If it came to court, he’d say he’d thought about the fire angle, the safety features, how he’d researched how they’d escape. This tower block had three lifts. The girls were safe with him and he could run fast, even with three in tow because he jogged everywhere with one in the buggy, one riding behind and baby strapped to his chest.
At court he’d dress in a suit, would not expose his wife. He’d focus on the girls. That’s all.
His roll-up was burning low. After his PhD finished, he’d aim for Cambridge. Out the window the seagulls swooped. They loved the thermals. If that wasn’t play he didn’t know what was. Behind him the charity shop toys littered the carpet. A complete bargain. He was lucky; his girls, this view.
Showing posts with label Prompt 10. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prompt 10. Show all posts
Monday, 17 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'Hope' by Vicky Newham
She
crouches against the cold wall. Motionless. Strains her ears.
Listens. Scans the calm hush of the roof terrace. Is it safe now? Has
the man gone?
Overhead, the night-time gods spill black and grey, like cavernous yawns. Pain sears through her knees, the flimsy cloth of her trousers no match for stones.
She straightens up. Grabs the parapet. Swings leaden legs over and rests her butt. Sits.
Careful.
Easy to slip.
She inhales the vista's sweetness; the refuge that night provides.
All around, the quiet horizon screams with light. It's not the whispers of those who sleep that she hears; not the manic inertia of the shift-workers and insomniacs. It's the pained tapping of the homeless who prowl the city at night, as she does. Their punctured souls drip like leaky buckets on knowing pavements.
Yes.
She could let herself slip. End the agony of a life diminished.
And yet. Hope scratches again, louder now. Somewhere in this vast city, kindness will smile on her again. Kindness will restore the life which misfortune greedily stole.
Overhead, the night-time gods spill black and grey, like cavernous yawns. Pain sears through her knees, the flimsy cloth of her trousers no match for stones.
She straightens up. Grabs the parapet. Swings leaden legs over and rests her butt. Sits.
Careful.
Easy to slip.
She inhales the vista's sweetness; the refuge that night provides.
All around, the quiet horizon screams with light. It's not the whispers of those who sleep that she hears; not the manic inertia of the shift-workers and insomniacs. It's the pained tapping of the homeless who prowl the city at night, as she does. Their punctured souls drip like leaky buckets on knowing pavements.
Yes.
She could let herself slip. End the agony of a life diminished.
And yet. Hope scratches again, louder now. Somewhere in this vast city, kindness will smile on her again. Kindness will restore the life which misfortune greedily stole.
Write-In 2019: 'Working at the Bank' by Sarah Mosedale
Come out of the right exit at Bank early Friday mornings back in 1978 and there she is. Not always the same exit. So you can’t plan to avoid her. The bosses used to send someone round to check up on her and sometimes that person got irritated trekking round all those exits looking for her. But she is soon appreciated for the rare pearl she is, someone who is actually giving the job her all. No need for checking up. It’s a lot cheaper to just give her the Employee of the Week bullshit from time to time, it seems to be all she needs, if she even needs that. Inconceivable that she doesn’t need anything. She’s either very stupid or some kind of nutcase. Anyway it’s exactly the sort of stupidity or nuttiness they need so it seems everyone’s happy.
She’s got a broad grin and a momentary flash of full, friendly, eye contact for everyone, you’ve taken the paper she’s holding out to you before you know it. It feels rude to do anything else. And the paper’s OK, it’s just some kind of entertainment guide, there’s no scam involved, it’s harmless and there are litter bins everywhere that you can dump it in anyway.
You might think someone handing out free newspapers in the cold London dawn would make you feel guilty as you hurry past in your suit to your important finance job. But there’s no way you can feel guilty about her. This is her real gift, the sharpest tool in her kit. She’s enjoying herself and you can see it. If you only knew it she feels sorry for you, chained to your hamster wheel, running your rat race. She’s stoned, immaculate. But you’d never imagine that.
She’s got a broad grin and a momentary flash of full, friendly, eye contact for everyone, you’ve taken the paper she’s holding out to you before you know it. It feels rude to do anything else. And the paper’s OK, it’s just some kind of entertainment guide, there’s no scam involved, it’s harmless and there are litter bins everywhere that you can dump it in anyway.
You might think someone handing out free newspapers in the cold London dawn would make you feel guilty as you hurry past in your suit to your important finance job. But there’s no way you can feel guilty about her. This is her real gift, the sharpest tool in her kit. She’s enjoying herself and you can see it. If you only knew it she feels sorry for you, chained to your hamster wheel, running your rat race. She’s stoned, immaculate. But you’d never imagine that.
Sunday, 16 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'Hot' by Sarah Freligh
Aunt Fran sounded happier after she moved to Tucson. Lots of sun, she wrote in loopy letters that lilted across the back of a postcard. AND NO SNOW! Sure, it was 98 in April, but it was dry heat, no humidity.
In June, she shared a Facebook picture of her and her three kids lined up in front of a door, noses white with zinc oxide: It’s true! You can fry an egg on the pavement!
In August, she called to say was suffocating. That God was whispering to her.
The first of September, my father flew out and took care of it. The burials, the questions: Had she been troubled? What kind of mother would drown her kids?
The water was cold, my father said. It was so hot out.
In June, she shared a Facebook picture of her and her three kids lined up in front of a door, noses white with zinc oxide: It’s true! You can fry an egg on the pavement!
In August, she called to say was suffocating. That God was whispering to her.
The first of September, my father flew out and took care of it. The burials, the questions: Had she been troubled? What kind of mother would drown her kids?
The water was cold, my father said. It was so hot out.
Write-In 2019: 'Like a Phoenix' by Malcolm Richardson
Skyscrapers and blocks of flats thrust their dwellers heavenwards like a phoenix rising from the ashes. A new ring road built to expedite weary travellers, a new cathedral for the faithful. Created from one November night of destruction almost eighty years ago. The rebirth of a functioning city; old and new sit side by side in a cacophony of concrete and glass melding with ancient brick and stonework. Higher and higher, occupants ascend.
Write-In 2019: 'Scale' by Kamil Ahsan
Every morning on Michigan Ave., I choose not to look up. There’s really no point to it. I’ve realized something: the thing about scale is—we don’t have a sense for it. Gauging scale is entirely separate from each of the senses; not like balance where otoliths sink and lift with each step, because ears do more than just listen. Our eyes are, of course, not enough. We see things from far away, like an hotel elevator door closing—an elevator I will not catch, I believe. I have some intuition about it, but who knows? What if I could?
So why look up when I can’t see the top, or comprehend that miniscule penthouse I’ve cleaned so often. I’d only wonder: what’s going on in there? What’s going on out there? Have the steel bars weathered? Has the galvanizing zinc given way to the icy winds since the last time somebody was up there? What’s the way down like? See? There’s so much whataboutism with scale, no gradation: a condition borne of a lack of nuance. Space or time, really. If I’d woken up earlier last Sunday, I wouldn’t be cleaning urine-soaked floors, picking up damp towels covered in hair.
So if I pass my lilting trolley along the hallways at a languid pace, checking the signs, there is no telling that something is deeply wrong. If there’s a door almost-closed, it’s suspicious only because it does not fit a visual pattern, not a historical one. If I enter and see a broken window—the mite-sized penthouse a ballroom with no window—and if I see blood on the shards, I must pull myself back, because remember: we don’t have a sense of scale—347 floors above the ground—to truly perceive what is happening down below.
So why look up when I can’t see the top, or comprehend that miniscule penthouse I’ve cleaned so often. I’d only wonder: what’s going on in there? What’s going on out there? Have the steel bars weathered? Has the galvanizing zinc given way to the icy winds since the last time somebody was up there? What’s the way down like? See? There’s so much whataboutism with scale, no gradation: a condition borne of a lack of nuance. Space or time, really. If I’d woken up earlier last Sunday, I wouldn’t be cleaning urine-soaked floors, picking up damp towels covered in hair.
So if I pass my lilting trolley along the hallways at a languid pace, checking the signs, there is no telling that something is deeply wrong. If there’s a door almost-closed, it’s suspicious only because it does not fit a visual pattern, not a historical one. If I enter and see a broken window—the mite-sized penthouse a ballroom with no window—and if I see blood on the shards, I must pull myself back, because remember: we don’t have a sense of scale—347 floors above the ground—to truly perceive what is happening down below.
Write-In 2019: 'Cityscape' by Amanda Jones
She didn’t like to cry in public but the work reminded her so powerfully of that time. A bus ride into the centre of Coventry on a grey, grey day. Finding the courage to ask for directions to the gallery. Breathing deeply as she went in. Was she even allowed in this place? Were her shoes too cheap? Her hair too unwashed? Her mind too shallow?
Her first time in an art gallery. She went to the Ladies. Adjusted her top. Her shoddy top that she had to wear so the bruises on her arms didn’t show. Did her best with hair and make-up. Went into the first room. And had a revelation that was like a thunderclap.
She shakes herself. Goes to the Ladies. Sniffs. Repairs the make-up. Shakes her expensively nuanced hair into place. Rejoins the hovering escort from the public relations firm. Smiles.
“Ready?” A professionally soft lilting voice. “Yes, ready”. The woman presses, the button, calls the lift. The door opens and let them in, opens and lets them out. The usual cameras and noise. Glasses ranked on the long zinc bar. She goes to the podium. Prepares to speak.
Her first time in an art gallery. She went to the Ladies. Adjusted her top. Her shoddy top that she had to wear so the bruises on her arms didn’t show. Did her best with hair and make-up. Went into the first room. And had a revelation that was like a thunderclap.
She shakes herself. Goes to the Ladies. Sniffs. Repairs the make-up. Shakes her expensively nuanced hair into place. Rejoins the hovering escort from the public relations firm. Smiles.
“Ready?” A professionally soft lilting voice. “Yes, ready”. The woman presses, the button, calls the lift. The door opens and let them in, opens and lets them out. The usual cameras and noise. Glasses ranked on the long zinc bar. She goes to the podium. Prepares to speak.
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