September 2011
8 posts
Sergio, and his many whores.
On the eve that Sergio realised he did not love his wife, he was caught in a vicious stalemate with his chess partner. One sick revolving game played out with a king and a queen and another king for hours and hours till fifty useless moves were completed and the game ended. And then he went to her, his whore.
She sat where she always sat by the fountain with the siren statues. With her hair hung...
Station
Killing time that was what he was good at. He made the second hand tick along the face. He stirred it. And stirred it again. He tapped his hands on the table and checked his phone and there were no texts in it. Nobody was looking in. He looked down at the coffee again and tasted it, it was bad. There was the sound of shuddering tracks and the train rushed past. He saw himself in the window with...
Matador
They ran past cafés. Over the tiles. Two Spanish children, boy and girl. Boy with that straw hat and girl with that red Spanish dress and curly black hair. Over the tiles their feet went clip clop. Red and white bunting and blue quiet hung. They were heading towards the sound. The cheering and the sorrow. To the bullring they ran. To the house of tragedy they headed.
Amongst the confetti and the...
Boy in Africa.
Look, look at the boy. Look at the him sleeping by the lonely Acacia tree. Look at his tanned skin. Look at his pale palms with dark lines across them. Look at the Arsenal top he wears and watch him wake from under the hat. The straw makes his brow itch but he likes the hat. He likes the pool before him and he likes the antelopes that drink from it. He likes their little horns and he likes that...
The Lake
Nothing but the grind of oar in row lock in the stillness and the mist of the lake. He fishes in the skiff, bent to the prow, white paint peeling to show the bare pine beneath. At midday, he sits on the hill, rifle across his lap, and watches grey birds spiral. The wind wails across patchwork plains. By afternoon, he sits in the cabin, plucking birds and skinning fish, the coal fire burns in the...
Of the Boy
The waves came up and down the beach, foaming, crashing on that spit of sand. Air saturated with sea salt. After the storm now. No rain or thunder now. After the storm now, hair strewn in the water, jumper damp and heavy. Covered in cockles. Sea weed in his hair. The waves came up and down again, rubbish and planks cresting the waves. Green bottles surfed. The waves came up and up and down again....
The Fall of Damien Rants.
Rain. Running upon conservatory window panes, droplets from broken guttering. Inside only typewriter. Words streamed. Images of blackcurrants and winter time and half made oak fires and hatred. Purest of all. Hatred. Of loneliness. Of lovelessness. Writing to get away. He was trapped here, the ring on his finger, worn to brass where he typed, hanging like some stench over everything, everything...
La niña con la flor roja: or, The little girl with...
Mexico city station is big and almost all red. It’s platform pillars are painted by red brush strokes, so big the tips of the red crenelations shine in the sun. There is a ticket booth and almost three restaurants. And Pablo Caesar worked in the rail yard. He was the man who checked the coupling on the freight trains and his hands were black from it. His back hurt, but he went about his work...