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
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
I didn’t see it coming. She was standing there, in front of me, green eyes huge smile and all, and it struck me hard on the head, as if some baseball player had just taken a swing on me. Luckily for me, baseball had nothing to do in the equation, but I did take a pretty good shot from the guy behind me. I fell down in what seemed to be a single movement. I felt my body shiver and tighten at the same time, my legs unable to move. Someone laughed over my head, a high pitched cacophony. Continue reading
“After all these years, you’d think I woulda learned something.”
“Who, me? No, never. You a moron.”
“Thank you. Always nice to kick a man down.”
He necked his drink, and John poured him another one.
“What is it this time heh? Is it politics? Favoritism? Society as a whole?” John asked.
“You delicate flower you.”
He grinned heavily, enjoying the situation. Over the past twenty years, they’d come to develop this sort of push-your-buttons relationship. But they never allowed anybody else to do it. I knew I couldn’t, so I kept to myself and to my seat and watched the whole scene. John grabbed another bottle and put it on the bar. Walt didn’t move an inch. Continue reading
Oh boy. You know what? Someone recently came to me and asked, “why in the world are you still doing that?”
Now, I must concur, it is a relatively broad question, and a tough one to answer at that. But it was mostly aiming at the fact that I keep on writing and sending out lines out right into the webspace. Why do I keep doing that? I have absolutely no idea, I just do.
But they also pointed out, and rightfully I think, that having a better (ie more regular) online presence would help. The truth is, I can’t write all day, every day. Even if I wished to, I couldn’t. That’s not the way my brain works. However, it was explained to me that having a social media for people to keep tabs on whatever it is that I’m doing, writing, thinking, could be a good idea. I’m not sure about that, and I’m not sure about how to manage it all. But life’s too short not to have a facebook page, right?
So why don’t you come on out and join me? Let’s be friends, foes, drinking buddies, whatever.
Find me at https://www.facebook.com/jerkwithwifi/
They crossed the street, and turned left to the park. They then walked a little bit more and found a bench to sit on. There were only three people around, runners were vanishing in the wide open like tiny dancing spots of colors. They were sitting, not talking, just staring off in the distance, looking for something they would never find. The intangible. It was there somewhere, they knew it, I knew it, even the runners knew it. That is why they always keep on running. They might ignore it, but they run for the intangible. All the time; taking chances, gambling, doing everything they can to feel something, to escape some sort of self-imposed boredom. Continue reading