Parents in the Dust

Dusty floor

The boy draws faces in the dust on the vacuum cleaner with a sown on finger.

‘This is my mother,’ he says, pointing at the smiley with long spiky hair down one side of its head. ‘She looks like that nice woman at the train station who played me a song on her guitar. The hair’s supposed to be purple.’ He points at the other smiley, ‘And this is my father. He’s just like that man down the road who asked me where I lived once, only he’d never yell. Not even if I broke a vase with my football.’

‘I think they met each other,’ he scratches the stitches on his neck, ‘in a burning building? No, at a secret meeting for spies. They were both spies really, and they left to go on a secret mission, but they’ll be back some day and then they’ll teach me to be a spy. The best spy.’

I am sure he could go on for a long time yet, but I am getting hungry and mice do not catch themselves. So I stretch and go to the door where I meow and scratch at the panel.

‘You’re going out already?’ he asks.

I scratch again.

‘I was just getting to the best part too,’ he mumbles as he lets me slip out into the cool autumn air. Chasing down my dinner, I wonder how the boy will react if he ever finds out that creations like him do not have any parents.

Old Fashioned Beauty



He lived in loneliness for a long time before he succeeded in creating her. He gave her milky skin, rosy lips and cheeks and hair the colour of ripe wheat. He made her thighs and belly round and her breasts like small white apples. Caressing her weak chin, he turned on the power.

When she opened her blue eyes; pale to the point of seeming blind, his heart gave out, and she was left alone in a world that would have thought her Venus about 200 years earlier, but now thought she was lacking both exercise and sunlight.

%d bloggers like this: