moblog uk

Microhappy

group profile | members | imagewall

« older newer »

Very short stories to read at the bus stop.


Simply do this:
1. Register for a moblog account here
2. Join this group here
3. Email or MMS your picture and text to microhappy-AT-moblog-DOT-net

Add Short stories to read at the bus stop Mippin widget



follow @creativewriting

Search this moblog


Recent visitors

these days

(viewed 1399 times)
Bookmark and Share
I look down at my mobile phone for the time of day, I see the clock, the
date, I don't read them, I don't take in the information. Looking up from
the phone my whereabouts slides like a poster off the wall before my eyes; a
high ceiling, I'm in a room full of dry bamboo shoots, right in the hollow 'o',
in the clunk and thudding wood sounds. There's a girl pushing towards me
through the hardened curtains and she's laughing with that same mischievous 'o'!
She grabs, grabs and it?s wood clacks and owl coos and adrenaline. 'You
got me!' The timber curtains turn into people, hundreds of them,
shuddering with the train, the harsh strip light, engine hum and mp3 tin
frequency; us hugged together tightly. Good
morning rush hour. The sleepys wear
their bodies like overcoats so it's like we're hiding in a wardrobe, me with my
black cowl, she with a velvet material across her eyes, her mouth says 'Who
wears the hoody in this relationship?' Shrieeeeeek! We bash against the zombies like a tickling
outrage, a crash against their dream hangovers, we make their heads bob along
the sea of their shoulders. I look down
at my mobile phone for the time of day, I see the clock, the date, I don't read
them, I don't take in the information. I
look up from the LCD display into night time, her and me on the shores of
Barceloneta, I'm naked. "Go, go go!" The spirit amphetamine surges when she kisses
me away towards the water, the tepid air gone hot in my lungs I scream it out
above the white noise ocean and the thud of my feet in the sand as I'm running. I jump and turn back first, the wall explodes
in spray, shattered concrete, ice grains like electricity charge my shoulders;
I blackout. "How long have we been
here?" Incense smoke detaches in
thick strands and curls up to meet the cornice of our bedroom. "Two days." she says, enveloping my
head in the duvet and following me in, behind her the yellow lantern lights
blur out of focus; now they look like candles.
The tea lights make 50 tiny hemispheres dotted on and around a fallen
tree trunk in the park, they shape an arrow pointing up the verge, a signpost
to the London sky. She catches me remembering and four arms and
two bodies interlock like always, a way of sharing the memories. I look down at my mobile phone for the time
of day, I see the clock, the date, I don't read them, I don't take in the
information. I look up, my eyes hit slap-bang into a train window pane,
the buildings outside leave a trail with the speed we're at. She doesn't know why I'm staring out so intently,
likewise fixing me in place with her quizzical expression, keeping me there
until I satisfy it; "OK, Look now."
The night like punk lashes brush glass, cheeks flat out for curiosity
and I see those eyes go wide, so wide the other shoreline's for a vanishing
point. A series of letters in big, black
print run left to right on the passing office block window; it's a message for
her. We shuttle past and get imprinted
with what's written; does Time really move us away anywhere? In wonder and at
the barrel end of a Starfleet Phaser, frozen for the female officer in tight 60s
cut blue who's set to kill, "Don't shoot..." I say "...I got you a pineapple!" The red-orange rays tingle as she says it; "We're
beaming up." There's a shimmering
sound, some left over sparkles and the Berlin squat is every colour paint, all
angles and none of them; a camera flash burns our picture to the room, more
graffiti scrawl, a fine art tag of the sudden photograph. We let our partied-out feet drain down the
staircase, ourselves river afterwards like a metal spring, our knitted fingers,
nimble as invincible and unaware of modelling for the walls of spray paint. I look down at my mobile phone for the time
of day, I see the clock, the date, I don?t read them, I don?t take in the
information. The phone's screen light
clicks off leaving bruised purple squares across the darkness of the cloak
room, my eyes adjust as each square fades into the pixelating low light, out of
the fuzzing an A4 David Hasselhoff comes grinning celotaped to the fire escape
door, a speech bubble: "Meet Louis here." That's the silhouette, framed in the opened
door she rushes me, tumbling through the fire escape together we race nobody up
the stairs full pelt. The rooftop is
just another floor but with the ceiling missing, the Capital's landscape for
hour long lips, wine red as the last staining rays of Sun. In the sunset of flooded marsh land we watch
this sheet white animal drinking at a pond.
She whispers, "His mother was a unicorn." Walking home through the fields, we know like
we always have, together we are a universe.
I look down at my mobile phone for the time of day, I see the clock, the
date, I don't read them, I don't take in the information.

Posted by louis

20th Mar 2009, 20:53  

Advert