Flash, nonsense, poetry

Haïkus of a failure

 

 

#3
oh in ten years time
you might very surely be
the love of my life

or the dream i never chased

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Flash, fragments

Rider of the lost art

It wasn’t until nine that day that they understood what had been going on. The people at the party seemed to be entertaining themselves enough for Maria to leave for a while. They were laughing and dancing and jumping all around, and for a fleeting moment she feared the whole floor would crumble and they would all fall down and die. Nothing of the sort happened, but a bunch of people were still missing. Or rather, they had failed to show up. Maria was known for throwing the biggest and baddest parties in town, she shouldn’t feel insulted by his absence, but somehow, she did. They’d met in a bar a few weeks ago, quite randomly. He had this weird look on his face, the puppy dog eyes she called it days after they had begun chatting. He wore sideburns and that gave him a seventies look she rather enjoyed. He looked like a huge teddy bear, she liked that too. He wasn’t much of a talker, but for some mysterious reason, she enjoyed his company. And when she had invited him, his shy smile seemed to mean yes, I will come and kiss you under some carefully placed mistletoe. But it was nine, and he was still missing. Continue reading

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Flash, fragments

Seasons in the abyss

The headlines read : “world peace at stake again”.
We had no idea what it meant, except for the fact that we had to wear the uniform a little bit longer. Duty had been replaced by necessity, and war had become some sort of strange routine. I for one lost count of all the people that had fallen. There was blood on my hand, almost too much to contemplate. But they never said anything but congratulations, you did what was required, what we expected of you. You’re a good fellow, captain citizen, general respectful, mister everything’s-in-order. We all laughed about it for a long time, but deep down we knew we had been screwed. Life screws you once, and then they get to you. Endless screwing, nights spent screaming in pain and agony. Continue reading

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Flash, fragments

Love is a dog from hell

“This is not a warning, Oliver,” she warned him.
He didn’t answer. No one in the café paid attention, people mindlessly went on with their lives. He thought in a movie, things would have happened differently. The waiter would be black, he knew that was a bad thing to think, but he didn’t mean wrong. He never did, things came out wrong and he often got in trouble for it. That’s what it was. But in truth, people in Hollywood or wherever else try to do those things, they want to prove they’re doing their part in equality. Just try casting an african actor or actress for a major part every once in a while, that wouldn’t kill you now, would it? Continue reading

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Flash

If you see her, say hello

He yawned and got to the kitchen to get some coffee. Everyone still slept in the house, just as usual. The dishes were still there, dirty knives and forks here and there as if some tiny world war had been going on without his knowing. He grabbed a cup, poured himself some coffee and threw it all in the microwave. Bad habits. But his life was all about those. He yawned again and this time his jaw made an awfully frightening noise. He was getting old. There was no sense in denying it. That’s when it took him – the anxiety. The thought. Nothing came to him in a monstruous wave and hit him right away. Nothing. He had achieved nothing he had planned, had lived half the life he’d dreamed, had said half the things he’d felt. Jeffrey took the cup to the living room and almost dived into the sofa. He heard a noise coming from the door and immediately thought the cat had found out a spider. It usually plays with them, drags them everywhere, and inadvertently kills them while doing so. Jeffrey often joked life did the same to you. But the cat had nothing to do with the noise. A piece of paper had been slided under the door and Jeffrey stared at it, his heart pounding in his chest. Continue reading

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Nolt

La Petite Mort

We skipped work that Friday and directly went to old Aberdeen street. Number 42 still looked like crap and the funny thing was, anyone would tell you that it had always felt that way. There just was something about that street that felt awkward, eerie, and that even before Nolt settled there. And number 42 was the worst. The first thing you saw as you came in was that strangely shaped bush which reminded me of a chimera. I had no idea why or even where that came from, but it somehow seemed logical that a guy like him should end up in a place like that. And he never did take care of his place anyway.
We knocked on the door three times and Jimmy wiped the window to see if he could spot the old man passed out inside. Every six months or so, Nolt would serve us that trick. He’d disappear for a time, playing possum as he’d say, and then we would have to get him back on his two feet. He generally passed out from too much booze, and most of the time it had to do with some crap he had done way back when. That was how he dealt with stuff, and I’m guessing how a lot of people from his era did too. He drank and drank and drank, and somehow it made him believe things would turn out for the best the next day. And yet over the course of twenty plus years, he never learnt his lesson. All he had the next day was a terrible headache, the overwhelming sensation of dying and being born at the same time. They got it wrong when they called cumming La Petite Mort – getting hammered was what it meant. Continue reading

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