Genius is fleeting, never breeding
Then the City Times sets the date
It let knives of style cut out the feeling
And leave it for the gulls on the quay
I remember his beauty
Eyes the color of absinthe
It recall it dissolutely
Wormwood verses of another Blythe
Cliches poison poems
They die only one way
Then we must rhyme alone
See how well the dead obey
My emotions were once real
But too fine for high words
So instead of reaching ideal
I’ll fall back into the herd
How to convey the Professor to the station? That was the question. Tell him a train was waiting for him – and for him alone? Remind him of his duty to the hopeless of Europe?
The landlady could not have been more obliging; she practically tiptoed around him. She blushed to remember his dancing naked in his room. But she knew an educated man when she saw one.
So: how convey the Professor to the train station? ‘Collude lightly’ is generally the advice in these situations. But more was called for in this instance, it seemed to me. The Professor was excitable, his gestures expansive. The landlady did her best, but her voice tended to rise several modulations whenever she addressed the Professor, each word enunciated for maximum comprehension. “The – Professor – likes – to –take – long –walks. Don’t you Professor? Long walks?” On this occasion, however, the Professor replied with a kiss, and blood drained from the poor woman’s face.
It was the promise of flowers did the trick, the prospect of welcome down the line. And so, come dusk, the Professor was conveyed to the station. He laughed at the faces the houses made along the way. When he saw the train, he wept for the way it waited with such distinction.
Geraint Jonathan
(Image by CJA)
(Note-it is our serene pleasure to bring Adam Kluger on the site. He is a first rate writer and a fine fine artist despite the somewhat effacing name of the artist–The Eds.)
Paul had been heartbroken…
There was nothing better for a broken heart… than new pussy.
Paul started painting houses in Nantucket.
That’s where he met Kathy.
She had a big smile, blonde hair and a confident, easy way about herself. She was also really nice and pretty and intelligent too. She saw Paul on the roof of a house without a shirt on listening to the radio and painting a window frame. She worked down the street at a muffins shop. She would be attending Harvard in the fall. On Nantucket all the kids worked part-time summer jobs. At night they would go to the beach for bonfire parties or to summer houses for keg parties.
Paul and Kathy hit it off nicely. She would come back to his basement room and they would get busy. If Paul hadn’t still been pining over the girl who broke his heart he probably would have been able to give Kathy more. But there wasn’t anything to give. So it was just sex. And the sex was really good. For a straight-laced kind of chick she had a killer body and she was always so neat and clean and there was something about being on an island in the sun that makes fucking so much better.
Paul was already accepted to Bard.
This would be his summer for fun and Kathy helped him heal with terrific blowjobs and guilt-free sex. She seemed happy to have a good looking guy to bone and it was pretty uncomplicated.
The following summer, Paul would get a job scooping ice cream in town at the Old Corner Shoppe. He wore a fruity looking pink shirt and didn’t pay much attention when a pretty young blonde girl with short spiky hair started flirting with him. Her name was Stephany and she worked at a gas station pumping gas. Her uncle was a famous movie star and she had grown up on the Island. She was a smoking hot chick and Paul offered to give her a ride back to her house after his shift on the back of his moped. Granted, a moped is not nearly as cool as a motorcycle…but it’s also not nearly as lethal…when they got back to her house they quickly got undressed and jumped in a shower together. Paul couldn’t believe how sexy this chick was. Tanned and beautiful. He brought his “A” game with him into her bed because he wanted to be invited back again and again. Luckily, his enthusiasm was rewarded and he would end up fucking her throughout that summer.
One time on the beach he joined her and her girlfriend on their blankets.
He was asked to spread orange suntan lotion from France on both of them… Paul couldn’t help but notice how friendly and familiar the girls were with each other as they took off their tops to let Paul spread the lotion on their hot tan bodies. He suggested that If they were hungry that he would be glad to make a “sandwich” with them. The girls just laughed and nothing ever came of the idea…a little bit later Paul did take Stephany behind a dune and started fingering her. She could have fucked anyone she wanted on that Island. Before she met Paul she probably did…none of that mattered. She loved riding on the back of his moped and he loved rubbing baby oil on her body when they showered together after a torrid boning session. The sun, the surf. Hot blonde chicks, doobie and tooling around on a moped on a beautiful island.
It couldn’t get any better.
One serious bummer though was the day Paul almost drowned.
He had been with a work friend at Nobadeer beach. They tossed around a football and scoped out chicks. They listened to some of Paul’s cassettes on a portable boom box w/ cassette holder. UB40…reggae…the Specials..ska…anyway, Paul dove in to cool off…swam out and did a little body surfing…it was pretty mellow so he went out further and further
He could hear the caw of the seagulls and he felt great.
That is, until he saw a huge wave building to an enormous swale about 15 feet high almost 50 yards away. Quickly he looked around and realized he had made a huge mistake.
He wasn’t a great swimmer and panic shot through him like an icicle.
Quickly he started to do a mad crawl toward the shore…He didn’t look behind him.
Before he knew it, he felt the pull of the Atlantic Ocean and then the huge wave crashed over him. The power of the wave was shocking. It spun Paul like laundry until he felt the ocean floor. Immediately he pushed off. Disoriented, but sure that he needed to get back above the water’s surface…
He did that finally and gasped violently for breath.
Fuck! Oh my God. I’m in BIG trouble he thought as he turned his head.
He was still very far away from the shore. But he knew he had to recover quickly and keep paddling desperately toward the beach all the while sensing a new, even bigger wave approaching.
At this point he felt he might end up drowning.
But he was way too scared to scream for help.
It would have terrified him even more.
No one could help him now. He was too far out.
He was a small pink dot fighting against a roaring dark green swirling ocean with no concern for his life or his survival.
Paul decided he would try a risky maneuver. Instead of trying to body surf the wave forward and then be sent somersaulting under the water again…he would dive right into the wave at its middle and then swim underwater for a few seconds until he reached the surface.
As the large wave came up upon him, Paul took a quick gulp of breath and hoped that his gambit would work as he felt the awesome power of the water pull him toward the wave…he extended his hands in front of his head and dove for the middle of the wave. If it worked he might just survive this awful ordeal…if he had miscalculated that would be it.
He was done for
As it turned out he had made the right choice. The strategy worked. He avoided getting tossed head over heels underwater again and after using the same technique two more times on slightly smaller waves he felt the sand and pebbles of the shore line. Never had he ever felt such relief before. He made a mad sprint for the beach and was knocked down one more time by a wave. Paul laughed at the Ocean’s final message…don’t EVER fuck with me kid.
He collapsed on the beach in the sand with seaweed wrapped around his body and salt, sand and mucous pasted on his face as he blew bubbles of snot and gasped for breath. His friend Bram ran toward him and asked
“Dude, are you ok?”
“Yeah man… (Cough, cough)
Paul could taste the salt and sand in his mouth…his body was sore all over and he started to shiver…
“What the fuck happened to you?”
Paul leaned over and puked out some salt water
“Are you ok? Should I get a lifeguard?”
“No man, I’m cool… (Cough, cough) …just need a beer.”
Paul was neither cool or thirsty…what he was and what he would never forget, was that he was VERY lucky…he was a survivor. Sure…but more than all that he was a lucky son of a bitch.
Sure he felt invulnerable that summer. He was in his physical prime and he was getting laid and life was good.
On this day, however, he discovered first-hand just how unpredictable and tenuous life could be. He’d think twice from now on before he would wade out too far on anything. Leave the lunar fringe for those with a suicide wish. He’d get his kicks before the whole shithouse went up in flames but he’d exercise a bit more caution too.
Some rebel.
Red eyed and shivering Paul made his way up the beach on unsteady legs until he got to his beach blanket. Then he crumpled onto it and starting to puke out more salt water. A reggae song was playing on the tape deck and Paul could feel the warm sun caress his aching, shocked body…he lay there recovering, until he felt something cold and wet tap his shoulder. He slowly turned over and squinted into the rays of the sun as his pal Bram handed him a cold can of blue ribbon.
He felt like a new man. Like his past sins had been washed away. Like he had looked death in the face and survived. He had been given a second chance. He had guessed right in the face of disaster.
The summer was almost gone …and that beer tasted pretty damn good.
Later that Summer Paul would be living in a beach house with some other friends. One housemate named Werth was a deadhead and introduced Paul to shrooms. They had a keg party and Kathy was there…somehow Stephany heard about the party too and she came by to say hi…before you knew it…Paul hopped into her car without his shoes on and was off with Stephany. She kidnapped him and brought him back to her house on the edge of town for a hellacious boning session.
When he got back Kathy was gone…He made it up to her by fucking her the next night and then taking her to dinner at an Italian restaurant near the movie theatre. The film they watched later starred some English actor who would die years later at a bar in Malta.
There were other chicks that summer as well…there was a hostess at a restaurant where Paul worked part-time as a dishwasher…she was petite with black hair and she wore a lot of make-up. But she had a fine little body and she was always eager to tease Paul. Paul was lucky the night he drove her back to her place from the dance club. They were both pretty lit and when a cop asked Paul if they had been drinking. Paul admitted that he had had “one beer” but that he wasn’t drunk. Luckily, the cop was cool and let him off with a warning.
Paul almost backed up over a cliff shortly thereafter, but again luck was on his side that night…when he finally got the hostess back to her house for the bone, she got him so worked up with foreplay, that he shot almost on contact. Three strokes and that was it. Pretty embarrassing. He did his best to take care of her after with his hand. But the magic flirtation was over and that was the end of that.
Tom, a friend from the restaurant, always looked up to Paul because Paul was older and once rolled him a joint. Paul had a nice supply with him from Belsam’s, enough to last a few weeks. Anyway, out of the blue, while they’re smoking a joint after work behind the restaurant… the kid says,
” my younger sister wants to fuck you…”
Paul was surprised but interested and asked,
“Are you cool with that?”
.”Yeah, totally”
“I don’t know man. That could be kind of weird…you know”
…”dude, she won’t stop bugging me about it…will you just fuck her already?” or at least say hi to her?”
“Sure dude, bring her by…I’ll say hi.”
Paul felt like a rock star.
When she came by later that week, Paul was hanging out in his room with some work friends…a couple of guys and girls passing around wine and a joint.
“Hi, I’m Tom’s younger sister…Penny.”
“Hey Penny…nice to meet you.”
She had red hair and a nice little figure. Paul guessed she was almost sixteen.
Paul introduced her around and looked her in the eye from across the room…he recognized that look in her eyes.
Before long, she had worked her way over to where Paul was standing.
While obstructing everyone else’s view she casually reached behind her and grabbed the bulge that was starting to form in his shorts. Penny kept talking to the guy in front of her while at the same time she held firm to Paul’s now rock hard cock.
For a young girl, she was pretty bold.
Paul liked that about her.
When everyone else cleared out… she stayed.
Paul closed the door and turned around. Penny was already on her knees. She pulled down Paul’s shorts to his sneakers and then proceeded to give him a world class blowjob.
He didn’t fuck her though. That way, things never got weird with Tom for the rest of the summer.
Adam Kluger (and Dreck)
(Note: Frederick has recently published poetry with us. But he is prominently a creator of short, trenchant, witty prose, which we are happy to present today–The Eds.)
“Good evening, I’m Mavis Williams of American Evening News. Our program has been preempted by a special message from the White House and President Amanda Jackson.
We now take you to President Jackson.”
“Over the last decade, the United States of America has been on the edge of economic disaster. As my grandfather would say, we are surviving by the skin of our teeth.
To make the nature and extent of this threat clear, let’s look back at our recent history.
A decade ago, our country, regrettably, entered an ill-conceived and unprovoked war with Iran. That misadventure has extinguished over 30,000 lives and wounded over 100,000 others.
The War has cost us over 600 billion dollars to date, and our compensation agreements continue to burden this nation.
And that war has cost us support and friendships with many, if not most, of our past allies. We are still repairing these relationships.
The cost of his War, combined with the rising cost of health care, especially health care under the federal Medicare and Medicaid programs, created an unprecedented budget challenge.
Our honest assessment of our health care systems was that they were the most expensive in the world, but other, far less costly health care systems in other nations had far better health care outcomes.
Under increasing dissatisfaction from the public, the growing frustration of health care providers, and the declining number of private health care insurers, we sought a meeting of all the players in our health care system. The past administrations were open to all approaches to extract ourselves from our cascading predicaments.
And as you all know, we initiated a Manhattan Project-style development that merged the resources of our technology, artificial intelligence, and vast libraries of health research and information.
And with sweat, blood, and tears, creativity, imagination, and dedication, we produce a modern miracle—the Internal Health Care Monitor, or as most of us call it, IHCM, or simply, the Chip.
The Chip is about the size of a quarter, but half the weight, and is most commonly inserted just under the skin layers on the inside of the upper left arm.
The Chip has a living battery that draws its power from the body. Under normal circumstances, the Chip does not have to be removed; it is updated online and sends its information the same way.
All your vital functions are monitored 24/7, 365 days a year.
And this encrypted data is sent to the Department of Health Monitoring Evaluation, or DHME, where robust AI systems evaluate your health status and notify you and your health care provider when necessary.
In essence, you have the world’s most experienced and knowledgeable healthcare provider at your service at all times.
This health care system is the envy of the world.
For the last three and a half years, we have been testing and evaluating this system on members of our armed forces.
Three months ago, our evaluation of this system was completed and is now available online for everyone. I encourage you to read at least the executive summary of this fascinating report.
One of the many amazing results found in this 1,200-page document is that during the first two years of using the Chip, our healthcare services’ military costs were cut by 50%.
And our sick leave absences decreased by 60%.
In 73% of cases where medical assistance was required, no visit to a physician or care facility was made or required. Our AI diagnostic systems worked to a tee, and medication was prescribed and quite often delivered within less than two hours of diagnosis.
I found the results of this report absolutely incredible, and I would like to give my thanks and appreciation to the thousands who worked tirelessly to make this vastly improved system available to everyone in this country.
Now, we are ready to make this remarkable system available to all Americans. No one in this country will be denied access to this Promised Land of quality care for all.
Understand that billionaires and fast-food workers will receive the same quality of care.
Those who have no income will have the same access as everyone else.
I know you wonder if this program is safe. I don’t know if I have the words or knowledge to convince you of the safety of this system; however, I have Dr. Lisa Limbaugh, who is an expert on this system and will provide any level of detail required, and she will be here to answer your questions, from the very technical to the very basic.
However, in this particular arena, I believe that actions speak louder than words. My husband Godfrey and I both have Chips, and we have had them for 18 months now. With no adverse experience and have recommended the Chip to our children. That’s how safe they are to me.
Now, I’m turning you over to Dr. Limbaugh to answer your questions and explain in more detail how the Chip works.
Please ask your questions, read the Report, and check with service members and women about their experiences with the Chip.
I hope you choose to join Godfrey and me in the greatest healthcare revolution in the history of humankind.
Good night, and may God bless America and this endeavor.”
***
A conversation in a secure room in the White House between President Jackson and her Chief of Staff, Bong Yee, immediately after the President’s message to the nation.
“Damn, Bong, I need a shower. I feel like a used car salesman. How did we get into this mess?”
“Ms. President, the Democratic Party followed State Craft, our AI’s suggestions—”
“Shit, more like directions.”
“—on developing the Chip and on selecting you as our candidate, and here we are. One happy family.”
“Yeah, I still wonder why you came along on this unjoyful ride.”
“You asked me to, and we have been friends since law school. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to peek behind the stage and see what is really going on.”
“You know curiosity killed the cat. Any new info on the fucking Chip?”
“Dr. Limbaugh and her stiff-lipped crew of medical grand masters believe the Chip is performing as designed, and we should trust the magic of AI and move ahead with implanting the chip worldwide.”
“Damn, Limbaugh scares me worse than that fucking AI. So, what are our reckless scientific rebels saying?”
“Well, they are performing their test beyond the scope of AI, and they have evidence that the Chip has abilities well beyond what Dr. Limbaugh claims.”
“Do they have any proof of their claims? As if that would make any difference. We have to move ahead with this, this questionable fucking experiment, or be in debt to China. When I was giving my sales pitch, I had a strong, almost irresistible desire to cancel the Chip and take our chances with China.”
“I, too, would rather deal with humans than AI, but if our rebels with a cause are right. It might be too late. We have already implanted the chip in the military. And the rebels believe the Chip can impact bodily processes, not just monitor and report on them.”
“What a mess. What a fucking mess.”
“Well, AI was right about you, you have that combination of warm grandmotherly caring and steel African American determination that made you appealing and electable.”
“Yes, but I wonder if my main attraction to AI was that I am controllable.”
“Amanda, I think they may be wrong on that one. The rebels will be here in a few minutes with their evidence. How do you want to play it?”
“We listen and learn and ask every damn question we can. We do not accept or reject the validity of their information at this time.”
“We leave them swinging in the breeze.”
“For now.”
There is a knock on the door.
“Bong, I hope that’s opportunity knocking.”
They smiled and bumped fists before they opened the door.
(We are always pleased to bring back David Henson –the Eds.)
When I was in school, we had atomic bomb drills. We crouched under our desks and clasped our hands behind our heads, a few of us giggling until the speaker crackled, and the principal declared the drill over. Sometimes the class clown walked around stiff legged, arms extended and said they were glowing. Today, bear drills have replaced those for the atomic bomb. Bears should never get inside a school, but it can happen if someone leaves a gate ajar or a guard nods off.
The principal launches the drill by whispering Bear over the PA system. The teacher, who’s memorized the protocols, unlocks a drawer containing a spray can of Ursus Away and practices a two-handed grip. A pre-designated student locks the classroom door. Instead of hiding under their desks, the children pile them at the entry. The students pretend a bellowing, stinky bear is lumbering up and down the hallway. Everyone is supposed to be quiet, but although it’s only a drill, a kid with an overactive imagination might whimper. It probably doesn’t matter because a bear can smell a chocolate chip cookie from a mile away. A human can’t outrun a bear so the children lie prone, playing dead, trying not to sneeze from the dust bunnies. A couple students grip sharpened pencils … as if that could stop a bear. In the event of the real thing, the students know a few will be sacrificed, but even the hungriest grizzly will fill its belly before the whole class is devoured. When the speaker buzzes, and the principal announces All Clear, no one giggles; the class clown doesn’t act up. Hoping the next time is also only a drill, the children rise and drag their desks back into rows.
David Henson
(Jordan Eve Morrall returns today with a combination of insight and perhaps even advice–The Eds.)
Everyone is living life for the first time. I’ve written about it. I truly believe that, throughout their entire lives, people have no idea what they are doing. While they may have goals and feign being put together, the majority base their entire lives around social norms with no thought of individuality. Yet, we let our fear of judgement from these same people hold us back.
Now, here’s another thought: in relation to the age of the earth and all the centuries of civilization that has come before, everyone is–essentially–a child.
The idea is twofold.
First: why should we model our lives after other children who are still learning how to live contentedly and will still be figuring it out, even when they come to die? Just do your own thing. (This concept ties in with everyone living their lives for the first time and has already been covered.)
Second: why shouldn’t we feel compassion for these people, these children, in their confusion and naivety? They–like us–are lost in a world they will never understand. It’s a scary life with so many challenges, choices, and changes. We must try to be empathetic towards everyone around us, everyone in the whole world. How could you hate anyone who is wandering, lost and alone? By default, if someone is rude to you, they themselves are hurt or scared. If someone is lazy and unhelpful, they are overwhelmed by the demands placed on them; they don’t feel they are capable. They are children.
Scenario: a 40-year-old man insults you. So what? He is a literal child. Compared to the length of time people have been being born, going to war, inventing all manner of things, and dying, he is an infant who knows nothing. You can’t take his words personally or as truth.
We must love one another and work together. We must encourage one another and never lash out. If a child does something wrong, yelling never does any good. Gentle guidance does.
We are all children looking for a loving friend. Please be that friend.
Jordan Eve Morrall
Sometimes
Poetry
Seems
To be:
A hammer, a stiletto
Pretentious, modest
A mummer, a scream
Propaganda, the gospel
Fucking and sucking
Gorging and fasting
Ducking and dogging
Slick and slimy
Profound, profane
Soulful, senseless
Ass kicking, ass kissing
Soft days, sick nights
Hallow ground, wasteland
Nigger ways, White rights
Blind insight
Wasted words
Tidy turds
Null, void
Dead
and
risen
again
Frederick K Foote
(The image is Mr. Foote)
She Is by Frederick K Foote
She is
square blocks
of white
marble
Substantial
in every way
Riding a
prancing pony
of pride
Hiding
a dark
nag of
doubt
Love in a Modern Time by Frederick K Foote
It sneaks ashore like light leaking under a doorway
It has the magical mischief of effortlessly joining the family
with a handshake, a hug, a kiss, a fist bump, a cough, or a sneeze
It loves the lonely, the incarcerated, the institutionalized,
the suffering, its love consumes them, banishes them, and It
is restless even in Its domination and seeks authority over nations
It humbles science, the military, politicians, and commerce
the world dances to its tune of isolationist separation
It alienates our affections and laughs at our insurrections
It will not accept our peace terms or unconditional surrender
It will love us where it finds us until it finds us no more
Frederick K Foote
(The image is of our friend, Mr. Foote)
(Ed note–We are extremely pleased to present the first five poems submitted to us by Frederick K. Foote. Fred is an esteemed writer, poet and social critic. He has published over a hundred short stories on Literally Stories in the past ten years alone, which is but a small portion of his literary canon. He is a many times honored author and we are pleased to run his poetry: two today, two tomorrow and a single one to conclude this what we hope will be the first of many runs to come on Saragun Springs–The Eds.)
Lusty Religion
Cedar-wood skin
Sinful full lips
Halo round ass
Full paradise thighs
Bible bright eyes
Gospel singing hips
Revelation to disrobe
salvation to explore
Damnation to lose
no resurrection
in sight
Terminal Romance by Frederick K. Foote
My heart skipped a beat when you appeared
arrhythmia, with rare ventricular couplets
My eyes respond when you are around
glaucoma abounds, the pressure astounds
The sound of your voice is music to my ears
tinnitus echoes a siren’s timpani song
The sight of you snatches my breath away
emphysema squeezes my air to a trickle
The touch of your hand is more than I can bear
your shingles spread to my face, hands, and hair
You are my everything, always and forever
my affectionate end-stage affliction of choice
Frederick K Foote
(The image is that of Mr. Foote)
I know she’s going to say it’s silly, and I’m being silly, but there is a square on my finger, on the top right of my right-hand index finger, just under the nail, to the side, a little red square. It’s not from a scar, or any kind of cut, because I’ve done nothing to cut myself, and it’s not from any kind of pressure either, as I haven’t been holding anything for long periods, or anything heavy, so the red square is from nothing I’ve done. Anyway, it’s not even a filled in square, but an outline in red, as though someone has meticulously taken a red biro and, whilst I was asleep, or not paying attention, has somehow managed to paint or draw this perfect red outline of a tiny square, no more than three or four millimetres in size, on the top of my right index finger, just below the nail. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I don’t know where it’s come from, it just appeared there a couple of days ago, it’s completely smooth, won’t wash off, and hasn’t changed colour or anything like that, just a red square on my finger. I haven’t mentioned it to her yet, and I know it’ll somehow annoy her, but I have to bring it up at some point, and am a little surprised she hasn’t noticed it and asked what the red square on my finger is, or more likely asked me why I’ve drawn a red square on my right index finger, but I’ll raise it tonight over dinner. It’s my turn to cook, so if I make an effort, then she might be more receptive to talking about the square on my finger. That’s it, I’ll go to the supermarket, buy food she likes, cook that, and then after dinner, just casually bring up the red square.
In the supermarket I’m careful to choose foods she likes, but also foods that can’t be accused of causing the red square. I mean she likes a three bean chilli, but kidney beans come in a tin, and opening the lid could cause pressure and leave a mark, then there is the red of the beans, and the thick liquid they come in, not to mention the same with a tin of chopped tomatoes, the fresh red chillies, the seasoning, a lot of which is reddish too, so making a three bean chilli is too risky, and whilst I’ve never seen a red square on my finger before when cooking a chilli, it could be decided that’s what it came from, and my claims that it was already there would be most likely dismissed, so that’s off the menu. So is beetroot, so no feta and beetroot salad as a starter, nothing with tomatoes, nothing that requires a tin opener, or too much chopping for that matter, and nothing with any kind of red seasoning, and so the more I walk around the aisles the more I seem to be crossing ideas off the list. In the end I settle for a pre-made vegetable soup that comes in a plastic tub, with some fresh sourdough bread, already sliced and packed, and then for the main a salad, as she does like salad with soup, but one in a ready to serve pack with lettuce, grated carrot, and sweetcorn, for which I can rustle up a dressing with what we’ve got in. The good thing is nothing is red, or in a tin, or needs chopping or seasoning with anything red, so none of it could cause a red square on a finger.
By the time I get back home, I’m not sure where all the time has gone, being sure I’d left the house early afternoon, but it seems the time in the supermarket stretched to a couple of hours, so I need to start getting the dinner ready as we like to eat early, no later than five really. The problem is, and I should have remembered, but we are out of olive oil and mustard, two of the things I’d hoped to mix, with a squeeze of lemon juice and salt, to make the dressing for the salad, but now need to think of something else. In the cupboard there is only soy sauce and some apple cider vinegar, and then in the basket where have we have our collection of dry seasoning there is black and white pepper, some pink Himalaya salt and a bunch of other dry spices, many of them red, which I can’t use. In the end I mix some soy sauce, vinegar, black pepper, and lemon juice from the plastic container shaped like a lemon and stir it with my finger, and then taste. I figure it’s good enough for the salad, but then realise I’ve used my finger with the red square to do this, and can’t believe I’ve forgotten it was there, but see that the skin is fine, and there is just a little sliver of brown from the dressing under the nail, but the red square on my finger is still completely clear to see. I can still tell her about it after we’ve eaten.
We eat, as we always do, or seem to always do nowadays, and I’m not sure when we started, in front of the television, watching a cooking show of some kind, watching people preparing food, tasting it, commenting on it, whilst we eat ours, that we’ve just prepared, and we might say something about our own food, but say more about the dishes on the screen, how they look nice, whilst we fork or spoon in what we’ve got, almost as though were eating two meals, the ones on our laps, and the ones on our screens, and sometimes I can’t tell what I’m tasting, and the soup and salad we have on our trays could be the dishes on the screen almost, because those are the ones we look at, just not the ones we eat.
‘Did you enjoy the dinner?’
‘Yes, nice and simple, just perfect.’
‘Sorry it wasn’t a three-bean chilli. I know that’s one of your favourites.’
‘Not at all. Soup and a salad with that lovely bread. That was perfect. That dressing was lovely as well, different but really nice.’
‘Ah, I forgot to get more olive oil and mustard in. I will tomorrow.’
‘No worries, will you go in the morning with me when I go to work? I can drop you off if you like.’
‘Ok, thank you. There is a reason I didn’t make the three-bean chilli though.’
When I tell her about the red square on my finger she puts her tray on the coffee table, and then takes mine and does the same, and puts her arms around me, and we cuddle in, her hands rub up and down my back and she tells me over and over that it’s fine, saying my name a lot, repeating the same words, but not asking me anything about the square, just saying ‘Oh, it’s fine love’, as she squeezes me, and I want to ask her what she thinks it’s from, how the square got there, but she holds me in closer, tightly, almost like she doesn’t want me to speak about it, and when I motion to say something she repeats the same words, and this goes on for a few minutes, and I’m grateful she’s not annoyed that I’ve done something stupid with my finger, and we enjoy holding each other, so I decide to not ask about it at all, and a few moments after I’ve decided this, we break off our cuddle, and she says she’ll doing the washing up. We pause the cooking programme, take the trays into the kitchen, and she tells me to go and sit back down and we’ll watch their desserts after she’s finished.
She wakes me up in the morning so I’m ready to get a lift to the supermarket on her way to work. It’s not much out of her way, but she might drop me off at the corner just down from the railway crossing so she can keep going without making a detour, and that’s completely fine I say, but she asks me if I’ll remember the way to the supermarket from there, and even though I tell that I will, she asks me to tell her the directions from that corner to the supermarket, and I describe the few minute walk to the crossing, where the tattoo shop is right next to the crossing, then after it you turn right, and the supermarket is just on left a few more minutes down, before you reach the train station, and she tells me that’s good, but then asks me how many minutes in total, and I answer five or six, and then she recounts for me the directions I’ve just given, and asks me again if I’m sure I won’t forget, and I tell her, I won’t, I’ve done it a million times, and there is no need to worry.
To change the topic I ask what she’d like for dinner, and she says a three bean chilli would be nice for the end of the week, and I tell her I hadn’t realised it was Friday already, but then I remember the red square on my finger, and I don’t want her to think, when I get round to telling her about this red square that’s appeared, that she thinks it’s from the chilli, or from the kidney beans, or even opening a tin of beans or chopped tomatoes, so I ask her if she just fancies something simple and quick like a soup and salad, with some nice bread for a change, and in a quiet voice she says that’ll be fine, and adds to not forget to buy some mustard and olive oil, for the dressing, and I say yes, I’ll make our usual salad dressing that she likes, and when she drops me off on the corner, just down from the crossing, she asks me if I’m sure I won’t forget the way to the supermarket and, and I say I’m completely fine, I remember the way, and I also won’t forget the oil and mustard because I don’t want to make the three bean chilli and that’s how I’ll remember to get soup and salad, but I don’t tell her that part.
As I approach the railway crossing the signal starts to whir and blink, and so I wait for the barrier to slide down wondering if it’ll be one train or two and how long I’ll be waiting to cross. It could be more than a five-minute wait, so I look in the tattoo shop window just next to the crossing for something to do whilst waiting for the one or two trains to pass. The display has sheets of white paper with designs of black-outlined dragons, roses, hearts, snarling tigers, topless mermaids sitting on rocks, ships, jumping fish, unfurled scrolls with a variety of names on them, all in the same curling script, and collections of football club emblems, all in lurid, hypnotising colours, bold greens, blues, and reds, yellows, purples, that are all beautiful and bright, vivid caricatures of reality, of life. The barrier stops whirring, and as I turn my eyes away from the window display, someone comes out of the shop.
‘Back again?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, ‘back again’. Are you wanting another square? Perhaps a triangle or a circle this time?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.’
‘Aha, it hasn’t worked then, has it?’
‘What hasn’t worked?’
‘Never mind, pal. Your missus said it might do something.’
‘My missus?’
‘It’s alright, mate. She was doubtful anyway. I shouldn’t have said anything. All the best to you.’
He goes back into his shop, and I hurry over the railway crossing, take the right turn down towards the train station, the supermarket being on the left down that road before you reach the station, and I’m there within two minutes, so I get a trolley from one of the rows outside, and enter the supermarket, take a breath, as I’ve got there fast, and then I comb up and down the aisles to get something suitable for dinner, something that won’t raise suspicion, something that couldn’t cause redness or any kind of indent on my skin, no tins, or anything like that, avoid red foods; beetroot, even though she likes it, especially with feta cheese, and I definitely won’t buy any chillies, so I can’t make her favourite meal just yet, not until I’ve told her, and I need to make sure that she couldn’t think it’s from something else, that it’s definitely unusual, so I opt for a plastic tub of store brand vegetable soup, that’ll go well with the ready sliced sourdough they have, so all I need is a nice salad, not one with anything red in it of course, but maybe some lettuce, grated carrot, and I’ll make the dressing at home, with the olive oil and mustard we’ve got in already, that I’ll mix with a little bit of lemon juice, and a quick pinch of salt, so dinner will be a lovely soup and salad, and she likes that, even though we don’t have it that often. And, I realise it’s got later than I expected, it’s after one, but still gives me lots of time to get home and make the dinner; a dinner which can’t cause any redness, so that I can tell her about the red square, just the outline of a square, that has appeared on the top of my right hand finger, out of nowhere, that she’ll probably say I’m being silly about, that she may get annoyed about, and say it’s from opening a tin, or chopping something, but I need to tell her, so after the nice dinner, I’ll just bring it up like it’s nothing, the red square on my finger.
Paul Kimm
(Image is of Mr. Kimm)
Saragun Springs 