flee my all

It’s hard to believe but I used to be something. Not just one of your run of the mill stooges you’d step over in the street but a real somebody. I had it all; although not everything I had belonged rightfully to me. I took what I wanted with both hands, covering all I saw with gold but lacking in a substantial way any of the glory normally associated with these excesses. Living like a king means nothing if the peasants are still flinging shit at you. You would never see it, it was just a sense. That feeling of loyalty that is chained to absolute fear seemed to be veiled to thinly just for the sake of mocking, the underground resistance to prevalent in the streets to afford the title. A chain reaction that was not a forceful wave but more a conscious progression through the people as if it were a simultaneous realisation of a notion to the understanding of fact. At the daybreak they would have me by the neck from a tree, a slow jangling dance of the damned for them all to witness. I had hatched a plan of escape but it didn’t extend past the notion of running away. Details of how or where weren’t to play a part as options were limited to the airport or a shabbily constructed boat of unknown condition and the outlook grimly pointed towards short-lived freedom before an embarrassing capture. I figured “why not?” if you’ve got no chance may as well aim high. A spirited chase until daybreak got me clear of the town limits but dense bushland was my savoir. Just past the tree line I fell down a small ditch onto the invading militia.

Rigorous efforts to hurry demise

The stench of the halcyon days still clung to the feeble, those raised for the good life in the great times of old and yonder. A distant memory for those who used to be able to afford it. Now the thinning veil of society drapes across a skeletal husk of decency. Some are prospering greatly at this time of last drinks, the pretty and the simple grabbing all the advantage of the post apocalyptic pantomime. A pout and a wink all that’s needed to tip it in their favour. Any time past last drinks and you don’t even need the wink. A slight indication of a notion down that line of thinking will get you all the attention usually reserved for those hard at it. Why can’t we share a house with him? “He had never done similar with us” a response muddled up for appearance rather than reason or persecution. The fact a need had not existed prior was as of no concern. A decision that his fate was dyed in the wool, yet ours was one of rainbows and gold. A glistening oasis one had to clench with both hands, and drag into reality. It may exist just beyond the horizon, we must warn the others.

scapegoats sailing boats

The ship an upturned mess of ribs and boards. A bared back skeletal frame claiming its salvation from the sea by pounding the rocky shoreline with its unassailable carcass. People scattered in the water desperate to once again feel the ground beneath them while they kick and thrash at the sea that tries to reclaim them, tokens of the scuttle. A warning to all who should tempt the waves and a show of forth, wrath be the carnage that the deep waters are free to disperse, if the wind so allows. The lucky trudging off up the sandy bay into the arms of an ever embracing township. They were fools to think the enclosed cliffs were anything but there to kill them. But once again the ritualistic sacrifice of a ship full of idiots was generously shunted towards them; hope more than anything that this time was more than just different. Back to the local ale house to salt wounds and drown in a more pleasant manner, under the golden sway of ale and scotch. This was the way man was supposed to destroy himself, self loathing and self destruction with an upside. A reminder of why fateful journeys were planned and lost in a too frequent cycle to be considered even on par with foolish. The halcyon days had dwindled along with the stocks of this favourite of poisons. The town was running out of drink and the only known source was beyond the breakers. A land of barley and hops or so assumed. They cared not to dream of a distant place of beauty; everyone here was trying their hardest to forget where they already were. A time honoured tradition dyed in the wool of all that dwell within this cove. Isolated by the geometry of the valley that it fills and the general distain for ship building that it had built up through its lively history. A new face arrived amongst the last batch of survivors that had saved themselves from the waters. Under the salt and sand that crusted his clothes he appeared to be dressed like someone of note. The usual mob got hold of him though, accused of witch craft or alike, no one is allowed to just turn up in this town. Omens as they were of why the ship went down. A short fumbled inquiry led us to the fact he had actually caused the wreck, sailing a smaller boat directly into our flagships path. My amazement at his ability to pilot ship from foreign lands to not quite our shores amazed me but I was at odds with a town with a penchant for witch hunts, and this one was open and shit as he piled the evidence against himself with his own testimony. Tomorrow he would burn but tonight he was my guest. A fact I’d forgotten to have relayed to my wife. Why can’t we share this house with him? Purposefully overlooking the evidence that justified my lady’s opinions being yelled carelessly from the street. He could build a descent ship to get us all out of the corner we have backed ourselves into. My claims unsubstantiated and her a wily one with a penchant for an over enthusiastic pout he was banished to the barn. The argument I had such a tight clench on released and idealoligy turned to the wind he was left for the roughians to deal with after last drinks. I dare not break the news to him; he was probably still looking forward to having a tomorrow.

Winter is for me

Next to the window I draped myself wearily across my desk, the day had ground me down the tiniest bit, but that was enough to make me give up. My view out over the woodlands was bleak at best. The winter cold had crushed the life out of the trees leaving them leafless skeletal tangles littering the empty fields. I enjoy the cold of the season but it seems nothing else does. Everyone huddles inside creating confused unnatural mix of the unwary hiding from the lingering frosts, doorways and lobbies now jammed with people trying to draw their last few huffs of the artificial heat before bursting forth on the realty of the streets. Indoors becomes a claustrophobic maze of unmoving pedestrians, no real purpose to their step, just occupying space as long as it’s warm. The day finally comes to an end and I can escape the crush. The open air is gloriously harsh on the skin. A sense of the cold cobblestones rising through the soles of my well worn boots. The night is mine alone as I stroll the emptying mall, the lights of storefronts cast shadows across my path the outlines of the to and frow of the outlined shapes sealed behind their glass cages. Trapped by an invisible barrier of temperature deficit. I smile to myself and embrace a gift of winter.

Water bottle murder

From out of the blue a conjection of noise filled the small courtyard. I peered from my balcony to see what caused the resulting commotion but couldn’t ascertain any visual evidence of the fracas. The greens keeper’s voice filling the atmosphere with baffled cries of desperation. I ran down to offer what feeble assistance I could muster, I’m not very practical and anything beyond folding and stapling paper was above my expertise. Puffing and panting as I arrived by his side, exhausted by my descent of the multiple staircases I had just traversed. I was expecting torn limbs, and rivers of crimson to confront me, horrific sights of an arduous battle of flesh against machine. But the scene that confronted me was visually calm, like walking in on a radio play of all noise with no movement. Grabbing the groundskeeper by his shoulder I shook him lightly and demanded to know he was alright. For fortunate he was, but it was a bottle of water that had received the wrath of the mulching machine. Flinging sharded plastic into the hard gravelly surface of the courtyard emanating tiny crackles and pings as it struck the bluestone. I told him to get back to work and next time unless it’s a finger or more keep the noise down or there would be disciplinary action

The buisiness menu

Egg salad sandwich is the most horrific of all lunchtime options, yet I watch him purchase one every day. The stench seeping out of his skin’s every pore for the remaining hours of the day. On the odd special occasion he would bring in a tureen of garlic prawns which in effect created a force field around him. His office an impenetrable fortress of odour. He was either oblivious to the work conditions he was creating or this was a very clever ploy. No one would bother him from lunch onward; afternoons were his without disruption or deadline.
The favourite game in the office was to send in unknowing temps into take dictation. He loved to talk and often forgot the point of his story so a long session of undirected talking often resulted. The temps would emerge much later, horrified and traumatised but were always greeted with a welcoming cheer. They were now part of the club.
It all came unstuck for him when a new personal assistant organised him a mid afternoon meeting with the senior Executive team. His body unable to adjust to the now abundant presence of people and his inflexible nature of diet not changing it led to an unfortunate incident during the CEO’s address. It started as a squeak ad ended as a hearty rumble of buttocks on moulded plastic seat. A radiated stench encompassing all in the vicinity. The scrambled noise of panic. Chairs crashing to the tiles. Frantic people pushing bystanders to the ground, for others to trip over and trample. Wild eyed hoards high on adrenaline and panic search recklessly for an escape. The illuminated beacon of an exit sign. Later that day he ‘retired’, his office still being aired out, his replacement arrived. It was clear to the staff that the meeting had been to tell him that he was being let go, his indiscretion hurrying up the implementation. It was rather cruel they didn’t even give him the rest of the day. Carrying the personal items he had gathered together from his desk he nodded gingerly at the man who was taking over all he had commanded. The man brushed passed him ignoring the metaphorical torch the old man was trying to pass on. He was a 30’s something hotshot fast talker who looked the part and definitely believed he was about to own this building.
HE took and instant shine to me, offering me his tutelage and mentoring. I often received this, I have assumed it’s due to a look of ineptitude and a willingness to be moulded into someone else’s image easily occupying their shadow.

Broken men don’t dream

She saw the sadness in her eyes and it hurt. She turned away and kept walking toward the door. He slumped down into his arm chair, a piled mess of elbows and duffle coat. He wasn’t a fan of life anymore. Just trying to waste the days.