A Taste


(Credit: Chuchy5 on DeviantArt)


I take a deep breath.

Cinnamon and paprika.

The chicken has probably been marinating since yesterday. Now the hissing fat is dripping into a tray, while the chef yells to her minions about the sauce. I imagine what it must be like to live upstairs in this mansion, not only having a feast for dinner every day, but having people prepare that feast for you. Eating a whole chicken, the cinnamon tickling my nose, the gravy running down my chin. I lick my lips.


The chef’s call pulls me back. I must have leant against the door while I was imagining, because it is wide open now. The chef marches over to me.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ With one hand, she adjusts her apron; the other clutches half a lemon. ‘Look, I don’t have anything for you today.’

I stare at the lemon.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘but you have to leave.’

I point at the lemon.

‘What?’ she says, ‘I’ve already pressed it.’

I point at the lemon again.

‘Alright,’ she hands me the lemon, ‘but you still have to go.’

I cradle the lemon in my hands as I turn my back. A firm push gets me started and I stagger across the courtyard. Beyond the gate, I sit down by the side of the road with my prize. I hold the lemon above my mouth and press it for all I am worth. The tart drops sting my lips. It is heaven.

In The Forest

The trees surrounding me are like four severed forearms, elongated fingers reaching far above my head, but still an eternity from the sky. Perhaps they will be satisfied with tearing holes in reality where they can and I think they have already done so, because when the wind blows I glimpse a void behind the foliage and I can feel it sucking me in. And I wonder how the rest of the forest can seem so unaffected. The dripping from the trees mingling with the bird song in the air, the smell of moist earth, a ray of sun peeking out from behind a could and making a rainbow in a cobweb filled with pearls.

How can this world be torn?

I have to move or I will be dragged into nothing, so I climb the muddy hill behind me. I slip and slide and get grimy hands, but even as I near the top I sink deeper into the hole that I dug for myself. I don’t expect your sympathy, after all I could have let the spade stay in the shed, but I hope you understand how hard it can be to clamber out once one has reached the bottom. Not that I expect you can see the hole. I could try showing you, if you want, but there is a risk of me pulling you down instead of you helping me out.



He is on a slippery, sloping roof. Confident of his grip, he stares at the trees, willing himself to see the forest. Connections were never his strong suit, but he knows they are there. He has paid large sums for an eye operation which made all the colours brighter, stronger, thus making the world look like a collage pieced together from wrapping paper and paint magazines. When he complained, he had been offered his money back, but he could not stand the smell of mildew from the notes.

It begins to rain and the raindrops hiss all around him. Ignoring their threats, he pokes out his tongue and tastes several, before he looks from the clouds to the trees to the roof and back to the trees and wonders what could bind these things together.

He makes a frame with his fingers and thumbs and looks at the world in this new way, slipping slightly as soon as he lets go of the roof. He picks up speed, reaches the end of the roof, tumbles over the side and the sky and the trees and the house become one big blur to his eyes.

A Man with a Hat

credit: gwenbeads.blogspot.dk

credit: gwenbeads.blogspot.dk

There is a man
Strolling along the pavement.
He smiles at you.
Do you hear his walking stick meeting the stones?


He touches his hat
It is old and made of felt
With a feather so long it tickles your nose.
Can you smell the dust?


He makes his hat disappear
In a puff of smoke
Revealing yellow curls underneath
Can you taste the burnt air?


It seems you were tricked;
The air is clear
And the man has no walking stick as he continues on his way,
But he tips his top hat at you as he leaves your brain.

Chewing Gum

PinK, wHy So pINk??

Pink. (Photo credit: sometimes rains in JUN)

My eyelid has developed a tic. I rest my head on my hand in an attempt to stop it and flash a forced smile across the table at Felicia. She continues her monologue with accompanying noisy, sticky chews on her chewing gum. I eat a chip and as the salt spreads through my mouth and my foot taps the floor silently, I recall the conversation I had with my cousin earlier.

‘It’ll be fun,’ she said, ‘just show her around town,’ she said, ‘you’ve been single for rather long,’ she said.

A lump of pink between Felicia’s teeth. Also, she asked me to be nice. I take a deep breath.

‘Felicia’s been through a lot,’ she told me and I really do not want to make it any worse for her. There is a particularly wet chew from Felicia.

‘Just spit it out, for Christ’s sake!’

A New World

And when I open my eyes, there will be light.

The smell of spring rain. The remains of the droplets dry on my eyelids. The breeze in the leaves and the song of a blackbird. I dig my fingers into the damp moss. It is like a sponge and I squeeze the water out.

I inhale, breathe in the lilacs.

Open my eyes and there is light. I can see the light.

A car in the distance and I curse the driver. Why did he have to intrude on my world? Now I have to make a new one. I close my eyes.

And when I open my eyes, there will be light.

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