Wrote this quite a while ago. Like the idea but not sure I like what I’ve written.
Please have at it with sticks.
I push the button and wait for the chaos. Two shapes dart past the frosted glass of the front door. The gate buzzes, releases and swings open. I have just enough time to close it and turn around before I’m enveloped in a three way maelstrom of children and dog.
I fend off the dog with one hand, low five my son with the other and shuffle forward bearing the weight of a three year old blonde haired limpet on my right leg. She slides off me just before the steps.
“Yucch Daddy! Why are you all sweaty?” Her nose wrinkles.
“I’ve been running my love, that’s what happens.”
She gives me a serious look and then starts laughing. “StinkEEE Daddy!” She runs inside yelling and giggling.
We trade conversation as commodity. The endless bartering of words. Stealthily concealing meaning within grammatically moribund tropes.
The LOL never touches our eyes let alone our lips.
A million words to furnish a life with a cast of thousands. The possibilities are endless.
The possibilities are ending.
“We’re only going away for two nights.”
“I know. And we need to eat, and the kids need to eat, and they need to be entertained, and it might be cold in the evenings and…”
“OK. OK. I get it. I’m just saying we ‘re only going away for two nights.”
“And I’m just saying…never mind. Did you pack his little pup for bedtime?”
“Yes. And a spare toy. And her toys.”
“Helmets for their bikes?”
“Yes. And a soccer ball. And a frisbee. And a golf club and some balls. And a cricket set.”
“Did you organise the drinks?”
In a million years from now aliens from the planet Klorg – Klorgians or Klorgs, it matters not – will descend upon Earth. Not that humans will care as we’ll have long since wiped ourselves out, but the cockroach population will be extremely concerned as to the Klorgian staple diet.
As they make their Klorgian way across our once green earth, and navigate our once blue oceans they will no doubt piece together the secrets of our past. They will marvel at the capacity of humans for torture and abject misery; plot their way through the exponential quagmire of humanity and, after unveiling all the horrors the world has to offer, they will arrive at July 5th 2016*
*not literally – they don’t have time travel capabilities. That will only come at the rising of Grluvian Empire another epoch hence.
I choose to ignore the inhuman screams from the bathroom and continue on to the bedroom.
“I’ve found it love.”
“Found what?” My wife answers with seasoned patience aware, no doubt, that a period of communication consisting entirely of swear words and conspiracy theories is about to begin.
“The fucking invisible cord attached to my leg. The one that starts pulling the moment I walk away from them and jerks out of their back as soon as I get somewhere close to where I need to be so they can yell DAAAAAAAAAAD or wail like fucking banshees. Basically our children are operated by an invisible mechanism not unlike the one used to get Woody to talk in Toy Story but without the humour or charm.”
“Keep your voice down.”
The silent underground station held all the charm and colour of a mortuary slab. Running between the two empty platforms were a series of circular wooden benches each separated from the other by dull, concrete constructions no doubt used in times past to advertise some useless gadget or a piece of music from the fad-band of the hour. Despite their purpose nothing was on display and not a single shred of historical eco-solvent, self-adhesive, rainforest-aware billboard paper remained to indicate they had ever carried out their allotted task. It mattered little. Only one soul occupied the platform and she was oblivious to anything beyond the breath fogging in front of her face.
The lady in green was sitting on the first of the spherical benches with her back to the stairs, allowing her vision (if it were paying attention) the full run of the platform and the empty tracks on either side. She held her breath for a moment before puffing out the contents of her lungs with as much force as she could muster. As had happened with each previous exhalation her breath oozed out languidly before hanging in a viscous cloud an inch from her nose. She lifted a hand to her face and watched in fascination as tiny droplets of water formed on her fingertips and slid gently towards her palm.
“Weird how it does that isn’t it?”
Today was rapidly turning into a carbon copy of yesterday which was a fairly decent approximation of the day before. At least in a writing sense.
Picture if you will, a man (devastatingly handsome, early forties). A man sitting at a desk barely aware of the wind howling outside so consumed is he with the sound of tumbleweed blowing though the desert that is his creative mind.
You can tell how bad it is from the fact that he is now trying to convince you that tumbleweed has a sound.