One Happy Morning

The sun squeezes its way between the morning rainclouds. The droopyhead flowers perk up at the promising rays and shake off a few raindrops. The damp grass tickles my bare feet. I look up at the sun and nod in greeting. I’m hanging out some washing and I think; this is, indeed, a good sign. Shirts and undies hang damply. Mum says that if they’re not on the line they’re not going to dry. Even if it is overcast or rainy the sun will shine sooner or later. Wise words from the washerwoman.

"Our friend is here", I say quietly to my washing as I stroke their dank limbs, "he’ll fix you up and dry you out. He will fill your sleeves and pockets with warmth; chase out the water from your nooks and crannies". The freshly laundered items begin dripping with glee. Like the clouds they sprinkle the grass below with their watery content, refreshing and replenishing. I hang up the last sock and stand back in admiration of my fine work. I am proud of my hanging out skills. Each item with its own peg; each with equal exposure to the air. The shirts flap floppily in the breeze, the colours creating a carnival of cleanliness. My mother has taught me well.

I used to think that when it rained it was the gods crying at all the injustice and suffering in the world. Now my undies are crying. I feel sad for the poor lifeless creatures; for all the injustices I have perpetrated against them and the suffering to which I have subjected them.
I glance once more at the sky. I am convinced the sun will prevail and that the gods of washing are on my side. I predict a safe return for my clothing to the haven of their chest of drawers by late afternoon.

Back in the kitchen there is a beautiful smell of coffee. Ah, I purr, coffee!! My nose leads me to it. My hands pick up the cup and hold it an inch from my nose. Slowly, deeply, I draw in the nutty aroma. Sensuously, I take the first sip, savouring it’s uplifting taste.

Having recovered from the initial spin, I look up and take in the kitchen. It is littered with the
debris of last night’s merrymaking. Besmirched glasses and goo-encrusted spoons all over the place; dirty plates and spread-smeared knives loiter with intent. I cast these sights aside for a moment. I have more pressings matters to attend. I sit down at my favourite spot at the table. Find myself staring at yesterday’s newspaper. I look at it ruefully. The blasts of bombs, the fallen in fighting, the victims of crime. I ponder. I wonder. I look out the window onto the garden. The sun has gone again but at least the rain is holding off.

Some morbid urge to find out more about all the world’s atrocities makes my hand turn the pages of the paper. Death, disease and destruction read like a dirge, a diatribe against our selfish ways. I turn away and look at the clothes on the line. They flap about as if they are enjoying themselves. Good on ‘em, I mutter. Why are there never any news stories on washing? There’a a whole wealth of material. How to arrange your clothes properly on the line for fast and easy drying. Ten top tips for hanging out your washing. Know the signs for a good washday. The World Washing Championships. I’m sure people from around the world have different techniques for getting their washing dry. Why not put it to the test? Who is the World’s best?

I can hear the commentators as I peg furiously before the next load is ready to hang out. I glance furtively at the Russian. Peek behind me to check on the Chinese competitor’s progress. I reckon I’m slightly ahead. Peg technique is crucial at this high level of competition. Can’t afford to drop any. Spacing is important too. Get the bigger items at the back and the smaller ones to the front. Which way is the wind blowing? What’s the angle of the sun? Questions and calculations flying through my head as I expertly peg the socks. Less haste, more pace. The world title is, quite literally, on the line.

The washingmachine gives its last click. It snaps me out of my daydream. I am wearing a wry grin, nay, a smirk. I did it! I got the dried washing back into the chest of drawers several socks ahead of the Russian. In world record time too! Cue celebrations and a lap of honour around the Olympic Laundering Arena with my laundry basket on my head. Cries of Champion! Champion! I stop to thank my supporters. They are my inspiration. It is of them I am thinking as I do the washing. It is their cacophony of encouragement that urges me on to greater things.

I instruct myself to hang out the next batch of washing. Each load is extra training. It is one thing to win the world title yet another to retain it. I must persist to improve my technique, to better my time.

Outside, the concrete paving has begun to dry and, as a further sign, the sun again shines through the fractured grey clouds. My colourful football gear looks tired but happy. My socks flutter banner-like in celebration of my brilliant win. I say to myself, what a beautiful day!

Issues with the Themma

Nilly Norbitum opened the front door to his apartment and wearily flopped into a reclino. Work was getting him down. He had seen too many electroflashes, photodots and linearelectrographs. Each time he closed his eyes he saw multicoloured streaks, blips and lines. So he was not in a good mood when his wife confronted him. She stood over him with a stern expression and said,

"You've been using my themma again, haven't you!"

He had indeed been using his wife’s themma. "You know mine's broken, Shoppa", he explained. "I have to use someone's, don't I!"

"It is still bad manners to use someone else's themma", Shoppa said raising her voice. "You're always telling the kids off for doing it", she added as further admonishment.

"I know", said Nilly tiredly, "I know but be reasonable."

"Be reasonable!" she exclaimed. "This happened the last time, didn't it? This is the third time yours has been broken. I wonder sometimes what you do with it. No-one else's breaks that often". She stood in front of him looking down with her arms crossed and added accusingly.
"Unless you're letting someone else use it without my knowledge. I suppose you've got someone on the side that's using it and breaking it!"

"You're being silly now", said Nilly as evenly as he could.

"Well explain how it breaks so often. Three times it's been broken. Three times! And you act as though it's nothing. You didn't even borrow one while yours is being repaired. I sometimes wonder whether or not you care about your themma or who uses it or what happens to it. I don't know what our equivalents will think if they find out you've broken your themma again. And what if they find out you've been using mine!? To think, there was a time when no one had a themma. Now everyone's got one. Everyone takes care of theirs but not Nilly Norbitum. He sits there reading his stupid microb as though it's nothing!"

At this point, she threw her arms in the air melodramatically, turned and made towards the kitchenette. "It should be ready tomorrow, so don't use mine again!" she said as she went.

Nilly stared at his microb intently, cheeks flushed with anger. This happened last time, he thought, who knows why themmas malfunction. And she always insinuates my having it off with someone. Always the same invective, only the subject changes. If she's not going on about themmas, it's the 3DV or the aircon or something. He was sick of it but what could he do?
Nothing. Just let her let off steam and take it as calmly as he could while trying to appease her. All he wanted was a bit of peace and quiet so he could watch some mindball and forget about work.

Nilly pushed the forward button on the reclino and glided across to the 3DV. He picked up the guide and glanced through the programmes. There was nothing on that he wanted to watch. He noticed that the Shockers were playing Melded Union later on in the evening. It was an important top of the table game. He weighed up the pros and cons of getting in a bit of themma action before hand. Shoppa broke his reverie by calling out to him."Dinner's ready, Nilly!", she said her anger now abated. In fact Nilly knew she would be calm. She's had her go at him. She would be relieved until tomorrow when she'd find other faults to point out.

The reclino, with Nilly in it, glided to the kitchenette. Dinner was protty and vitty pie with legumates and iron-beans. Fairly ordinary fare as usual but perfectly prepared. Shoppa had studied microcuisinery when she was at University. She had even gained her Masters in the subject.

The four children were also seated at the table. They were wearing their VR helms and so were, for the most part, kept quietly amused. Every so often one of them would gasp or giggle as things happened in the world beneath their helms. Shoppa was reading a micromag. The meal was eaten in near silence.

The boys, Grom (aged 8) and Fonny (aged 4) and the girls, Mirra (aged 10) and Lidda (aged 6), finished their meals in a matter of seconds and left the kitchenette to go about their business in their virtual worlds.

Being Second Level Citizens, they were allowed no more than 4 children. It was now that Shoppa could have no more children that she had become irritable. Nilly wanted to help but didn't know what to do and whenever he did try to help he merely seemed to offend her.

When he finished, he glided off to the living room and switched on a newsprog. A big grinning, shining face told him good news and bad news. None of it, Nilly knew, was significant. The news told nobody anything. Like the microbs, he reflected. The game was on a bit later so he turned the 3DV off and clicked on a disk. He turned it up. Loud and mechanical melodics marched brazenly through the conditioned air. A metallic voice spoke in rhythm to the tune. Great, thought Nilly feeling relaxed. This was his fave disk. He played it when he was feeling down. He had played it a lot recently.

An hour later the disk finished. Nilly wondered where Shoppa was. The children were scattered about the lounge, still with their VR helms on, sucking lollipops. He stood up. He couldn't remember the last time he actually saw their faces. All he saw were four brightly coloured masks. He didn't care anyway. In a few more years they'd be grown up and would leave. The sooner the better. Then he could face the Euthanasium at long last.

He found his wife in the bedroom. She's taken some vals and was dead to the world. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked intently at the prostrate and comatose form next to him. Shoppa was still beautiful, as were all the women and all the men. She was beautiful, he was beautiful and so were the children. He thought that he'd never be able to recognise them in a crowd. If at all. He wondered if they actually took off their helms even when they went to sleep. He must ask Shoppa about that, he reminded himself.

He wondered how many vals she'd taken. He considered forcing a couple of stirrers down her throat. He wanted to talk to her, comfort her and tell her what he was thinking. That he was fed up with work and fed up with the world. He wanted to go somewhere he’d never been before, see something he’d never seen before. He sighed. What was the use? Nobody went anywhere. Didn’t have to. The whole world was there in the apartment, in the helms and the 3DV. He abandoned that idea and went into the bathroom, taking his wife’s themma with him.

Death of Alfetta

The rain slashed across her
Like the tail of a vicious serpent
Her mediterranian blue
Splattered and whipped
A puddle on the passenger side
Leaves clogged the air vents
Windows are steamed up
Rust bubbles under the bonnet

Turned the key and she gave a croak
I churned her until she choked
But dammit she just wouldn’t spark
In the dark of this carpark.

Tried topping up the oil
And tapping the solenoid
Fiddled with the battery
Fumbled with the plugs

The rain poured around her
Like the tide of a dying spirit
Her backseat material
Tattered and ripped
Bare foam on the driver’s side
Cobwebs covered the speakers
White noise from the radio
Drowned out the squeaky wipers

Bumpy ride and spongy brakes
Dodgy lights and second grates
Road Service said at least two hours
A long wait amidst the showers

So there she rests beneath the trees
with possum poop and bird faeces
I drove her into the ground
Drove her until she died.

Wax

I pour the wax from a candle onto my forearm. For a split second I feel sharp pain. Then a soothing sensation. I watch the patch of wax harden and then peel it off. It takes a few hairs but doesn’t hurt. I pour more onto a different spot on my arm. Again the pain is quick. I mutter: different wax for different jobs. Smearing goo onto sensitive parts and welcoming the pain. Suffering in a safety zone, parlour pain and armchair agony.

I wonder what it would be like to have the juice of a bigger candle poured over me. A candle the size of Centrepoint? That’s silly. It would completely encase me. Maybe the size of a postbox – the old-fashioned cylindrical rather than the modern rectangular. I would wear the wax like a shirt - a pourover! Of course I wouldn’t be able to move much once the wax had hardened.

Maybe they could develop wearable wax. Simply pour on your clothes of a morning. Different colours, patterns and shades. Wax shoes called runners! Might pose a problem when it comes to one’s toilet. So what about superabsorbent wax! Decolourising, deodourising and detoxifying!

Dear me! I’m bored you see. It’s Friday night. A half-finished beer is just not doing the job. I’ve been waiting since eight for my ever-unreliable friends who are taking me out tonight. They are determined to cheer me up after my big bust-up. I suppose I have been a bit morose lately. Usual shit. Misguided expectations, misjudged allegiances, misleading information. Mis-this and mis-that. It’s all missing.

We came together by default, she and I. The two singles in a group of couples. I was initially reluctant to act upon the subtle hints. All the winks, nods and raised eyebrows; the softly spoken suggestions. Admittedly, there was some attraction. I didn’t have to work hard for her company. She was always there at the numerous dinners and parties. One day it sort of just happened. We were a couple. Following which was partnership’s prescribed path – joint account, a property, furniture and fittings, all that sort of thing. Even wills. I didn’t mind at all. It made perfect sense. Tied up loose ends and made our friends happy. In the early days we had great times together. Everything worked well.

In the end who walked out on whom? She asked me to leave and I did. Without any resistance. Which made things much worse as it showed beyond doubt that I didn’t care. Friends became angry with me as they tried to find a solution to our problems. The nods and winks had been replaced by wagging fingers and words of advice.

Soon (too soon for some) I rented a one-bedroom flat. By now, I had put everyone offside, even my parents. Apparently, I was being selfish, callous and insensitive. Soon my friends avoided me. Then deserted me. Which is where my new unreliable friends came in. We were Friday after-work drinking buddies. My friends didn’t like them calling them brash and distasteful.
I was a different person down the pub on a Friday, untethered and unshackled for a couple of hours before resuming my role in the neat, well-maintained machinery of our group.

Occasionally, our revelry spilt over into a messy night. I would be taken to various bars in the city drinking ridiculous cocktails and meeting glamorous people. I felt belittled and bashful. Introduced and largely ignored. Probably that’s where they are now. Half-pissed, sliming up to whichever woman has the biggest breasts or shortest skirt. Rogues, you might say, rascals and rapscallions.

It’s now twentyfive past nine. They’re not answering their phones. Are they avoiding me? Don’t want me to spoil their Friday night? Maybe they just forgot. Plans made on Tuesday often don’t have the weight to carry through to the end of the week. O, I don’t blame them. I don’t blame anyone. Not even myself. Things just happen. Only in hindsight do we see what we may have done to avoid the inevitable. Can we avoid the inevitable? I had chances to change the sequence of events. But events have their own momentum. We get caught up and swept away by them.

I sit here in the silence. The CD has ended. How long ago I don’t know. Distracted, you see. Not paying attention. Can’t even remember what it was. Something moody no doubt. Background beats and wallpaper melodies. The longer I brood the more I hope they don’t call. I sip some beer. Nope, its taste has definitely gone. Couldn’t face other people anyway. Then again, I hope they do call and come over, barging in with beers and loud laughs. I need something to overcome my inertia. I have, quite literally, stopped.

The beer bubbles have all gone. Flat and lifeless. Just how I feel. Maybe I should drink it now. We can become one.

Yes, I’m definitely bored. I continue playing with the candle but it’s nearly burned itself out. Its short life nearly over. The flame is down to the very base of the candle. Wax has oozed all over the saucer on which it stands.

I contemplate the death of my friendly candle. Now, just a blue bud of flame with a tiny pink heart. The blue must keep the pink alive. Like a forcefield; like the atmosphere protecting earth.

Fleetingly, the flame fights back. It now wears a white helmet. It has found food and begins to thrive. Must be something in the air. Or the wick. Nothing but some dangerously volatile substance could fire this baby back to life.

I ponder nurturing this little flame. Like an acolyte, I offer up a piece of cigarettepaper to my godcandle. The flame digs deep into the offering like humans living off the back of the earth. The flame dies. Humans are nothing. We’ll destroy this earth for sure anyway. Matter a damn if it’s us or the ants. If ants took over the world, then one day there’d be too many ants. Imagine ants crawling all over the surface of the earth and living under it in their insidious little anttunnels and emmetburrows. Given that we know they farm grubs and other small slowmoving invertebrates, I wonder if they would evolve to farm cows and sheep.

I give the flame a bigger bit of paper and almost snuff it out. I gasp but manage to succour it with another small piece of cigarettepaper luring the blue flame to taste more food. I feed it twists of newspaper. The flame gorges itself.

But just as I am getting excited the unexpected happens. The saucer cracks clean in half! Makes my little heart jump and miss a beat. Little saucer cracked and broken. Defiantly, the flame lives on. Flaring indulgently. I feed it more. It dances voraciously over the crispy twists of paper.

But what’s this? Suddenly the flame drops to almost nothing. It blinks stutteringly. I panic and throw on more paper. That makes it worse. A wisp of smoke wafts up. Gone! Within seconds there is no sign of life. No ember. No smoke. Just the blackened twists in a broken ashtray.
I cared for that little candleflame. I wanted to keep it alive. But I overfed it and completely snuffed it. Like a man with too many things to carry in a land of robbers.

I am left alone with my smouldering memories. It reminds me of my relationship. It too has been snuffed out. Could I have tried to save it? Maybe there’s a lesson to be learned. Be more careful. Treasure what you have whilst you have it. Do not grieve for the past. You’ve got to get in to get out. I console myself with the notion that the candle would have died anyway.

My phone trills snapping me out of my reverie. A message from my friends. It’s as I suspected. They’ve been down the pub since four and are totally smashed. They tell me I should join them. Rush headlong into the maelstrom. I reply, Maybe next Friday.

I light another candle. It towers above the charred remains of the stub in its nest of broken crockery. More wax to play with. More painpleasure and agonysoothe. If only relationships were as easy as lighting a candle! Maybe they are. Never leave a candle unattended. There’s another lesson.

I look at my drink. Neither of us has any sparkle left. The clock marks half past nine. I sigh. Another great non-event in a seemingly continuous series. There’s an emptiness that more music won’t fill. I wonder what’s on the telly. Maybe I should watch what normal people watch.

I tip the tepid beer down the sink. Whereupon hundreds of bubbles appear clinging to the aluminium sinkbottom. Where had they been hiding? Where were they when I needed them?

Emilbus

"If only I had three and a half legs", thought Brazenda, "then I could run 75% quicker and easily lead the race!"

"What good would half a leg be?" queried Noddy.

"Half a leg's better than no leg at all", replied Cuthbert curtly. "I had a leg for breakfast", declared Grimhope.

"That was an egg, stupid!" corrected Foff.

"O", said Grimhope, "I thought it tasted funny".

"Funny", yelled Foff (who seemed to have it "in" for Grimhope). "Funny! I'll tell you a funny one, you bastards!"

"Hurray!" said Noddy.

"An aardvark goes into a butcher's and orders a pound of beef sausages please! The butcher says fuck off! I'm not serving a fucking aardvark! That's OK, says the aardvark cheerfully, I've got me moped outside! Boom boom!"

"Ah ha ha ha! Yo ho ho ho ho!" guffawed Brazenda, Noddy, Cuthbert and Wit.

"What's a moped?" asked Grimhope inanely.

"That's rich, that is. Sausages. Ha ha", applauded Noddy.

"As if an aardvark eats sausages", chuckled Cuthbert.

"Beef sausages at that!" chortled Brazenda.

"I can see the butcher waving his cleaver saying fuck off aardvark!" laughed Wit.

"What's an aardvark?" asked Grimhope inanely. The others laughed even more. "It's not fair. I never get any of your jokes".

"Wait a minute", cried Brazenda directing his gaze at Noddy. "You were reading my thoughts!"

"O yeah?! So where's your proof, poof?" sneered Noddy. "You haven’t got a brain anyway, so how can you have a thought?"

"I have so got a brain. And I'm not a poof", said Brazenda in defence. "I can spell my own name which is more than Grimhope can do!"

"Yeah. More than Grimhope can do", mocked the others. Grimhope's bottom lip stuck out and he or she adopted a sulking attitude.

"Let's go to the pub!" suggested Wit.

"Yay!" agreed Cuthbert.

"But I can't play golf", moaned Grimhope.

"Good! You'll have to stay here and do the dishes", said Foff.

"Oh, I always have to do the dishes and you know I haven't got any arms and then you shout at me for not doing them", and he or she began snivelling.

"Hurray!" said Noddy. "It's raining".

"Oh shit!" swore Cuthbert, " now we won't be able to play golf after all!"

"Stupid game anyway", believed Wit, "hitting a ball with a stick. It's really stupid, I mean, the ball you use bounces great on concrete, but the stupid game is played on grass! It's just stupid! What's the point of having a really good bouncy ball if you don't let it bounce?"

"Well at least it means we’ve done the washing", deduced Brazenda.

"Yes", concurred Noddy. "It always rains when we do the washing. Hurray!"

Whereupon Noddy, Foff, Cuthbert and Wit danced the Dance of the Washing. Brazenda, because he was still pissed off about Noddy reading his thoughts, and Grimhope because he or she was confined to a wheelchair (and had no legs anyway), sat out the dance.

"Will you be my friend?" drawled Grimhope pathetically.

"Fuck off!" spat out Brazenda.

"Yes?" asked Foff turning to Brazenda.

"Yes what?" wondered Brazenda.

"Yes?" asked Wit turning to Brazenda.

"What?" demanded Brazenda. The dance stopped. The dancers stared icily and menacingly at Brazenda.

"Are you", asked Noddy nastily, "trying to take the piss?"

"I'm confused now", said Brazenda sheepishly.

"You're just shitty because I read your thoughts", mocked Noddy.

"Well, you shouldn't. What if I was changing my mind?" put Brazenda.

"There's a horse in the next race that's got all four legs", informed Wit.

"What are the odds?" eagerly enquired Foff.

"One hundred per cent", replied Wit proudly.

"Ha! Brazenda wouldn't stand a chance with his three and a half legs", ridiculed Noddy.

All except Brazenda laughed heartily. Brimming with spite, Brazenda tilted Grimhope's wheelchair, sliding him or her to the floor, where the double amputee wailed sickeningly. Again the four dancers stopped.

"You rotter!" exclaimed Foff.

"Yeah! you absolute stinker!!", shouted Wit.

"You slimy shit-sucker!" yelled Cuthbert.

"You pus-laden herpetic pustule-licker", bellowed Noddy.

Brazenda hung his head. Grimhope fell to simpering, his or her cheeks wet with tears of frustration and sadness.

"You total and complete fucker!" screamed Foff sticking the boot into Grimhope. "Spoil our laughing with your horrible wailing, eh? We'll teach you!"

Noddy, Cuthbert and Wit weighed in with boots, bludgeoning the defenceless, armless and legless Grimhope.