Between Tides
Should
The key found its way into his navy front-door. The teeth once slid smoothly but now grate into the ocean-encrusted keyhole, occasionally requiring a hammer from his palm. He has been meaning to feed it some oil for months. Just like the light-switch that he instinctively flicks on every time he enter in the evenings, reminding him to change the globe that popped. He now knows there is a table-lamp seven steps down the hall, on the left and at waist-height.
No Rewind Button
A mothers arms are worn pinball machine flippers while her son is the machine itself, hysterically flailing in every direction, trying to avoid being housed in a nappy. His boisterous protest leaves remnants of the aftermath. Exertions of strength and infuriation, used to carry out this assignment, are visible on both faces. They exude desires to be in another place, in another time and both are too enveloped in their own emotions to realise the people streaming by. An elderly woman sits hunched on the edge of a park bench. She is alone, squashed on the outskirt of the seat and he's not sure whether she is making the bench available to welcome an honoree or whether she just shrivels to the grandiosity of sitting in the middle. She glares at mother and child, her eyes twinkling with commemorations of motherhood as she flashes back to her youth. Her blunt teeth mash loosely through a crummy bakery tart, her cheeks and lips a jellyfish, sloppily absorbing the trifling treat.
Sandcastle
He stands at the edge where she had jumped. The rock ledge has been sculpted from sandy, smooth, creamy, orange, brown and beige. Ants are crawling all around and soon tickling the tops of his feet, mocking her by crawling over the edge and safely descending the broken cliff. He tries to imagine what it had been like standing there, her toes numb to silent, squealing tears, wanting to drop. He wonders what she thought in those hazy moments before summoning up the courage, or cowardice. He wasn’t there yesterday, the day her last footprints were made.
Concrete Rainbow
Blades of grass crinkle beneath his shorts as he gazes over the crowd on the promenade below. Traces of sun-cream pockets float in the salty air, reminding him of all those summers before. A middle-aged woman is riding her skateboard behind her daughter who is gliding ahead. They carve through the colourful crowd who are riding their vintage bicycles, walking their pocket dogs or cradling mobile phones. The girl rolls along like a woman, her mother swerves through like a little girl.
The key found its way into his navy front-door. The teeth once slid smoothly but now grate into the ocean-encrusted keyhole, occasionally requiring a hammer from his palm. He has been meaning to feed it some oil for months. Just like the light-switch that he instinctively flicks on every time he enter in the evenings, reminding him to change the globe that popped. He now knows there is a table-lamp seven steps down the hall, on the left and at waist-height.
No Rewind Button
A mothers arms are worn pinball machine flippers while her son is the machine itself, hysterically flailing in every direction, trying to avoid being housed in a nappy. His boisterous protest leaves remnants of the aftermath. Exertions of strength and infuriation, used to carry out this assignment, are visible on both faces. They exude desires to be in another place, in another time and both are too enveloped in their own emotions to realise the people streaming by. An elderly woman sits hunched on the edge of a park bench. She is alone, squashed on the outskirt of the seat and he's not sure whether she is making the bench available to welcome an honoree or whether she just shrivels to the grandiosity of sitting in the middle. She glares at mother and child, her eyes twinkling with commemorations of motherhood as she flashes back to her youth. Her blunt teeth mash loosely through a crummy bakery tart, her cheeks and lips a jellyfish, sloppily absorbing the trifling treat.
Sandcastle
He stands at the edge where she had jumped. The rock ledge has been sculpted from sandy, smooth, creamy, orange, brown and beige. Ants are crawling all around and soon tickling the tops of his feet, mocking her by crawling over the edge and safely descending the broken cliff. He tries to imagine what it had been like standing there, her toes numb to silent, squealing tears, wanting to drop. He wonders what she thought in those hazy moments before summoning up the courage, or cowardice. He wasn’t there yesterday, the day her last footprints were made.
Concrete Rainbow
Blades of grass crinkle beneath his shorts as he gazes over the crowd on the promenade below. Traces of sun-cream pockets float in the salty air, reminding him of all those summers before. A middle-aged woman is riding her skateboard behind her daughter who is gliding ahead. They carve through the colourful crowd who are riding their vintage bicycles, walking their pocket dogs or cradling mobile phones. The girl rolls along like a woman, her mother swerves through like a little girl.
posted by Darren Jaye at 10:36 pm
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