five stray minutes

Pictures

Published on September 29, 2019September 29, 2019 by Allison Wright1 Comment

So many pictures, all in frames. I am good at drilling holes in walls. I am. My father taught me well, you see. Plus I have had practice. Plenty of it. All the places I have lived.

I won’t be exercising this talent this time, though. I am letting go. Such things are burned already into my soul. I have kept one. My sister knows which one. She and I took turns with the handle of that press.

Her first wood engraving. Nothing else matters. I have an easel on which to display it – as if it were something special. It is. I’ll clean up the easel and the picture this week.

Astray

Published on September 18, 2019 by Jane Brewer1 Comment

I didn’t think I had five stray minutes, but why? Most of my minutes are stray. Stray as in “moving away aimlessly from a group or from the right course or place;” stray when I lean on the wall and strain to hear the song of the elusive oriole; stray when I pick up an old gardening book and lose myself in Victorian hot beds; stray when I lie on the sofa and stare out of the window at the clouds. I have an affection for stray animals, stray thoughts, stray people, those apart from the group. So why did I think I didn’t have five stray minutes? Probably because I’m too busy straying.

Care work

Published on September 15, 2019 by Karin Sander5 Comments

It’s four and half years now I find myself watching the slow and steady decline of my mother. My days are structured by her ingestion and digestion, and the proper preparation of her medication. In between I find some time to work, to read books to enter a universe not ruled by approaching death. Which according to Camus is not feasible as we are all condemned to death. Sure, he’s right and what I’m doing makes no sense at all, still I’m doing it – la femme révoltée.

Noise Again but Louder

Published on September 14, 2019 by sheilapem1 Comment

Once again I am. Sitting in the Clubhouse, and once again I am being deafened by noise. This time by pop music, some of which is my favourites fro the 70s and 80s. Did we play this music so loud then? When did legislation about decibel levels come in? So now I can here you asking why I should subject myself to this. Well the answer is simple really; this is the only place where I cN get reliable wi-fi when I am away from home. I can’t always rely on mobile data either. So I come to the clubhouse in 30 or 45 minute bursts. Otherwise I cannot check emails or websites or even ebay. But most importantly I can’t upload to five stray minutes!.. Now to upload and then my suffering will be done for the day!

Closure

Published on September 13, 2019September 14, 2019 by Anett Enzmann7 Comments

In front of the house there had been a dead tree. Its bark had long scaled off, leaving it white and bare and raw. A rosebush had fancied it the spot to make its new home and entwined itself around its tall stature—spawning myriads of bright pink blossoms every year, imbuing the air around the house with the scent of summer. There were so many of them that every visitor would get a bouquet of roses, should they want one, and sometimes I would feed one or two flowers to the iguana.

…

I turn around the corner and reluctantly step onto the street. I used to live here. This is weird. Nothing has changed. The narrow street is lined with the same neatly cut hedges, behind which the deceivingly friendly dwellers of this village lurk. It’s quiet, eerie, just like it had always been, back then. I keep walking towards the house, each step slower than the one before—

…and there it is. A low, wooden fence, and behind it the cowering, red brick stone structure, a lonely, garishly green watering can, and a bench that wasn’t there before. The dead tree must have had to yield to a neatly mowed lawn, and the scent of summer has long since faded away.

[214 words]

Kleiser, G., (1917)

Published on September 13, 2019September 13, 2019 by Allison Wright3 Comments

Kleiser, G., (1917). Fifteen Thousand Useful Phrases. Eleventh edition. New York and London: Funk & Wagnalls Company.

I think your candor is charming.

(Lost the page number).

102 years later, candor autocorrects to candle.

Charming.

That, by the way, is listed as a conversational phrase.

Are we somewhere pressing our own buttons?

Published on September 11, 2019 by Jane Brewer1 Comment

What if life was just a hologram, and we all created our own reality? A sort of Minecraft where you could recreate the real world, exploring it it all the while for entertainment and educational satisfaction, or even to score points. A game where we choose our friends and partners like chess pieces; a rook to teach us complex moves; a pawn to do our bidding? Maybe we are somewhere else, pressing our own buttons.

My littlest niece once asked me to play Minecraft with her. We built dens and fires from pixels all morning, sitting on the sofa. When I told her I used to do that at her age in real life, in the woods, she didn’t believe me.

She asked, “Real woods?”

“How do you know the difference between the real woods and the Minecraft woods?” I asked her.

She said, “I don’t know.”

Sometimes, nor do I.

The Trap (Part 4)

Published on September 10, 2019September 10, 2019 by Andrea Bernard7 Comments

Now that he was hooked, she had to proceed carefully.

“There is one catch though”, she continued, “you have to follow a dress code. Jeans and t-shirt won’t do.”

He examined her face, looking for clues if this was true.

“Come on, it’s a fetish club! We go to your place and I wait outside while you change quickly.”

“No, you come with me while I change.”

“Hell, no! I wait outside.”

Would he buy it?

When they reached his apartment, he went inside, turning around a few times to see whether she was still there, then disappeared.

She counted to ten. Then fifteen. Then turned around and ran. Didn’t stop for half an hour, running and turning corners, not looking behind her, now feeling the panic and anger that she had successfully suppressed all evening. It was over.

David

Published on September 10, 2019 by kslelvas1 Comment

I woke somewhy, rose, drank water, saw the time – 4:30 am – and let a dog out. Checked messages as I often do. His post surprised me. Somehow he found the strength… but no. Written by family, a notice of passing. How to grieve my most formative friend from earliest school days? I don’t know, I thought, as the silent, uninstructive wet ran on my cheeks.

The Trap (Part 3)

Published on September 8, 2019September 8, 2019 by Andrea Bernard4 Comments

She would take him to this kinky techno club. Because – as “laissez-faire” as it might appear to outsiders – this was actually one of the few places where she knew she would find help.

“I think you like a thrill”, she began, “and I know just the place. There is this kinky club, you know it? I can get you in. They don’t accept single men, but if you want, I’m your ticket for tonight.”

He was immediately hooked.

(to be continued)

Copyright 2019 Andrea Bernard
Writing: 5:30 minutes, editing: 5 minutes