the memory of his words

The memory of his words blaze and incinerate a brand in my heart. "It doesn't matter how long we stay together because we are growing with each other right now. The gifts you give to me and that I give to you will last the rest of our lives, that say you'll always be a part of me and I'll always be a part of you." Something like that. They seemed so positive, warm, life-affirming at the the time. Now scars seething tar into the cogs of my compassion, grinding their machinations to a halt.

Reverse Temporal Engineering by Antony Sammeroff

A scratch night comedy in one act for two actors.
Acknowledgements to Finn Townsley and Gareth K. Vile.

Cast:
TOM. An obnoxious self-described possibilitarian, probably in his early to mid-twenties.
STU. Another character who is more obnoxious than Tom.

Reverse Temporal Engineering.

Tom enters the stage from one side speaking on his mobile phone.
TOM [speaking into his mobile]. Alright man? ... Yeah I'm at my parent’s house... Where are you?... Alright cool that's near mine. 
Stu enters from the other side of the stage, speaking into his phone, they are in different locations.
STU [speaking into his mobile]. Are you coming out tonight?
TOM. I would but I left my wallet in my flat so I'm waiting on my dad coming home and giving me a lift, but he's on night shift.
STU. Damn that sucks.
TOM. Yeah I know. It’s shit.
STU. It’s shitter than shit. It’s like - a turd sandwich with shit as the bread.
TOM. You’re a classy guy. Can you not just conjure up my wallet since you're near mine and I'll walk into town and meet you there?
STU. Well uhm... Maybe I could do that, if I dunno, I had your freaking keys.
TOM. Teleport?
STU. Not invented yet. Why are you at your parent’s house anyway gaylord?
TOM. Well my new brother in law was visiting.
STU. Haaaaa he's bangin' your sister.
TOM. Ummm… yeah. And?
STU. Well, it’s more than you're getting.
TOM. It is more than I'm getting from my sister... not quite as much as I'm getting from your mum.
STU. Touché good sir, I consider myself bested. I assume by your response you like him then?
TOM. Like him how? I'm afraid anything I say will just be construed as an excuse to make a gay joke.
STU. Probably. Well, just like, since you’re, you know, cool with him… how should I put this sensitively?… Ramming? Hm, no. How about ploughing? No, let’s go with Ramming, I like Ramming - original and best. Since you’re cool with him Ramming your sister every night - takin’ that cute little ass to town - I’m supposing you get on with him.
TOM. Such a way with words! I think you managed to make your point really clear there. What a talent. Yeah I get on with him great! Better than with my sister actually hahaha.
STU. Why’s that?
TOM. Well he smokes for one thing, and she doesn't, so we can go out for a fag.
STU. Ah true, that does make him the better human being.
TOM. Indeed.
STU. So when will I catch you? The weekend?
TOM. Balls to that, I’m coming out.
STU. …Of the closet, you surely mean. By the time you walk to yours and then back into town…
TOM. Teleport?
Stu checks his watch.
STU. Noooope… still not invented yet, try again in another half an hour.
TOM. Do you think teleportation will run on the principle of moving particles through a quantum wormhole to another location and reassembling them? or more like a copy and paste mechanism, where the model is molecularly replicated, but the copy is dispatched during the integral process?
STU. Don’t care. Why?
TOM. Well supposing I’m meant to be in two places at once, I could just teleport myself but conveniently forget to “cut” before I “paste” and then there would be two of me.
STU. Yah, but the real you wouldn’t even essentially be at both meetings, so you’d have no memory whatsoever of one of the events. And then what would you do with the copy afterwards? You can’t just Edit/Undo after you control/c control/v. That would be a bit inconvenient to explain away.
TOM. Hmmm yeah I guess you’re right. Maybe he would become unstable and break down of his own volition after filling me in on the details, or maybe his organs could be harvested for science.
STU. No, no, that’s a sentient life form! You’d have protests from People for the Ethical Treatment of Clones.
TOM. Damn those ultraliberal hippies at PECA.
STU. You only want two of you so you can suck twice as much cock as you normally do anyway. To be honest, you’d be better off Reverse Temporal Engineering it.
TOM. What, you mean sucking off one cock, and then going back in time afterwards to suck off another one so that I didn’t have to miss out on any of the juicy cock-sucking opportunities presented to me?
STU. Sure. I actually just meant Reverse Temporal Engineering it so you could be at both meetings at the same time and remember, but your admission of love for the cock was equally satisfying.
TOM. More satisfying, surely?
STU. Indeed.
TOM. How much more satisfying?
STU. Seven. Seven times more satisfying.
TOM. And yet, still not as satisfying as your mums vagiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.
STU. Damn! Struck by my own sword. You’d also age faster in subjective time while sucking on all those cocks, or being at each of those meetings.
TOM. That’s right actually - but that’s not the only risk. At the second event you could refer to something that happened at the first event which hadn't happened yet subjective to everyone else and confuse people, then – bam! – quantum time paradox, just like that! And the universe collapses in on itself.
STU. That I could deal with, it's all the bullshit you’re talking that troubles me-
TOM. Damn! You really know you lack charisma when a microcosmic temporal contradiction bringing forth the immanent annihilation of the universe along the axes of both time and space is preferable to what is presently occurring in subjective...
STU. Yeah, all that crap would be a relief!
TOM. Ok... I have an idea... Ask behind the bar if your friend left his keys for you.
STU. What are you talking about?
TOM. Look I'm 100% sure this Might work.
STU. Oh you're certain it'll work maybe?'
TOM. Approximately.
STU. On average.
TOM. As a distinct non-zero possibility. In a multiverse all distinct non-zero possibilities become actualities.
STU. In an infinite universe everything that can exist must exist.
TOM. Look, that’s pub talk. Save it for the pub.
STU. But, you're not coming out to the pub because you were at your parents’ house ramming your gay brother-in-law and you left your wallet in your flat.
TOM. Ask behind the bar if my keys are there.
STU. And how exactly do you expect this to work?'
TOM. Well let's see, I saw it in a movie once.
STU. Saw what in a movie?
TOM. This. Teleport isn't invented yet.
STU. Yes, I said that. Twice in fact.
TOM. But, if time travel is invented within my lifetime I can plausibly reverse-temporal engineer things so my keys are left behind the bar for you.
STU. O…kayay... But first - Is the movie you saw this in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure?
TOM. Fuck the shut up!
STU. Don't you mean...
TOM [interrupting]. Whatever!
STU. But was it though?'
TOM. Obviously. But that's besides the point.
STU. I think that is the point exactly. I think the point is you're taking your queues from a sci-fi-teenage-comedy genre-confused mash up.
TOM. Like Biodome.
STU. What the fuck is Biodome?
TOM. Watch it and see.
STU. You're a dick.
TOM. Yeah, but if you never watch it you’ll never know.
STU. If a man is alone at his parents’ house and no one has a clue what the fuck he’s talking about, will he shut the fuck up?
TOM. Get my keys.
Stu moves to the side to address the barman.
STU [to the wings]. Here! Mate!...
Stu produces a set of keys from the wings.
STU. ‘kin ‘ell! He had your keys!
TOM. See, told you.
STU. ‘the fuck dude?
TOM. ‘the fuck indeed. See, I’m a possibilitarian.
STU. You're a retard. Why didn't you just reverse temporal engineer the keys into your parent’s house?
TOM. Never thought of that.
STU. That’s because you're a retard.
TOM. Not too retarded to do this.
The keys disappear from Stu’s hand or person.
STU. 'kin ell where did they go?
TOM [producing the keys from his pocket and jangling them]. Right here.
STU. Jesus Christ that's awesome!
TOM. Ask the barman for the drink I got you.
STU [addressing the barman again]. Here! Mate!...
Stu produces a pint from the side of the stage.
STU. ‘The fuck dude!
TOM. Yeah you're totally getting in the next round.
STU. Except not I'm not because you're wallets still in your flat, and you're at your parent’s house, and I don't have your keys anymore to go and get it for you.
TOM. Dammit! I am a retard.
STU. I said it first.
TOM. Well, [Tom produces the wallet from his pocket] here it is now I suppose.
STU. You know, this is a very convoluted way to meet up under the circumstances.
TOM. Yeah you're right... We should sort that out.
Tom hangs up the phone and walks across to the other side of the stage to join Stu.
TOM. Hey man.
STU. Hey, Pint?
TOM. Fuck yeah.
They walk off towards the bar like best of friends.
END.

Do I know you?

-->

by Antony Sammeroff
A scratch night play in one act for one actor and one actress.

Do I know you?

April and Anthony enter from opposite sides of the stage as they draw close they catch eyes and think they know each other immediately, but then a moment of doubt creeps in.
ANTONY [with enthusiasm]. Hey!
APRIL [responding in kind]. Hey!
There is a moment of credulity
ANTONY [communicating with his hands].  I thought we…?
APRIL.  I thought we…
ANTONY.  But we don’t.
APRIL. No, we don’t…
ANTONY.  Well I’m Antony. [He presents his hand]
APRIL. I’m April…
They shake.
ANTONY.  So next time we will.
He smiles.
APRIL.  Next time we will.
They part.

not close enough for jazz

"Well ye'v really gone and done it this time son.

This time ye'v really gone an let me down.

Ye couldae ran off tae the circus...
     ...I wouldnae huv minded that much

Ye couldae married a catholic...
     ...I'd live

Christ! If only ye'd been GAY!

Bit naw,

You had tae join a jazz group...

Somehow ah alwayz knew ye'd turn out tae be a jazzer,
Ah alwayz knew ye'd disappoint me!

Your Maw is probably turning in her grave...

...she loved classical music.

None ay they blue notes.

Aeolian modes...

Phrygian Scales!

G major 7ths with a flattened 9th and an Augmented 5th!!!

Makes me sick tae ma stomach!

-> Am sorry da!

Naw! Jist... go...

Haven't ye done enough? With yer Miles Davis.

Oscar Peterson.

Ella Fitzgerald, Billy Holiday, Chett Baker... George Gershwin!!!

He wis a jew n' aw.

-> Ye seem tae know a lot about jazz da'

 Too much son! Too much!

I tried tae warn ye off!

I flirted ma'sel' wae jazz when I wis your age.

Ah didnae want ye tae make the same mistakes that ah made!

-> Bit da! Ah jist like jammin!

Enough!!!! I lost ma'sel' tae jazz wan too many times. Playin' in the flat key of the leading tone while the rest of the band was still in the tonic...

...that's dorian mode.

I'm no losin' ma first born son tae it as well.

Naw.

I huvnae goat a son.

Get oot...




...Come back when you're intae new age.

Baloney

A harrowed businessman once came into his therapists’ office after being bothered again and again by a reoccurring dream. Even although he’d been under analysis for a couple of months he couldn’t really tell you that he’d fully engaged with the treatment if he was to be honest. Deep down he was convinced that even seeing a shrink was a load of old baloney that couldn’t really help him with any matters pertaining to the real world, but it was a good opportunity to vent his spleen to someone who would have to listen and give his undivided attention, because he was being paid to. Meanwhile his life was crashing in around him, and getting progressively worse, which only went to prove that psychoanalysis was dated nonsense believed only by socialist professors in ivory towers who had never even seen the reality of the rat race first hand.

“You think I got problems, Doc? Let me tell you, even my ulcers got ulcers! My business is about to hit the rocks, my wife has insisted on separation and won’t even take my calls! Soon I’ll be getting the divorce papers through, heck that’s all I need! If I can’t get the cash together, and soon, I’m going to have to declare bankruptcy and lose the house to boot! I swear to god I’ll end up in hospital with another bypass. ‘Course I got problems. What do you expect me to do?”

This dream, however… he found it so irksome to be bothered by it night after night that he found himself turning up with a new willingness to do just about whatever his Freudian friend might ask of him. The hell with it, he didn’t have that much further to fall after all.

“I’m interested in knowing how often you’ve been having this dream? Or variations on the same dream?”

“It’s the same dream Doc! And I have it every night! Almost every night without fail! The only night I think I didn’t have it was when I was staying over at my mistress’ place. Does that mean anything?”

“Hm, I don’t know. How is your relationship with your girlfriend these days? Better than with your wife I assume?” he added with a sardonic smile befitting an analyst.

“I dunno to be honest. I just don’t think I excite her the way I used to, if you know what I mean. It’s ok I guess. Just no real verve.”

“I see, and is there anything else going on? It seems there’s a little something else playing on your mind, maybe you could let me in on the full story.”

“What, are you a mind reader? Ok, I just keep on thinking about how unfair all this is on my son. He’s only 8 years old and he deserves a good father. With a good strong marriage, and a good strong business to go into. Or at least sell it if he likes. I want to be able to give him an education, you know? Everything I went without. He’s the innocent victim here that’s what really gets to me.”

“I understand. You feel bad for yourself, but you can handle that because so far as you see it you’re the one who made the mess. Same goes for your wife, she’s an adult woman after all. It’s your son you feel worried about because he didn’t have any hand in creating these problems. Right?”

“Yeah! Right! Exactly! You know what Doc? You ain’t too bad! What about my dream though?”

“I’m just coming to that. Let’s go over it again. You keep seeing these little symbols, almost like items in a computer game. One is a small pot of gold. One two short pieces of string. Then there are two hands, one thumb up, the other thumb down. There is also a broken walking stick with a snake for a head, an old, discarded baseball bat and ball, and an olive branch with only one olive and three leaves on it. Is that right?”

“You got it Doc! Can’t make heads or tails of it neither. What do you say?”

“Now look, usually I’d interpret the dream for you, but I want to take a different approach, let me know what you think…”

“So you ain’t gonna make sense of it at all?”

“I think this will be much more effective.”

“Lay it on me.”

“I’m going to write you a doctor’s note and I want you to cut your work hours down to a minimum this week. Especially Monday through Wednesday. Only take absolutely essential calls. Delegate everything else to your secretary, get another one if you have to. I want you to spend time at home, and I want you to spend as much as you can doing the following exercises, here write this down.” The doctor scrambled to hand him a pen and notepad.

“Monday: I want you to visualise at least three big pots of gold, spend as much of the day as you can recreating the dream in your head but this time with these great big pots of gold instead of the tiny one you originally saw.

Tuesday: I want you to keep seeing the dream as much as you can, all day, but replace the two short bits of string with a big long braid that stretches on into the distance. If you see gold also, make sure it’s still great big pots and not the small one you saw at first, and I want you to continue in this fashion.

On Wednesday, I want you to see two hands shaking.

On Thursday I want you to see  that walking stick good as new, in fact turn it into some fancy diamond-encrusted sceptre if you want, go nuts.

On Friday I’d like you to picture a full-sized baseball field, with lots of enthusiastic people playing on it and having a great time.

Finally on Saturday, spend the day visualising a great big thriving olive tree. Then on Sunday you can come back in and tell me how you got on.”

“Doc, you gotta be kidding me! I need your help here! Can’t you see my life is falling apart? How is cutting work to think of cute pictures gonna solve me any problems? I gotta work hard at this. Cut me some slack! All I want to know is what this crazy dream is all about, and you want me to sit back and do nothing but think of cartoons?”

“Listen, this is serious work, I want you to give it a real shot. Don’t deny yourself any important leisure activities, but spend as much time as possible doing as I’ve asked you. If you try this out and it doesn’t work then next week we can take a more active approach. But I want you to give it your everything. Agreed?”

“Alright I’ll give it a shot, but I got to tell you, I’m pretty sceptical.”

“Put your scepticism aside for me, just for this week. I want you to engage with the process fully. Don’t let either of us down now.”

“Alright, alright already! Jeez you sound just like my mother. I’ll see you next week, ma.”

“See you next week.”

And with that the business man left.

A week later he returned to therapy, visibly glowing. He looked five if not ten years younger and there was a slight spring in his step as he entered the office.

“Doc, I don't know what you've done or how you’ve done it but I really gotta hand it to ya, things are changing in my life big time! I did what you said and didn’t go into the office until Thursday, just worked from home, then I got the important phone call and I'm just about to sign this great deal with another company. This could really save my ass! I spoke to my wife on Wednesday night and she’s called off the divorce, we're actually speaking to each other properly for the first time in years and she wants to work things out. I was even going to lose my mistress, but I took her out Friday night and the sex was so incredible I didn't have the heart to break it off in the morning. I checked my blood pressure today and it’s all back in the green zone. But best of all, you gotta hear this! Yesterday, instead of going out to playing golf with my buddies, I played my son at baseball. I was inspired by the big pitch that cropped up in my dream. Like in the movie, huh? ‘If you build it they will come’? Did I mention that? That everything in the dream changed around like you said? Well, the boy and I, we had an amazing heart to heart and I got to be completely honest with him about everything that’s been going on, and my feelings and all that crap, y’know? He’s such a bright kid, he understood everything I said and let me know how he was feeling about everything too, I could hardly believe he’s only eight! Well I feel like we’re best friends now, not just family, what’s family huh? Having sex with each other was just about the last good turn my parents ever done me. So anyway, enough already, I came home and did your visualisations all evening until I fell asleep and I woke up this morning feeling great. There’s only one thing that’s still driving me crazy. What did all that stuff in the dream mean, and why all these pictures? You gotta tell me what you done Doc, you gotta tell me what it all means?”

The analyst took the liberty of a long pause to stroke his beard.

“Well…” he laboured, “To be honest I didn’t really do any of the work. You interpreted the dream for me yourself. You see, the tiny pot of gold represented your attitude towards money. You just couldn’t ever see there being enough of it. So I got you to imagine an abundance of gold. Then you saw two separate pieces of string, and I figured it matched your whole outlook on your marriage. So I simply got you to braid them together into a long enduring tie that stretched out into the future with three strands: one for you, one for your wife, and one for your son. Next you told me how worried you were about your business: you saw one thumb up and one thumb down. You couldn’t see your clients agreeing on deals, so I got you to replace the picture with a handshake to make closing deal possible in your minds eye. Then there was the broken stick. I don’t think we need to say anything about this broken stick, Freud would have a field day. The really rather pathetic olive branch in your dream represented your health, so I got you to replace it with a vibrant tree, and finally that left the old, discarded baseball bat and ball. You wanted to invest more in your relationship with your son, so I got you to visualise a whole baseball field complete with a spirited game in progress. So, my fine analysand. What do you think?”

“Doc,” the client responded with a sardonic smile befitting an analysand, “What a load of old baloney! I think you oughtta see a shrink!”

With that he left the office and the therapist never heard from him again.

(c) Antony Sammeroff,  21/07/12

Two Quarks Interact

A quark Interacts with her friend in a cafe, 'I'm so Down! I'm just too Weak to resist his Charm, he makes me Spin, I feel so Strange'
'Don't worry' her friend says, 'I know you've hit rock Bottom, but keep Strong, I'm sure you'll end Up on Top - take Charge - It's meant to be!'
'How do you know?'
'elementary, Particle, you're Composites.'





dedicated to Finn Townsley


21-09-12 update
A quark Interacts with her friend in a cafe, 'I'm so Down! I'm just too Weak to resist his Charm, he makes me Spin and I feel so Strange! How did I ever get so Entangled?'
'Don't worry' her friend says, 'I know you've hit rock Bottom, but keep Strong, I'm sure you'll end Up on Top - take Charge - It's meant to be!'
'How do you know?'
'Elementary, Particle, you're Composites.'

If you want a life changing experience try living for a change...

I get up between eight in the morning and one in the afternoon. There's no real routine to it, and it doesn’t much matter to be to be honest because I know no matter what time I get up I won't feel human until about six or eight in the evening. Days are a waste of time. It's the night when things really start to happen for me.

Some evenings I might think that because I have no lectures the next day I can use the time to get some writing done. There's no sense in it though, because in reality without something to prompt me to get out of bed and get dressed I'm going to lie there listening to podcasts or watching videos on YouTube. Like I said, days are time to waste.

Around six, as if on cue, I start feeling a little more awake. I have some dinner. I like cooking but I never make anything elaborate since I don't have a girlfriend to impress at the moment and my flatmate is always out. Soon I'll boil the kettle, pour a nice cup of coffee and take it out back for a cigarette which I never smoke all of because I'm restless and keen to get back inside and do things. My mind is busy.

Now I'm ready to write. Well, I think I am. Actually I have about 60 emails (mostly facebook notifications) to get through first, and some of them contain video attachments that I want to watch. I work through my emails one by one while listening to the songs people have posted on groups I'm a part, partly in case there’s anything I might like to hear more of, but mostly to justify the use of time. A slight moment of nihilism permeates when I see that I've reduced my inbox to zero new emails...

...Where was I?

Oh yes. This play. I want to finish it, I just... I think it's got real potential, but actually there is something holding me back. You see there are a lot of big gaps. I have plenty of beginning, a nice amount of end, and too many bits of middle which are roughly in chronological order but resemble nothing approaching the title of narrative... I just don't know that I can piece this jigsaw together, and the thought that I'll do it wrong scares me to death. So I just read what I've got so far and make a couple of tweaks.

It seems like nothing but something inside me is changing... You see now I've got kind of hooked on fixing these little things, and I'm interested in some of that disparate dialogue I was talking about which I've come to. I rearrange it into a semblance of a conversation that could perhaps, potentially, one day, possibly be spoken by someone on a stage somewhere with some kind of credibility. And it links perfectly into the next bit - Hey! That looks pretty good! I'm proud of this!

What else can I fix?

As I go about the business of tidying things up here and there new ideas start popping into my head. They fit really nicely with what I've got so far, in fact, on one level I feel like I'm not quite smart enough to have come up with some of these little gems myself. I didn't realise the characters had the quirks I'm exploiting, but actually if you read it closely, you'll see that they're hinted at all along. They were there the whole time.

I'm enjoying myself now. I really want to make this work! I realise that if I don't like the way something turns out I can always change it, or load a backup. I'm still not sure of myself but I'm just going to let it evolve as though it were out of my hands, because, in a way, it is.

I've got to the point of ecstasy. The new ideas are so pleasing to me. They've surpassed my expectations, taking surprising turns I never could have imagined, that work in so synchronistically that I feel much like the star in a movie with no script, acting simply for my own entertainment. I'm not sure I've ever been quite so happy as when I'm being creative, but my eyes are getting tired. I'm just about ready to go to sleep, so I put the finishing touches on the paragraph I'm on, and shut down the computer. I'm certain I'll jump straight out of bed in a few short hours eager to continue exactly where I left off, so I close down the top, and switch off at the mains.

I fall into the throws of my blankets at 4am, transformed.

I get up between eight in the morning and one in the afternoon. There's no real routine to it, and it doesn’t much matter to be to be honest because I know no matter what time I get up I won't feel human until about six or eight in the evening.

the Mona Lisa

I talk to the Mona Lisa sometimes.

It's not that I'm mad or crazy or insane or anything like that, it's just...
 ...I get lonely walking through these corridors sometimes.

"We'll always have Paris" the movie says.
There's a whole world out there! Romanticised.
And here I am on my own, again. Night after night. Rinse, repeat, "Play it Again Sam."

But the Mona Lisa's always there. Smiling.
Well, almost smiling.

Why don't I speak to any other pictures? you might ask.
Well, to be honest, I just can't imagine any of the others speaking back!

What would a  Sézanne even say? "I've got a headache?"
You can't talk to a Picasso, because his mouth's in the wrong place.
And I wouldn't even try my luck with the cubists or any of that other late-modern junk.

No, No, the Mona Lisa is the only girl for me.

"Vincent," she calls softly "Vincent..."

"...Come and talk to me."

Bits and pieces of creative writing

It was that one thread emerging from under the seam. That one damned thread. Pull at it and the whole garment would surely wave up all rugged. Haggard. Snap it off entirely and it would leave a subtle line a third on a inch thick held taught, so out of place in its surroundsings. So very out of place. That one damned thread.


I never noticed until I finished the cigarette I rolled with such haste to spare my hands, but my breath proffered its own tiny contribution to the thickness of the fog.


The walls will remember the times we share here. The empty space the couch left marks an eliptical eclipse in the dust. The paper, what's left of it, hangs off those bear walls in tatters, but there will be new paper soon, when we are far away, and the walls will remember.


And I'm sitting touching my brow, ouching it agains and again and no it can't be. That one silver hair I tore from my receding hairline. Sylvia said she likes grey hair. That it's charming. What does she know? She can't see my face turn red or feel my hands go clammy. One silver hair sparking off a chair reaction.


Reilly never raised his voice but his tone turned swift and daggered. His shoulders spread out wide from his chest, his eyes lain themselves bare, wide open - his pupuls dialated, two black moons the closest in their orbit to earth. Me.

Snow

Last night was a success.

The Snow fell gently into the night and by the morning covered the tired pavements in a shiny fur coat, glistening and fresh. Coming home on a december Sunday, sheepish to offend its sanctity. Perfection.

The building is alive. A buzzing hive of familial affairs in the run up to Christmas, and I, in own cocoon, boil a ketle on the hob to wake me from my partial slumber. Mmm the coffee tastes bitter.

What will I write today?

100 word story - 1

I brought out the best in you and you the worst in me!

Well you always liked it when I acted cocky and aloof, didn’t you? You seemed to find it sexy.

I found you most attractive when you showed your virtuous side by doing something sweet. A smile would creep across my face and a sigh wrapped itself around my heart.

So I’d appeal to you by appearing the perfect saint, and you’d appeal to me by acting sexy and aloof, and we could never find the right meeting of hearts.

Funny that, isn’t it?

--------


This submitted to the 100 Word Story Competition at Readers Digest
Thinking of submitting another one.

My First Memory (in three forms)

Free form
The sun shone in through the windown pane in the kitchen, gleaming in my eyes. It's warmth basked me in a light that penetrated my closed eyelids with a glowing red, cradling me as I repose on the kitchen floor, leaning back upon my hands.

I was a alive, it dawned upon me like the day, thriling, warm.

Before that moment it seemed I had no past and the future was a mysterious delight that stretched into endless days of summer.

I was alive.

Poem
The sun shone in through my window
Brilliant in my eyes
The kitchen

Basken in light
Glowing red
Penertrated, through shaded eyelids

Gently cradled,
Repose upon the floor
Leaning back upon my hands

I was alive

It dawned upone me like the day
Thrilling, warm
Before that moment I had no past

The future
Mysterious
A deight that stretched
Into endless days of summer

I was alive

Haiku
Baskin in the light
Shining through my window pane
Yes, I was alive

Daring yet to dream
Into endless summer days
Seems I had no past

The Pragmatist

I consider myself a pragmatist. I wouldn’t say I’m in any way an immoral person, I mean, I’m not the kind of guy who would harm someone for the sake of it, I’m not a sadist. So I blackmailed a gullible politician. A crooked one at that. It’s not something my conscience is going to eat at me for because I don’t see it as a moral issue, it’s a matter of pragmatism. He had the power to get what I need, and he was foolish enough to believe I was capable of what I threatened, so a transaction took place. Do you have pangs of moral conscience buying something that will benefit you in a half price sale? Of course not! Why should you?

I have no use for God. Well, I’m not saying definitively that it’s impossible that the universe has a creator, it’s just that if it does he she or it is really rather unconcerned with my affairs. I have no use for him so I will spare you the other clichés alternatively proposing that he just has a weird sense of humour or is away on sabbatical. Maybe he’s just a pragmatist too. I have no time for philosophy.

I believe in science. Well, as far as anyone really believes in science, which is to say that I believe what suits me and interpret what happens to me in a way that supports that worldview while making a concerted effort to avoid evidence which contradicts my biases. See? I’m a pragmatist.

There’s a reason why Tories read the Telegraph and Lefties read the Guardian.

Maybe it’s fairer to say I believe in success. Look at me though, I’m successful!

The bottom line is, I’m not actually in the habit of stepping over people to get what I want. Most of the time all I do is sense what people expect and serve it up for them. I provide a service, like supply and demand. Yeah! It’s just like responding to market forces!

It just so happens that most people actually expect calamity, disaster, and, well, being fucked for a buck, if you’ll pardon the French. Who am I to judge? I’m just pointing out the chink in other peoples armour…
With the sword they put in my hand.

It’s not rocket science, you just need to pay attention. You see, most people are sleep walking - they talk when they should be listening – and they’re self absorbed, so they miss absolutely everything. I don’t miss anything. That’s why I’m a pragmatist.

It’s not a gift or a talent, it’s a discipline to be highly developed. If you’re busy thinking of what you’re going to say next time it’s your shot I guarantee you’re missing 99% of the information that is being communicated to you. People fail to use their eyes, so they stumble around bumping into on another until one of them falls off the edge of a cliff. And sometimes that’s where I come in. If it wasn’t me it would be someone else. Like I said, I’m a pragmatist.

She...

She's always there for me,
She cheers me up whenever I'm in a bad mood,
She'd never cheat on me or break my heart,
She never lies or goes in a huff,
I can hang out with her for as long as I want and she never gets bored or tired of me at all...
...And if I don't feel in the mood to hang out with her she's not so clingy that she'd take it personally or get upset...

She is, of course, my piano :)

---

See Also:  A Musical Poem