Missed Connections

Flash fiction for fickle folk.

Out of my left eye I see you waiting at the station. You’re on time, but the train is late, and you’re pacing. The seconds can’t tick by fast enough. There are places you need to be.

Out of my right eye I see him walking down the platform, with posture well rehearsed; an outer calm that belies inner worry. Be yourself but don’t get noticed. Can he get in to work and avoid balancing on the scales? Ma’at is hungry and Yahweh goads her on.

At first you think he’s attractive and your gaze quickens. But if something seems off, it is quickly forgotten as self-interest takes hold. Maybe he’ll notice how good you look if you stand just so. You’re a girl and he’s a boy so it’s only natural, right?

It’s a biting spring morning and you haven’t had enough coffee to deal with the others on the platform. Yahweh nestles into your soul and you wish, you long, to meet an angel. Something pure, devoid of the petty hang-ups and grievances of godless men.

The object of your attraction is looking up at the clouds, and his mind seems a million miles distant from the approaching train whistle. You get angered by a commuter brushing by, chewing loudly from a bag of greasy café food, and you start texting your friend. How rude some people are.

You almost miss the train, but the beautiful cloud-bound boy holds the door open, says, ‘Come on.’ You’re already bristly, and you notice it. His voice, too high in pitch. His clothes fitting slightly off, especially around the chest, his chin smooth and devoid of hair. He is far too old to be pre-puberty.

Words rise like soft, burning pumice. Unnatural. Disgusting. Liar. You were warned about people like him.

Your face starts to shift into brimstone as the crocodile god snaps him up on the scales, makes his heart heavier than a feather from your stony words.

Do you remember what you said to me when we both were young?

Today you met an angel. And you destroyed him.

—–

Many thanks to MJ Kobernus for your editing help!

volcano speaks

I made a hasty attempt at this wee Friday writing challence – of course with the theme being volcanoes I have added a tiny geological twist. It is heavily influenced by my first memories of being in a volcanic landscape (Vulcano, Sicily).

Here’s the original article:  http://my.telegraph.co.uk/theshortstoryclub/louiseatmyt/645/friday-challenge-the-volcano/

volcano speaks.

There’s a stratocone up ahead, swaddled in ash. There’s streets of puffed cumulus above. It’s hot but that’s offset by the fierce sporadic wind. You would imagine you’d be thinking ‘Isn’t my life strange?’ or ‘How amazing is it that I’m here?’ – but you’re not.

Emptiness of this kind doesn’t bring self-reflection, and you know this all too late, because it’s pulsing with another energy, an energy that at first seems alien but after a while its vivid colours start to seep into your own and you realise it is in fact a very, very ancient part of yourself.

A lava bomb riddled with holes – there’s a scientific word for that. The red, soft, rusted earth – there’s a scientific word for that, too. But at that moment the specifics fail you and you do nothing but sink into the picture. You’re not really aware of it and you won’t even realise it afterwards, forever describing it to people as an experience of otherness. What really happens is you become a part of it, and at the precise moment the earth opens out to you what you are really thinking is ‘How can there be so much to all this?’

The photo comes out bland; you wonder how you will convince people how alive this emptiness is.