our feet are cooling in the water
white and waving flags beneath
who’s the coward in surrender?
i speak through broken bloody teeth
the violins have started ringing
no fat lady joins in singing
up on the ridge the last sun lives
and from the darkness tucked behind
in the clefts of waterwillows
an hours-early train arrives
climb the steps back to the grasses
'darling -', pass me last remarks
fingers whisper in each other
bait and hook and
fuck i’m gone
braid your hair to wrap the tracks
hold us home. vibrating - warm
wash back to the ocean’s edge
waves are breaking spray again
scarpower asked: Well... this is awkward. P.S. Don't follow me, I'm embarrassed.
failing to see the awkward so im gonna have to now. curiosity, meet cat.
llovvelly asked: Nah I'm not fighting back really because you're cuteness distracts me
because you are teh homo
scarpower asked: the newest short story.... Whew! Excellent. I'm sitting in class trying not to giggle.
haha dope, it worked !! school or uni ?
llovvelly asked: I'll bash ya
ahahah this is ‘winning’ to you ? such low standards
llovvelly asked: I triple dare you to try that shit with me
youre on lil chicken
llovvelly asked: 6 ?
itll be 7 if you dont watch out
llovvelly asked: But you're so cute!
llovvelly asked: oh ha ha ha. you're very crafty babe
im gonna get you back for this you rascal
llovvelly asked: My mum would prefer it if you were gay
So would your dad ;)
llovvelly asked: Does your mum know that you're gay ?
your mum sure knows im not
A fat man was late for work. His huge pudding-feet slopped along the ground. With each step his shoes clicked and hissed like insects: he wore tap-dancing shoes, a relic of times gone by when, as a child, he’d roamed the countryside in a vaudeville-revival act. Things were different now. The golden days were gone.
Sweat rolled down his face and over the bulbous sack that passed for his chin. Work was at the end of Bourke St, on the corner of Spencer St just opposite Southern Cross station. Between work and his protruding belly lay 800 meters of sidewalk, two gradual but degrading hills and only four sets of lights to rest at, if he was lucky. But no - he couldn’t rest, not for a second. You can only be late so many times in the telemarketing industry. It was a harsh mistress, and all its despondent gravity weighed on him that morning. His own was generally bad enough. But he fought on, thumping slowly along Bourne St as the human antelopes around him bounded forward. They moved so quickly, he knew collision was inevitable. As if a vengeful God heard his thoughts and wreaked It’s displeasure, a woman with a pram that she was struggling to hold on the gentle down-slope was t-boned by a very grim, white-headed man in a prim black suit. The baby screamed, the grim man’s eyes flew wide, and the whole sidewalk rushed to see the commotion. They crowded in a growing school around the epicentre of the tragedy.
Someone yelled, ‘Call an ambulance!’
A grandmother in a headscarf shouted back ‘Mind your own business!’
And from there it all degenerated into a frenzy of cries, insults, and unseemly proposals regarding someone’s mother. The fat man despaired then: the way to salvation, blocked before he even managed to get up some momentum. He knew with icy certainty that he must go on. There was no way through the mob ahead. It would eat him alive and gestate him in its churning bowels.
So he must cross the street. He settled to a stop on the curb, and surveyed the raging torrent of cars and trucks blistering by. The two streams of traffic were divided by the pale concrete of the the inbound and outbound tram tracks. He waited for a break, precious seconds dropping off the clock. Finally a light turned red down the street, the road cleared. And with a gasping breath he staggered onto the asphalt. It was a thrill akin to jumping into unknown water. His heart pounded more than usual. With heavy, torturous steps he began to cross. he’d walked this walk thousands of times. Twenty years in telemarketing and you had to keep fit somehow. For 20 years, he’d seen these lights take turns. Three minutes of red along Bourke St and five across it. He had two minutes and twenty seconds to clear the forty meters of road, tram-line and road. He reckoned he could do it. The threat of getting caught in traffic (hard-bitten Melbourne commuters wouldn’t stop for a blind kitten, let alone a fat man in a sweaty suit) was enough to warrant maximum velocity. He gunned it. Back straining, feet sliding, belly swinging he accelerated. Inches flew by at a rate of several. Seconds passed. Only a minute left, 20 meters to go. He lunged forward as far as he dared with each step, tempting fat and gravity but he paid them no mind. This was his time to shine, dammit. He hit the halfway mark, his momentum too great to control, dragging him along with it. The first tram tracks were at his feet. He heard a nearby rumble. His blood went cold. He made the fatal mistake of turning to look and saw his doom.
The 96 tram, approaching at speed, rolling forward and unrelenting. It was closing fast. Too fast. The fat man braced himself, ready to face death on the tram tracks. The 96 powered close. He could see the condensation on its windshield, dripping onto the thick black band of hard rubber (a sort of shield) running across its front. The tram never slowed. The driver was never found afterward: neither the tram company nor any of the passengers had any idea who he was. Bureaucratic oversight, perhaps. So it was never understood just why he didn’t slow down. Was he asleep at the wheel? Drunk? Filled with murderous rage? Or perhaps he knew what would happen - perhaps he was an angel in disguise.
The impact as the tram rammed into the fat man shook it on the tracks. It let go a long groan. The fat man groaned, too. The rubber shield was lodged firmly under his expansive backside. It held him upright, propelling him forward. He was saved from being dragged beneath it by his shoes. The metal soles slide over the concrete like skates over ice. The fat man only realised he wasn’t dead when he heard the rasping sound of the tap shoes scraping beneath him.He opened his eyes, blinking at a suddenly-glaring sun. Through watery eyelids he watched the world race past, faster than he’d gone on two feet in his whole life.
He laughed and whooped as he was pushed uphill, downhill, uphill again and finally to the end of Bourke St, a few steps from his work. The jolt of the tram coming to a stop was enough to dislodge him. He straightened his suit, checked his watch (9:27AM, he was early!), and prepared to cross the street.