Yes, this coat: a duffle coat, I’d had it a long time. Purchased on the high street of Camden Town in a basement-based, second-hand (sorry – vintage) clothes shop. This, long before you were born and only a short while after the Home Counties’ CB radio craze had died a sudden, faddish death.
Initially, despite access denied to a full length mirror, I liked it. Where the material made contact with the skin of my neck, creating a mild itchy sensation, this failed to dampen my ardour. My deficient colour vision could not identify the shade; was it blue, grey, or simply enigmatic?
“Karl, have you noticed lately, how The Author has become actually involved in his own stories?” Veronique’s finger-grip tightened, creating what-would-become a permanent crease in the tightly woven and durable synthetic fibre of Karl’s jacket. “Well my darling, I can’t say I have been concentrating of late on no writer.” Karl trudged a hesitant foot forward, re-balancing himself to take into account the minute transfer of his lover’s weight spread out across the backs of his body and thighs. “The truth is,” he continued, “my first and foremost priority is to see us out of this immediate and perilous Borgesian landscape that we find ourselves caught up in.” As if his statement had pulled the trigger of a large handheld megaphone, a chorus of creature noises volumed-up, perhaps startled and warning of an imminent, potential danger. Karl stood stock-still, while utilising his top two front teeth to bite down with moderate pressure onto his lower lip. Working independently, the two figures scanned the swaying canopy of branches, leaves and twigs, swooshing several metres above their heads.
The Pact “Darling…” “Yes?” I’ve overworked my upper body, neck and limbs.” “And now you look all out of proportion?” “Yes, well it’s my legs…” “Your chicken legs?” “Chicken legs?” “Your scrawny, white chicken legs.” “I wish I’d never started with this body building fitness malarkey.” “You could work on your legs.” “I can barely walk without feeling dizzy and seeing little yellow stars flicker in front of my eyes.” “You mean, it’s too late? Like, way too late?” “Yup, I think so.” “What do you want to do?” “Well…” “Please, don’t say what I think you’re about to say, Will.” “Daphne…?” “Will?” “Daphne??” “Will!”
Ydych Chi’n Credu Mewn Hanes? Rydych chi’n gweld, dydw i ddim yn siŵr am hanes. Pwy sydd i ddweud beth yw un gair yn erbyn un arall? Pwy sydd i ddweud bod y person hwnnw hyd yn oed yn bodoli? Ni allai fod. Gallai arbed llawer o drafferth!
“In case its passed anyone by,” Professor of Psychology Daniel Moccasin said, as he tapped the knuckles of his left hand against the wall-mounted presentation screen-still displayed in front of the small class, “things have changed. And by this, I mean things have changed again. We now face a new, new normal. One that no one could have predicted, not even if they’d had a crystal ball could they have done so, no…” He paused and looked around at the clueless expressions tied to the front of each student’s face. A hand went up, emerging confidently from the back row of the classroom. “Yes, Butterley, isn’t it? Stand up, what have you got to say for yourself?”
“Alright, Oliver I am totally fed-up with this conversation.” Charlotte said, her smouldering eyes staring out one thousand yards across the vast void that was their marbled dining hall. Beyond the red Jarrah hardwood dinner table and chairs, the mirror-panelled wall reflected back her expression into Oliver’s view. He felt a twinge of sorrow for her, which he kept to himself. “Great! I’m relieved, its felt like an intensive interrogation for over the last twenty minutes.”
1. If you take a jolly good look around – and I mean a rootin’-tootin’ jolly good look around, there aren’t many women in the world with naturally blue hair. Very, very, few, as evidenced by the facts. Hair scientists say this rare phenomena occurs due to a specific genetic defect caught unawares, buried deep, about halfway down within the spiral structure of our DNA.
Conversely, as a committed appreciator, I say naturally blue hair is the eighth wonder of the world, a biological miracle, invoking a sense of much awesomeness. No less, I say, than a heavenly blessing from God’s can’t-leave-it-alone tinkering fingers. Still, to this very day, I can recall in reasonable-to-fair detail, the circumstances as a young teen, when I saw my very first one.
Bessie waited impatiently as the paper target neared her, carried along by the antiquated, creaky rope pulley-system. Meanwhile, a twisting plume of grey-coloured smoke wisped out slowly from the barrel of an H&K semi automatic Universelle Selbstladepistole Elite 45, left abandoned on the counter top before her.
As the light bulb overhanging her shooting booth flickered briefly, she heard movement coming from behind.
“Do you think – perhaps – that you might need glasses?” A male voice rang out into the desolate aural soundscape.
Startled, Bessie spun around aggressively, to find herself staring directly into the rich brown-coloured eyes of a man several units of measurement taller than herself. The stranger had a kindly face. Immediately, she believed his words of wisdom had emerged from an altruistic place, quite probably released from deep within his velvety heart.