#indiaflash7

Lisa sat upon a stool thinking about the tiny splinters that fingered her pores every time she moved as to stop the stool from falling between the floor boards. She hadn't shaven in days. The same I get a kick out of you cover from an unknown artist played continuously. And she thought of the one person she'd like to get a kick out of and how she didn't have time to see him. She'd already thought of everything, from hiring an agent to growing wings. All her money would be useless for the one thing she knew to be impossible. Even if she were to find him in the single day she had left to live, she could not seduce him. 'I knew I'd find you here.' Lisa fell backwards falling onto the floor behind her, her legs flying upwards, her shoes shooting backwards breaking the mirror behind her as she landed on a rusty nail sticking upwards. A yell of pain. A crow flying out of the chimney and up to the sky. 'Err, Mrs..' 'Never a Mrs.' she choked. 'Well Miss, I've brought a variety of chairs beyond the normal understanding of comfortability and all I might add should be priced a great deal higher than I'm about to offer.' 'No' - 'And - no?' 'I'm quite comfortable knowing I still feel something.' She looked over at the salesman; pot bellied and a polished red face, but something of a merriness about him. Fidgety toes inside his shoes. 'If I could have but one thing,' The salesman pulled up his belt lifting his trousers, straightening his spine revealing his shoes that moved by his wiggling toes. 'It would be to be to make a new outfit for you.' Lisa's knees clicked as she stood for the first time in many uncountable days... 'Ok. What is it? A Sewing Panda 2460 speed, no a Tiger 5670 Turbo Pounce...' 'Hmm yes... a Turbo Tiger that sounds like something I'd like to own...' The salesman spoke loudly, confident he could produce exactly what his new dying-looking lady wanted, needed, could have in a moment's grasp. 'Just a few forms then only a little scribble of the pen, anything you want; I'm the best salesman around.' Lisa starting breathing loudly; she could have anything. And what she wanted before she died was to patch over the one thing she'd neglected. She breathed louder and then a growling came and her fingers locked as she began making her way over to the salesman. He was now in a fit of laughter at how marvelous a salesman he was, how fulfilling, how many promotions he could see above his fireplace as many train ticket sized certificates all hand written and stamped. 'AMAZING, YOU'RE AMAZING!' he shouted. Lisa lept up into the air with a lightness she hadn't felt since she first heard the song still playing and she remembered what it felt like. She saw the many bundles of colours tied up on every surface of the room. What a success she'd been dressing people, but something was always missing. She didn't want to carry on the same. She wanted to see the very thing she covered day in day out with clothes. That's it, jacket off, shirt ripped open, fly down fast. Lisa's head thudded the oak beam driving her back down heavy onto the floor with her feet splitting the boards in two, pulling her down beyond the floor and down beyond that. The salesman stopped laughing, listened as growls turned into the shrieks of a strangled cat falling. Now a hole in the centre of the room made the room hazardous for small children and the elderly. There was a need for repairs and a new tenant, the salesman thought, a new tenant and an opportunity for promotion. He looked beyond the hole out through the small window to where the lady had looked through. Now another lady sat staring blankly through him through her window. Not a thought passed of anything near the expectation of the salesman who was on his way, coming down the stairs to meet her, polished red faced and pot bellied. PLOT GENERATOR: A seamstress with only days to live lives with a traveling salesman from Maryland.

It was snowing in the secret place where Santa and his helpers live. Over everywhere else, but the North Pole, a rain cloud sifted hail into rain and rain into hail, making men and women’s faces uglier than before with their disapproval of such weather. The closest he could get to seeing what Santa was doing in the middle of the night, out in the tool shed was behind an evergreen tree strung with a few yellow lights. Rudolf could never know, but the fantastic nature of his nose acting as a stand-alone light to guide Santa’s sleigh each special night was only fantasy. It was actually the case that his nose lit up from the absorption of external sources. It would take the smallest amount of light, the stars on a clear night, the distant street lamps below, some believed, even the glisten of an eye could be enough, but nobody has ever had the chance to determine whether this is true. A clattering of sauce pans inside the shed should have been heard by all the residents if there were any hills or mountains surrounding the red and white painted town, but it was only a plain flat ground, a safe place for snowmen and women and children and recently, snow-dogs to land. ‘Which pan of sauce is it?’ Through a small box window pane, Rudolf saw there were a many hundred sauce pans, none of which he had ever seen before. Some shiny and some dim, but all silver and gold. ‘Beautiful, you were beautiful, Patricia, yes, it could be you. It could be.’ His master was never one to have expressed any losing of the mind. ‘Oh but Georgina, I loved you, I liked the freckles, and remember I bought you a very good gift, despite what a naughty girl you’d been.’ Rudolf leaned in smelling the coffee that was far richer and exceptional than any he had smelt before. And the yellow lights strung around the tree moved with the breeze close to Rudolf’s nose so it glowed brightly outside Santa’s window. ‘My dear, my dear it must be you. That’s it. I will go to Mr Postman and ask for all thoughts from you, for you must be true,’ he turned round, ‘Rea?’ Santa looked out the window and Rudolf, seeing he was spotted, began to dig through the snow. ‘I wonder if I dropped it here?’ The door swung open. ‘What did you hear?’ ‘Nothing much. I’m looking for something… I dropped.’ ‘I see.’ Santa held a golden saucepan behind his back, the sheen of it was bright, causing Rudolf’s nose to glow brighter. ‘What is it?’ ‘Well, er.’ ‘Speak from the heart.’ Rudolf lifted his head high and took in a deep breath preparing him for saying something he’s stored for a long, long time. ‘I’ve dropped my willingness to keep myself from asking questions.’ ‘And?’ ‘Why am I here? Why is there no… No grass? Why do the snow men melt and what are you doing?’ ‘Alright, alright. There is no grass here, because of the snow. Snowmen melt where snow is not always found and I am trying to find the right saucepan to make snow with.’ ‘Sauce pan?’ ‘Yes?’ Rudolf peered closer and Santa stepped back, stroking the golden pan with his thumbs, away from his deer’s sight. ‘Are they alive?… The pans, I heard you talking to them.’ Santa grew red in the face. ‘Alive! Well of course not! I’ve never heard such a silly thing.’ He drew back towards the door. ‘Wait! Where are you going?’ Santa turned round as fast as he could. He opened the door and pushed in with his round tummy stopping him from slipping away quickly. He was somewhat slower at running since the ‘Mrs Santa’ had enough of feeding him and looking out to the tool shed and wondering about the pans. Now Rudolf stopped him, pulling him out from the door with his teeth. The golden saucepan fell through the air and onto the ground, hissing sharply as it touched the snow. A large hole surrounded it where the snow had melted. ‘Don’t – touch it.’ Rudolf frowned at the ground. The hole was so deep he wondered what was underneath. A strong wind came from the south, rattling Rudolf’s bells and almost taking Santa’s hat with it. The saucepan rolled to the side revealing a patch of grass. Rudolf’s eyes widened, his last memory of grass lay by his mother’s side, the first sound of bells, the last sight of his mother. It was grass that he amongst the other reindeer dreamt of each cold night. ‘There must be more of it,’ Rudolf meant to say with Santa’s jacket crammed between his teeth. Suddenly, Rudolf had a grand idea. He threw Santa flying across the snow and onto the ground. Next he walked into the shed, looked around at the many glimmering pans. He took the nearest silver by the handle and tossed it out onto the snow. Again he saw the snow melt and small flecks of grass appear from around it. Santa began to clamber up. Rudolf hurled another. He was too slow. He turned to the wall made of thin logs. Stamping his hooves he tensed his body focusing on the wall. Santa was up on his feet, looking wearily over to the shed. ‘No, get out of there, right this instant!’ Rudolf blew out a long deep breath, rattling the saucepan against one another causing a shrill almost scream-like rattle to clamber between them. Santa began to jog to the shed, holding out his sausage like fingers. Rudolf took in a deep breath and charged at the wall with his antlers that smashed through the wall and fell to pieces into the snow along with the reindeer, who, only a little scratched, shook his head from a head ache. With such force, each saucepan fell onto the ground erasing every patch of snow in sight. The eleven peered out of their stables. ‘Grass.’ This piece originally appeared on this page on 29th December 2012.

Burnt meringue stares from the women inside, sliding their attention from plodding toddlers to my body bouncing over every pane of glass, pulling away, pulling up my hood. They’re watching a sausage turn to the sound of my keys, as I leave the thought of bagels behind. 

‘Grass.’

I hear they have a lot better quality meat outside. Unlike here, the smell clings onto the air, seeps into the wood and furniture, so even if it’s dark, at least you have something that can colour your surroundings with taste. Ella her name was, and it was with her name that she first deceived me. If I had known it was Ellena and not just Ella as she said it was, I might have pointed her out for her dishonesty with the same force she used to jab me into this cupboard. We call it a cupboard because of it's size and it's function. It’s small and somehow acts as a storing hold for many of us, perhaps a hundred, it’s hard to tell. Often, standing in the silence, I think others like myself, attempt at distinguishing total number by the different coughs, sneezes and grunts. Some are deep and rich toned (new) whereas others are shallow and stunted (old). So breathless, some voices appear through the darkness, that anyone could believe a set of fingers fat or thin are squeezing. ‘Just making room for a bit more oxygen,’ we understand; that’s what we all think and we all understand. She had these eyes I can’t forget. Orange, blue, brown and green. I know, sounds alien, but she was real alright. I got to know her so well as I lay beside her stroking her feet with mine, that when I lay beside her, beneath her dream catcher I’d guess her dreams. And in the morning she told me I’d guessed right: she did dream of moving out of her hostel and going on a caravan trail with me. But she smelt different within the last few weeks before all I knew of daylight eroded. She smelt of starchy dusty sweat and wood. When I kissed her, her tongue was as cold as metal. Ella? Where are we? The caravan had broken down. All the water had evaporated after I’d filled it only the night before. I’m sure I had. I always used to be so aware of my actions. I had such an understanding of people too. I thought she was good to me. This was our time to be young and free. Now I wonder where the water went. Water. There’s none of it here. Water stops thirst. I’m never not thirsty. I know there’s cans and cans of meat we cannot locate. Bottled water and ketchup. There could be thousands. We’ll never run out of food, only sanity and without sanity time is endless.  A new, rich toned voice. Another waiting for food. They all wait for food, for the regular hour when cans are thrown and yellowed eyes watch dull lasers unlock the unsatisfying scent of tinned food. And I, I wait for her to take me back. I’m the only one she ever loved.  ‘You said you loved me!! Ella, Ellen, whatever your name is, where am I? Come back. Ella! Ella. Ella?’ This young rich voice can’t survive here. Not with all his screaming. Cough. Grunt. Sneeze if you must, but don’t you scream. Not when you need so much oxygen to raise your voice so loud. That’s ours. That’s mine. That air she’s given to me. His neck is close, soft.

Between the window with twelve panels and the netting with seven hundred and seventy five squares, a large spider hangs, his eight eyes looking down at the twelve pavement slabs some hundred metres below him. He waits there, imagining the thrill of the fall. He thinks of the girl who screamed three hours ago when he was found curled up on a window ledge inside having climbed through the two metre centre hole. He had already spent nine months considering the effect he had on giant girls. The way their two eyes grew taut and widened, perhaps, he had thought, in envy for his eight eyes. Eight eyes he intended to use for perceiving eight different perspectives on the meaning of life. One of his eyes looked at his small size, made him seize the idea that life was about making a difference to spidarity. It was time for change and so he climbed to the highest building, invited many important large spiders who were twenty five percent larger than himself, and, at such a height, he told them his dream. The grass looked greener on the hills than the important spiders remembered with their bigger brains. This they regarded as irrelevant to the immoral concept of letting such a spider copulate with a spider his race would never go near. The next day, approaching a certain lady spider from behind ‘fifty five percent larger than himself,’ he said marvelling aloud, a sharp foot turned upon him and stabbed right to the core of this eighth eye. Being a spider, he felt no pain. He had lost sight and with this the vision of such an exotic lady. Feeling nothing, he returned to the highest building and looked out. The grass, he thought, looked greener today. Then came a tugging at his leg - he had got himself caught under a pebble twice the weight of his body. A little girl’s laughter could be heard floating out the window on the top floor of the building. He closed all his eyes but the seventh, leaving him a pinhole to look through. Through this eye he saw the sun and nothing but the sun. It was bright yellow and white flakes soon came floating across his eye, the sun grew brighter. He looked at his bleeding leg and the flakes clustered together so he could not count its seventeen long hairs. The sun, he thought, will keep me warm with this reassurance. He pulled and left his eighth leg behind. He then looked at the sun and the sun took his sight. With six eyes left, he wrapped his silver thread around a nail, and let himself fall off the building to stop at a window where a young lady typed. He heard her reading aloud ‘with six eyes left, he wrapped his silver thread around a nail, and let himself fall off the building to stop at a window where a young lady typed'. The wind pulled his body back and forward as he thought about another meaning - perhaps his meaning was to be spotted, to be seen. He looked through his sixth eye. The girl was looking out at the spider while she typed. She wasn’t screaming, she was filling a page with a story about a spider with seven legs and six eyes. The rest of his life would be spent losing perspective, and the ability to walk. It would always be able to hang there off a building with unlimited amounts of silver thread. He would lose to gain something.

A few centimetres before the edge, the only difference between them was her name – Lea - and his name - Philip - and, unlike her, he squinted in the sun. They were kneeling on rocks, but both bodies relaxed, perhaps because they’d given up to feeling comfortable. A moment ago, he’d turned his head and thought of the convenience of Lea not being so strict a vegetarian: her leather handbag would guarantee a strong fix over the hand break. She could come with him if she liked. Though with her being very fine boned and having a strong imagination, it was likely she’d jump out the car, and run round like a yappy puppy and pull him out. But then his opinion of himself resembled that of a crunched snail so why would she save him? The car sat behind Lea, and she thought of Paul, the garage man, who she’d flirted with to get a deal. She winked at Philip pulled her top down and screwed up her face for Paul was a man who had an unfortunate habit of spitting upon every ‘t’. She returned to Philip in the third-hand car. And he was rolling a cigarette. The first thing he looked at was her clevage, which was still very much exposed. Then he looked at the car. He hadn’t smiled enthusiastically for reasons that he himself didn’t understand. She pulled faces, told him the detail of the deal, gave a little dance before him, but still he wouldn’t smile. They drove on towards the canyons with no money, but a bootload of melting chocolate milk pops. Now Philip watched Lea’s shoulders shudder. He could have cuddled her and warmed her in his slimy sweat, but he didn’t move. They’d gone together with a handful of contacts and photographs of men and women they’d once intimately known – all beautiful and all to be forgotten. Watching the pictures and figures fall beyond two thousand feet, they had expected some form of relief. In the car, Lea had packed a ‘party hits’ album including Abba and S Club 7, but after the release, there was no relief and no music. They returned to the car in silence. Watched the sun set. Looked at each other’s hands and the small space between them. They’d expected the car to go, and a life of friendship to continue, but the sun was setting, there was a small space between them. He thought of kissing her. She thought of how awkward it would be if this did happen and so she turned the key in the ignition. They were going nowhere. For these two characters the thought of having little time left in their young lives was not enough to inspire romance. She waited for him as he waited for her. After two days, they remembered their phones which were now dead. Any trace of hope for romance had fallen from the cliff for they only saw there own guilt and the other accusing them. Lea thought she saw a pig way down below and she whispered ‘kill it’. Then came a purring. Lea glared at Philip for questioning her to be the source. They looked about them. And they thought of the pain of the pebbles grinding into their knees. Behind them was a wounded tiger, the size of a tiger, hobbling around from a wound. Then it began to meow like a kitten. At first sight, the wimp of a man held out his arms in surrender. Lea, being one of economic believers, stood up in her recycled trainers. She remembered the slogan – put a tiger in your tank. She looked at Philip who was looking terribly worried despite the large knife the coward had in his pocket.  ‘Come on, let’s put it out of its misery’ ‘Why,’ he replied, ‘but you’re a vegetarian.’ ‘Yes, well you won’t kill yourself, will you?’ He looked deeply hurt by this. ‘And you won’t drive us off the cliff together. You’d never kill me. But you couldn’t kneel here forever, you’ll complain so much when you haven’t eaten for three days that I might push you off the cliff and then I’d get accused of murder and have to die in some gruesome way. Come on, kill the tiger and use it for fuel.’ The muscles on Philip’s face twitched, ready to laugh, scream and cry. He didn’t know what to do, and he began to feel stressed about being unable to make a decision. ‘Take the knife’ ‘I will climb inside,’ They turned around. The tiger had stood up and began talking. ‘I will climb inside and take my life for your fuel.’ The tiger had began to assess an entrance into the tank, assessing it like Paul assessed the car before he told Lea it would last them the journey and back. Lea looked at Philip, she stepped towards him, put her hand into his pocket and stroked his leg through the thin material. She then took the knife from his belt and placed it into his hands. Together, they walked towards the tiger.

I didn't think to care if anyone would mind me staring or playing with some stranger's dog. The ball had rolled to me feet onto the same path the girl sat on and I walked upon. I was on my way home when a ball had rolled down the hill slowly towards the road. Someone had dropped it. I turned to see paws beneath a fence and a small piece of a dog face between the gates. He waited and I tossed it over for him. He was lonely and it was good to see his paws disappear. I didn't think I'd thrown the ball into the hedge, so he'd be happy. In the office, eight out of nine of the people who work there had asked me how I was doing, if I was finding the job boring yet, and I was determined to keep smiling. I walked out onto the tarmac - all a greyish colour for the walk home, I don't remember seeing it black. I heard laughter, looked up, and saw a little girl was sitting on the pavement, not quite as blonde as the girl in the picture above me. A black and white cat was coiling round her, and causing no harm. I don't wish to make a literary political statement here, but the story doesn't have to start hissing to bring forth a snake to bite the poor kid's head off, or something awful like that. No one was around the girl, but the cat. It had sharp claws that could have clawed her plump face. I stood close. 'Is that your daughter?' 'No,' I replied, looking up to see a topless old man leaning out of the window from the house above. 'Pretty, isn't she.' I looked at the girl, and behind me, I imagined the old man licking his lips. I turned round to him, frowning, not knowing what to do. 'Dad, put some clothes on!' Behind me was a man, who must have been the father of the giggling little girl for he had a pram. He looked at me, 'alright?' He said. What could I say. I couldn't say I was 'good' as I'd said in the office. I just kept smiling and walked away. The old man was still leaning out the window and I looked at the greyish tarmac, thinking of the little girl and trying not to analyse anything...