Weekly Regrets and Greetings

And so, having comprehensively numbed the ball—which was now in a knot—, he, that is to say me, left the painful apologetics and blushed out of the room. He, that is to say, he—not me, then broke what may have inhabited here, had it not first repelled itself (himself) carefully across the grass. But, and with all common curtesy firmly rooted 'neath my breast, things, as they seemed at the time, unwind and, in some instances, lose all their fog. In that instance—as in the one I just mentioned—the world, as a collective face, turns and decides unfairly with the aid of ignorant retrospect: we should all hold hands and roll across the mountains.

Hugh and the Dead-Beats

Cruising 'round town under the wheel I leapt out on to my two runner-equipped, sock-loaded feet on to the footpath and into, deeply into, walking speed. I lurched forward, towards a hazy, browed figure and hastily replaced his scowl with surprise. The directions he gave me were clear, and concise—I thanked him. I asked if he had a match—he did not. We stood in silence and waited for me to speak. But his answers were monosyllabic and that pissed me off somewhat. The delay annoyed us—him most of all; you could tell he was incredibly uncomfortable.

He looked like he thought he meant something and I meant nothing. He went over to the vending machine and bought a Paddle Pop. This was just an excuse, though, 'cause he just stared at it until it arrived.

The Building Blocks and Agains

Working carefully above the streets, suspended on a beam, holding pillar-box red lunch box, I hammered a nail into a tiny hole with my wood and metal hammer. Every time I got tired—which was every so often—I would open my pillar-box red lunch box and pluck a green grape from therein. One of these was just enough to inspire me to pound the nail further into the hole—so I understandably brought many grapes to work each and every day.

It was as I was breaking the thin piece of skin on my twenty-second grape that something—or rather—happened. It was, to be mildly more specific, a something caused by a someone. And this someone was a man—of sorts.
"Hallo?" he said with spirited indifference, peering around an obnoxious support.
"Hello," I answered with casual disregard.
"Hello."
"Hello."
We nodded idiotically at each other for a moment. I started to hammer away again.
"You know," he began, "you should use the other hammer for that sort of stuff." He indicated the smaller one with a subtle movement of his shoulder.
"No," I said. "I'm not going to bother wasting time changing hammers; I just use the big one for everything."
"But it will be quicker, and easier."
"The time I lose knocking in nails is the same as the time I gain by not fiddling around with hammers."
"How hard is it to swap hammers? It's right there!"
"Well I'm not changing now," I said. "Not when I've already worked up a rhythm."
He shrugged.
"You know what?" I asked.
"No I don't," he replied.
"That's a nice cloud."
"Which one?"
"That one."
"Oh, that one."
"Yes. It could be the greatest cloud to ever float past my eyes."
"How do you know it's moving? It could be the earth."
"In that case you could always see clouds moving; and we don't move that fast anyway."
"How do you know?"
"I don't."
He shrugged again.
"In fact it could be the greatest cloud to every be visaged by Earthlings," I said.
"Don't you mean visioned?"
"No, visaged is right."
"But they say invisioned."
"Yes they do; it's wrong though. You're actually meant to say envisaged."
"But it's in the dictionary."
"That's only because so many people have got it wrong."
"Still, neither visioned nor visaged works in that context—I'm not even sure if they're real words."
"I know, I was just being silly."
"Uh huh."
I began climbing.
"Where are you going?"
"Up."
Once I was satisfied, I sat down and began peering at the people below. They were nothing more then moving dots, and if anything my new position just made them more unidentifiable, but I still opened my pillar-box red lunch box and retrieved a handful of Paddle Pops. After a while, I convinced myself that two people I know were about to walk directly beneath me and I should throw my Paddle Pops towards them—and I did. I was so far up that I could not see if my aim was true. This disappointed me immensely, so I threw one at a much closer target.

The next year I believe I had a fresh cup of steaming brown at home and enjoyed it more then any other.

Philosophy and Existence Indeed

"How do you see life?"
"I see life as a romantically cynical adventure because I'm a romantic cynic."
He quivered momentarily with self-appreciation.
"How do you see life?" he asked.
"As something one lives," I answered, deciding against saying "with my eyes".
"And you call me a socialite," he said bitterly.
I nodded slowly.
"Now if you'll excuse me," he said, "I must go fuck a higher being."

The Joy of Flex

In a gym on the frayed fringes of town, I noticed, with a certain degree of uncertainty, a gangly man struggling with the bar bells. I approached, thinking he would be a nice distraction.
"Hello," I said, smiling.
Assessing my form, his features took on a malicious aspect.
"Here," he said; "you need this more than I do."
He leapt up and made an insulting swooping hand gesture towards the weights.
"It wouldn't kill you to brush your hair either," he added.
"Yes, but it might kill you," I retorted weakly.
He looked me up and down.
"You are no killer," he said.
"How would you know? Are you a killer?" I shot back.
He considered this a moment then began.
"Am I a killer? Well, I've never killed anything more heart-wrenching than a few flies and the occasional puppy, but who hasn't done that? The real question is, whether I'd be capable of killing. I think, unfortunately, that I could kill in the right circumstances. In my day to day life, I may be worryingly quiet, introverted, even mild-mannered as much as I hate the term, but when I get angry... instead of the nerd you consider me to be at this point, I become more coordinated, stronger, faster, angrier. At this time I could kill." he said.
This was the only point in my life where I seriously considered killing somebody. I didn't know how I'd do it, of course, but the thought was there.
"You do realise I don't care, don't you?" I said in a misjudged attempt at an insult.
"Meh," he shrugged.
God how I hated that word.

After that I resumed my normal life, doing my normal things and eating my three square normal meals a day. Then, fifty years later—when I was 72—I decided I would have a bowl of cereal to start my day. Rolled oats and milk with a few peaches, that is. It was a very spiriting day; the sun wasn't overly bright. Anyway, I was stuffing orange and white spoonfuls into my mouth and thinking about things, and the edge of things, when all of a sudden a large, displeasing sound flattened my sensitive ear-drums. I quickly got to my feet and ran out into my garden—which I hoped led nowhere. What I found was an uprooted tree across my lawn. Having a visual aid, I was much more shocked then you are now.
"Who would do such a thing?" I asked myself aloud—the only luxury of loneliness.
No one answered.

The next day I decided to invest my time—and a little of my money—into the space program and that, so to speak, is what I did. And it took me around four hours—which, I'll tell you, I wasn't fond of losing; but nevertheless I was happy to see my hard-earned seeds sprout. And no, I didn't kill anyone—I never killed anyone; and I don't believe I will. So this rocket of mine was—in my mind—being looked forward to. I decided against catching any diseases that week; I wanted to make sure I'd be around to see it.

I bought I dog. It was a very golden Labrador. It had nice, kind eyes and it ate the dog food I gave it. I was still weak. I've always been weak. I enjoy being weak.

Then that rocket crashed into the moon—without me aboard. If I was on it, and in charge of something important, I could have killed somebody—though not on purpose. The next day I made another bowl of breakfast but instead of sitting inside as I usually did, I sat out the back with my dog and we ate together. The next next day I went into town and reacquainted myself with an acquaintance who talked in such a manner that I was unable to do anything but nod.

The following morning, I once again broke my fast with my dog—out the back. I marvelled at two distinct forms of plagiarism and went nowhere.

A Minute Performance

"Hi," said he, his face glowing with warmth.
I nodded, but didn't return the favour. This seemed to irritate him.
"I know your kind," he said bitterly.
"Thank you," I said. "I like to think I am."

Second Time Round

I'm back; I was compelled to add something more substantial to the site. Now let's see... Well, as you probably know, people in power—at least all of them—are supremely ill-suited to being in power; ill-suited, that is, by virtue of their being in power.

And so, as he passed through the doors, he was greeted almost warmly with a few nods of acknowledgement from the people therein. This was certainly enough to keep him almost happy throughout the day and almost without resentment at the thought of going back again tomorrow. It wasn't, however, enough to make him drink the appalling instant coffee with his workmates.