching-up.’
She hears his phone beep inside. She knocks again, almost taking down the door.
‘It had better be a matter of life and death. I’ve covered for a colleague and haven’t slept in thirty-six hours.’
He’s wearing nothing but shorts;
Gwen’s thoughts take a decidedly dirty turn. Usually, she’s in too much pain to notice how fit Alex is.
‘So, what is it this time?’
Yes, what’s it again?
Click here for all previous instalments of the Saturday Serial.
Sláinte! (c) Sonya, 2008
and witness the madness
of writing the words
Poems don’t have to make sense, right? I like the sound of this – I suppose it’ll have to be enough. I had to get St. Paddy’s Day out of my system early, but it may still make an appearance for
photo by Mayur Gala
Their encounter, intense but
left him hoping for another meeting.
But she disappeared
which meant, he feared,
his shattered heart might stop beating.
How can this thing
Smaller than the eye can see
Knock me off my feet?
Kiddo had norovirus over the weekend and now –
inevitably – I’ve got it. This is the first time today I felt capable of making the long, arduous journey to the laptop (hooray for en-suite bathrooms…). I know there’s a lot of comments and I need to add links to the round-up, but not today. Today I’ll try to survive. Wish me luck.
photo by Crew
she misses how real life
snags and unravels.
photo by Lyndsey Burk
I do remember; every crappy little thing and how they’ve gained critical mass to come to define me. Everybody thinks I’m the jerk who created this situation. They’re not wrong.
The accident was an accident. I didn’t look for that kind of cop-out. But I’m good at grasping an opportunity when one presents itself.
The therapist shows me a picture of my wife.
‘She looks nice. Do I know her?’
‘Doesn’t she trigger anything?’
Late-night shouting matches, the ultimatum I thought was a scare tactic, her filing for divorce.
I do remember everything.
make everybody believe otherwise.
photo by Trần Quốc Dương
Like the independent girl my mother raised me to become, I’m
eager to take the next step – because why wait? –
and so I pop the question.
please say yes
photo by Nousnou Iwasaki
It’s 3:55am. The car park light sways in the gusting wind and makes shadows dance on the bedroom wall. Is the moon waxing or waning? Difficult to see without glasses.
I went for a run in the afternoon, for crying out loud. I should be sleeping like a baby.
photo via Public Domain Images
I remember the day I chucked my Chucks.
They had holes in the soles, the fabric’d worn so thin they should have fallen apart. Neither made me want to part with them.
It took Mum to come into my room and put her foot down.
‘Enough is enough,’ she said, ‘those shoes of yours are a disgrace.’
‘You don’t understand what they mean to me – they’re part of my identity.’
‘I understand better than you think. Let me show you something.’
In a box in the attic, her own Chucks, worn to pieces, lovingly wrapped in tissue paper.
What, it’s already
week 4 of FFfPP? How time flies…
photo by Krista Mangulsone
The video is so pixelated it’s impossible to tell if this is us or not. I know it isn’t. Fake me’s voice might fool everyone else, it’s not fooling me.
I loathe the sound of my own voice. I hate film premieres when I’m forced to sit through my latest blockbuster and pretend I enjoy it.
Whoever’s behind the tape, they know about the affair. Still, these are actors playing other actors in a sterile hotel room. They’re not us. Her voice doesn’t grate on me like my own does.
I smile at the journo.
‘It’s a fake.’
This is one of these stories I suspect may be too long to fit into 100 words. What do you think?