The first instalment from a series of short form fiction; inspiration taken from collage by pedrov_dog
Mother said there’s no point learning to drive, but next day this man arrives saying he’s my driving instructor. There’re things about him I don’t like. I don’t like his clothes or his beard, how he talks to me in that over-familiar tone. Like he owns me or something.
And I don’t trust him. If I am going to learn how to drive with anyone, they need to be someone I see as trustworthy. What if he gets me to run people over, zig-zag across pavements taking out unsuspecting shoppers, leaving them maimed for life? What if he’s got a loaded gun stashed under the front passenger seat?
I don’t know. I’m bored by the whole idea of learning to drive and I’m not sure Mother really has my best interests at heart. I’m not sure she’s ever had my best interests at heart. I wonder if there’s some sort of secret history between Mother and ‘Rick’? Not that I care two jots if there is… frankly.
I want to go back to reading my book, which I have to finish by Tuesday and return to the library, because I’ve run out of renewals. How can I tell this weirdo to leave me alone? Okay, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll just stand up – not say a word to either of them, climb the stairs and shut myself in my bedroom for the remainder of the morning.
There’s no one out there,
When help is needed,
Or a valid complaint is made,
Deserving of an answer.
I’m basically talking to the stars.
Although simply put,
It supports the idea,
Of a programmer,
Responsible for my life simulation.
Because, He/She/They don’t know the answers.
They maybe studying, experimenting,
Perhaps having some recreational fun.
Or, I am a pet.
But God no,
Anyway, they don’t know how to respond,
And nor do they want to,
When I complain or ask for help.
They’re not experts in that particular field.
Possibly not experts in any particular field.
If I keep pushing,
They’ll press ‘DELETE’.
“Do you really want to exit and end the programme?
All saves will be lost.
This action cannot be reversed.”
If I’ve been an interesting enough character,
They’ll bring me back,
Into their next simulation.
“More successful, next time!”
But, I’m just talking to the stars.
Every snowflake is unique
They say –
Those People who say such things
Who am I to doubt?
And The People who hear such things
Those People say “Wow!”
“As is every yam”
A dear friend said to me
“No two yams are exactly the same”
And yet, The People who hear such things
Those People seem less than impressed
By this particular information
And The People who say such things about snowflakes
Those People, they ignore yams almost completely
What’s that about, then?
Last time I came here it was the high end of summer.
Farm vehicles were working in the fields
and paired Red Kites circled above the trees.
Now, the tracks have filled with clay-coloured puddles.
Not one day without rain, has passed in October this year.
Not until today.
And the leaves on the trees, there’s less of them.
Yet the scene as a whole appears adequately filled out,
with the addition of reds and yellows.
The hidden forest animals have beaten me
to all the pine cones and acorns
and the birds have taken away the berries.
Mushrooms edge the dampened pathways,
They remain, changing colour
underneath this rare autumn sunshine.
Some scientists now say
This pale blue dot
Has had it’s day.
The scientists say,
Today this pale blue dot,
Is more a dirty grey.
Over centuries of spewing out pollution,
Beyond Earth, the Solar System.
Our rubbish has now conversed,
With the outer Universe.
And the scientists are now saying,
The possibilities are weighing,
Toward catastrophic Divine Retribution,
The end point for all Evolution.
But bring it all back,
Bring it all right back,
To just me and you.
Zoom right in,
because right now,
It’s important what we do.
What do we do,
To avert the crisis?
To ensure Life on Earth
I know the answer,
But I’m not sharing.
Coz the answer,
Might be wrong.
So, I’m sat in a group, meditating,
The guy next to me yawns.
He squeaks around in his wooden chair,
Pulls his sleeves up,
Rubs his arm,
More chair squeaks.
And again, a yawn –
But clearly audible,
Like through headphones,
Air rushing into those two lungs.
His stomach rumbles.
Then, another yawn.
These yawns are coming,
With mere seconds elapsed in between.
“Karlos,” I think out loudly, “you’re body is telling you something.
If you placed a pen in your hand and gave it free range,
It would write ‘Hey – Karlos! Go home, fall into our over-sized settee,
Or go all the way,
Straight up to bed,
Listen to yourself,
I’m lacking in compassion,
A glimpse of his reflection
in a mirror
saw an old man
of cold water shock
Events in his life
stretched across time
Behind his eyes
under his skin
nothing had changed