Snapshot of a waiting room

She was on the phone to a close relative or friend, relaying the horrific news the doctor had just given her.  Clearly affected, seeking a way to cope, after the phone call she sat in silence.

He was on his phone almost constantly, silent and sat the other side of the room.  The most animated he got was in reaction to the weather events happening outside the window.

We, sat opposite, sometimes my arm round her, exchanging kisses and (what I hoped were) calming words. 

We, drawing our own conclusions while seeking not to, knowing we did not know everything or could see everything except what was in that frame; trying not to judge while doing so on the strength of the evidence we had, when virtually the whole of their existence was outside that frame.

Perhaps, dear reader, you have too.

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Written for entry in The Bridport Prize, 2013.

250 Words: The story of the passport and the dodgem token

The passport, Liocorn, and the dodgem token, 3, had been friends for some time (by their terms of measurement) on top of an apartment table.  “Hello, how are you today?” Liocorn might say, 3 often replying, “Yeah, good mate, thanks, yeah.”  And through the day the pair would talk about their lives before or play games such as I-spy or three coin football.

All was great until the day Liocorn got to thinking about things.  Things like his size relative to that of 3.  About his relative importance in the greater scheme of things.  And about how 3 was a suddenly very annoying luminous colour.  And life began to change on that apartment table top.

Liocorn would stand up, fan out, look down on 3 and bellow orders at the small round piece of plastic.  And so a life of luxury began for Liocorn while 3 returned to days of servitude.

“I didn’t escape the fair in Ian’s pocket for this,” 3 would sniff while making snacks for his master and he himself got round to doing some thinking.

And so the Second Day of Change came when 3 finally snapped and fought Liocorn to the death, first pushing the fascist to the floor, dragging his stunned body to, and through, the missing pane in the door and, against all odds, won a brief fight on the balcony that resulted in Liocorn falling to the street below.

And that’s how Graham lost his passport (if you ignore various so-called “facts”).

250 Words: Stuff inspired by phrases picked out from 250 (Jumbled) Words: Break-ups within after months a few major two, No 1: OVS: Our severed celebrities

Our severed celebrities is a dream.  A recurring dream I have in which I happily survey fields of dead celebrities, their veins severed and emptied of their scarlet life juice.  Out it flows from the dead remains and settles under my boots, probably making them more valuable.  The scene is at night, lit by a bonfire of the literature that seeks to elevate them.  A bonfire I built personally as, before death found them, the crowds tearfully watched on.

OSC is a flight of fantasy, built as my blood boils at people whoring out their wedding days.  “IS NOTHING SCARED ANYMORE!?!” I want to bellow into their ears.  Or when certain headlines appear, “IT’S NONE OF OUR BUSINESS!  THIS IS NOT IN THE PUBLIC INTEREST!” before picking up my broadsheet.  When it’s the television adverts I simply switch off and sit fuming, angry at what the world has created.

And I wind up thinking about celebrities severed and smile a happy smile as people break down at the realisation that I have committed what they call genocide.  “Not so special anymore?” I ask, a feeling of satisfaction in my face.  I walk away proudly, knowing that I have taken away something from the dumb, knowing I have improved the entire country, having previously seen it go to the dogs.

Then I come to in the staff room to see wedding photos of people I don’t know and secrets revealed I don’t want to know and OSC remains an illegal wish.

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FYI: 250 (Jumbled) Words - follow Jumbled tag for others from it, too.

250 Words: Eye of the beholder

I can remember the days of long hair and those of spikes.  I can remember the Thomas the Tank Engine clothes (especially the red “Peep Peep” jumper and the t-shirt and shorts combination), that checked hooded top with poppers and a grey hood that I did the Alien impression thing with (though I hadn’t seen the film at the time), the denim jacket and those weird trousers we bought in Peru.  Until fixing on plain and simple combinations (and the occasional band t-shirt).

I can remember days in mountainous and relatively flat countries of various colours and contrasts, seeing choppy seas, gentle streams and great wide rivers lined by either buildings of great import or willow trees dipping their fingers into the cool running waters.  And seeing equal beauty in each and every scene.

And I remember days of roving from one face to another, from body to body, checking out eyes, hair, mouths and skin, taking each in and smiling at what I saw, sometimes handing it on to the old memory banks.  Even if no one else did.

Until that day, at some point after I had first picked out the woman from down the steps (one of those in the offices that used to be ours), when he finally started to talk to her and make things happen,  when what lies behind me and below me fixed my settings to see only her.  To see beauty elsewhere and not care because the beholder had found someone special.

250 Words: Annoying the staff at a well-known High Street bank

So I’m in a well-known High Street bank filling out a paying-in slip of a (pay) cheque (the biggest I have EVER received; which is nice) and there is this beeping coming from my right.

I try and ignore it, continue with the slip- writing out the date, account details, amount or whatever but eventually look round to see money sticking out of a cash machine, its owner having left the building- something I know because I have checked.

I go back to what I was doing, thinking it’ll get sucked back up, it’ll be fine.  But the beeping, it continues- it gets in my head, stirs it around, increases nerves and/or tension and, naturally, I panic and take the money.

No, no, faithful reader, I don’t put it in my pocket.  Yet.  I pop it in front of me for the mo’, see if the chatty chap who left it returns.  I pay in me cheque, cash in pocket now, but still there is no returning recoverer so I approach a member of staff and explain what has happened.  She doesn’t seem too bothered, I don’t think.  Until I hand her the money.  Then she looks agitated .  I sort of murmur the question, “Would it have been sucked back up?”  She seems to say, “Yes” and is clearly perturbed at the extra work that I have given her.

Balls and tools.  Guess I’ll leave it if there is a next time.

She thanked me, though, all the same.

250 Words: Improv aka Ramblings 2

Smaug Asborde was feeling despondent again.  Sixty years as ruler of sixty star systems had taken its toll and all he wanted to do these days was sit about the house and occasionally lift a leg to release some flatulence.  His daily snacks of large worms farmed from the planet Earth seemed to have that effect on him.  Every day he would swear to leave them alone forever but then his son and daughter would appear and offer their daddy a well-deserved treat for the day.  And he would commence to sit about and do sod all.  And so he never seemed to do any ruling any more.  Sometimes he would wonder who was doing it all.  There used to be all sorts of things to do and sign.  Not now.  Presumably because he never left his private chambers to go and do it.  And he used to be so gung ho about it all- keen and ready each day to get up and rule the empire he had created as a young, and then middle-aged, man.  That zeal of old had died away.  Around about the time he had started on the worms.  But his brain didn't tell him this on account of the worms.  So a despondent despot become useless continued to sit and ruminate over his life, remembering the good battles and the old, the uprisings beaten down and all the comrades stabbed in the back at the start, never recognising the look in his children's eyes.  

250 Words (x2): Memories of Sergeant Lucas

It’s difficult to forget him- a very queer man indeed.  We’re out in the jungle facing death daily and all he could think of was, well… I suppose I was jealous of the man- he had such perfect ways of escaping the war.

The rest of us spoke constantly of home, missing food, of the next rest period; rotated round and around the same subjects.  Lucas was always off creating his own private world to live in.  Where Tolkein had Middle Earth, our Sergeant had religion and his hobby.

His Bible was with Lucas throughout his service and he read a section of it every day.  Most us felt we were getting too close to our maker as it was without embracing religion when at rest, whether or not it had been with us before.  To try and get closer seemed insane.  Still, such belief must have been comforting in the face of the stories we heard about the enemy.  As must have been a true belief when the bullets were flying rather than the knee jerk religion I acquired.

Mostly, though, we did find it weird for someone to read The Bible in such surroundings.  I can remember avoiding the Padre at all costs on a Sunday.  Of course, just before an action I was always made a hypocrite, running straight to him looking for divine protection or comfort in death.  It was just.. jealousy, as I said, and wanting to escape further from the war in that respect.

And there was his hobby.  Back home Lucas was a collector of insects.  Presumably somewhere in his home were great wooden cases with tray after tray of creatures carefully pinned and labelled.

When he found out where we were posted he must have burned brightly inside.  Wherever we went I’m sure he’d have had a field day but.. well, the jungle must’ve been a richer mine than the desert or Europe.  Certainly he was in his element once out in the tropics.  Everywhere he looked his eyes would light up as he saw specimens that would be new additions to his collection.  (Much like myself and my children with cigarette cards and my grandchildren with their sticker albums).  Forward he would step with purpose and meaning otherwise unseen, a jar in his hand, ready to trap, freeze and send the poor devils home.  Whatever we were doing and however close to danger, that canny NCO always seemed to have an eye out for his next find.  Not that he could always capture- often he would just store the memory for when he could.

Again, most of us already felt too close to these things.  Every night we were woken by some bastard thing on us.  The idea of sticking them in jars as souvenirs was horrific.  And it wasn’t just butterflies and beetles- blooming hornets and other dangerous things to mess with were caught.  A madder man I have never met: Sergeant Lucas was one mighty queer bugger, believe me.