takeapenandwrite

[takeapenandwrite]

The fly

On the table, a happy and healthy woman was smiling at her from one of the many health magazines lying there. The plastic chair she was sitting on was starting to feel real hard under her ass. Through the open window, Sounds Of The City could be heard – the purring of the cars, the rumbling of the busses, the honking of the impatient and the chatter and laughter of the happy. Life as usual.

Buzz, toc. Buzz, toc. She had once read that flies only have a memory of 0.7 seconds. That is why they always fly against the same window again and again. They simply forget they already flew against it before. How must it be, living a life of which you only remember 0.7 seconds? Can you even call that a life? She lifted a corner of her mouth at the woman on the table, unglued her flat-pressed ass from the plastic chair and walked past the open window with the fly hitting the same spot on said window again and again, to the water dispenser. After extracting one of the plastic cups from the holder, she placed it in the foreseen spot and looked at the two buttons. One blue and one red. Cold and warm water. Not hot, as for making tea, just lukewarm water. She knew, she had tried. Several times. As a child, when the hours waiting got too long, the games and books in the corner too boring. She still remembered that taste. Water, but not water at all. As if the liquid that never really had any taste, was just a refreshing trickle down the throat suddenly had a substance, took space in the mouth. She shuddered. Why would anybody want warm water? The smile of the woman seemed to broaden, maybe hinting at a smirk. The fly kept hitting the window again and again. Bubbles started rising up in the tank as she pressed the blue button and cold water filled her plastic cup. Buzz, toc. Buzz, toc. Maybe, the fly’s subconscious thought the glass would break, if that tiny fly just kept hitting it long enough.

The cold cup in her hand, she sat on her chair again. To flatten that ass a bit more. Really, it was a wonder her behind had not yet taken the exact shape of the plastic chair, with the time she spent sitting on it here. Well, maybe it had, and she was just too oblivious to see it and the others too polite to tell her. She suppressed the urge to stand up and inspect her backside in the reflection of the glass door. It was a glass door after all – that had the property of being transparent. Perhaps all windows should be made opaque, to avoid having flies trying to get through them – because of their short memory or their subconscious’ determination to break the glass. Why try to get through something when you can’t see what’s on the other side?

She shook her head and took a sip of cold water. She might ask for a bed in this room. Or simply a mattress on the floor, for when she spent the night here. And to preserve an at least acceptable shape of her ass. She leaned back and closed her eyes, the water slowly warming in her hand. Buzz, toc. Buzz, toc. In the beginning, she had hoped her stays here would become fewer, would shorten. By now, she had accepted that she would come back again and again. Like a fly hitting a window. Until some day, she wouldn’t have to come back ever again.

On the table, the woman was still smiling. She sighed, thinking about another smile, always as bright, even as the eyes above started to sink in, the cheeks becoming hollow, the face grey. “Breakthrough in cancer research”, the headline said. The ever-smiling woman had to be the researcher. She scoffed, then took another sip of her now lukewarm water. Whatever they’d found, it was probably a bit late to be useful. In this case at least. The smile became an ironic smirk. Buzz, toc. Buzz, toc. At some point, the glass would break. Or the fly would die.

Note: the flat-pressed ass is described from own experience... Enjoy the read :)

[takeapenandwrite]

#2

Her hands were not trembling as she lit her cigarette. Her heart was beating a steady beat, her breaths deep and even. In the dark of the alley, the tip of her cigarette glowed red; blood red, the macabre would think. The only sounds to be heard were a dripping – courtesy of the rain earlier in the evening – and the few cars of the late-night traffic. Leaning back against the cool metal door, she tried to shift some weight off her knees and feet (ugh, why these shoes). She eyed the puddles reflecting the little yellowish light there was, coming from the streetlamp at the far end of the alley; the doorsteps covered in dirt she didn’t need to see to know was there. Sigh. At least, her hands and face were clean. Even if in the darkness, it made little difference. She would have been invisible in her black clothes, were it not for her glowing cigarette. She felt clean. Kind of.

She took a long drag, inhaled the smoke deeply. Out here, it was quite cool, the sky clear above her. She didn’t mind her naked arms. After the bustle and shuffle of inside (glistening bodies, slimy hands and – who had gotten that idea? – a fog machine) she was perfectly happy out here. In the distance, a siren was wailing. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back, savoring the last few drags of her cigarette before flicking it away. She ground the butt under her heel more out of habit than necessity, as it had landed in a puddle. Stepping around the several cardboard boxes and other trash littering the alley, she made her way towards the light at the end; relishing in the sound of her high heels clicking with every step (that’s why these shoes).

After strolling through the empty streets for some time, she finally gave in to the pain in her feet and entered a diner. She was the only customer. Behind the counter, a young woman was sitting, staring at her phone. Only when she heard the doors close did she rip her gaze from it with great effort. She didn’t even attempt a smile. Probably better.

She ordered cold tomato juice and sat on one of the chairs of undistinguishable color. Maybe green. Once upon a time. Leaning back, she studied the purple walls in the bright white light coming from the naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling, the big painting of an eagle with outstretched wings’ silhouette in front of a full moon, the dozen or so wooden signs writing ‘The Eagle’ strewn all over the room, lit in a spooky red by a passing police car. Her lips twitched. She lifted her glass, looked at the light red color. Nowhere near blood. Or if, then blood in a very weird lighting. The macabre would think.

Sitting on the barstool behind the counter, the young woman put her phone down and pushed back her hair, taking a deep breath.

“What is the last thing you’ve done you feel really good about? Not proud, or happy. Just good.” Her head snapped to the woman looking intently at the tomato juice she had not yet taken a sip of. She couldn’t be addressing anybody else; they were alone in the room.

“I guess…- the letter… I tore apart… this morning…” She blinked.

Still staring at her juice, the other woman nodded approvingly.

“You know, my day’s been great. Today, I didn’t do just one, but two things that made me feel really good. No- three actually.”

The young woman was looking at her with raised brows, trying her best (not her best. Trying.) to look interested.

“First, I put on these shoes. They hurt like hell, so I’m not happy ‘bout that decision, but they feel good.” She nodded, to express sympathy or understanding, she didn’t really know. Whatever, it didn’t matter as the eyes of the elder woman were still fixed on her glass.

“Secondly, I did some good. And thirdly, I had a smoke.” She stopped herself, pursed her lips. Tilting her chin, she looked at the woman behind the counter for the first time, and after a deep intake of breath, she added “-no, actually, the cig didn’t make me feel good. I’m happy about it. Proud, even. So, two things after all.”

Nodding, she turned away, thinking about something to say. Just as she was about to ask what the second thing was, she heard the door closing. On the table, the glass was left, full of red juice.

Click, click. Good. A sudden urge to throw her head back and simply lough overcame her. But eyeing the increasing business around her, she resisted. On the other side of the street, police were barricading a building. New police cars arrived continuously; the siren of an ambulance could be heard. She raised an eyebrow. “Might be a tad too late for that,” she mumbled under her breath in a horrible British accent. That just made her want to laugh even more. Fuck, how she loved this.

On the other side of the street, officers were starting to move what looked like bodies (not in any form of body bags, which was odd) out of the building. Maybe they judged the freedom of onlookers at this late hour reason enough to spare time by not packing in the dead? A spectacle, the macabre would say.

Alright; bad girl. She’d done something bad. In a book she’d once read, the main character had said the worst vice there was, was the lie. The era when she’d believed in any form of deity was far gone, but in that sense, she’d sinned. She’d lied to that poor girl at ‘The Eagle’. She was so damn happy about this. And proud. Left her with only one – the shoes.

Maybe she should go back and excuse herself? Set things straight, clarify everything? Judging by the girl’s interest in her phone and her much-less-interest in her customer, she decided against it. Still, left her with a weird feeling. Not good.

Sadly, nothing but her memory would remain to remind her of this particular evening. Nothing to bring her back to this moment she’d felt so good, so happy, so proud. So deadly. The macabre would say.

[takeapenandwrite]

The Hot Day

Outside, the summer sun is shining, the trees in the alley casting only small shadows right beneath them. Noon. The day is hot and growing hotter still with every passing minute. Only later in the afternoon, at four or five, will the temperature sink as the shadows grow longer. And then, when the sun finally disappears behind the horizon, the cool night will arrive. Windows will be opened, welcoming in the breeze – and the not so welcomed insects accompanying it – and groups of friends will gather in the gardens, chatting till the stars appear and disappear again. But at the moment, the sun is still at its highest. Whoever can, stays inside, in the relative coolness of buildings.

His steps are too loud in the empty hallways. Each time his foot touches the ground, the sound seems to spread, from classroom to classroom, each as empty and silent as the hallway. He feels like an intruder. Schools are made to be empty and silent during summer vacation. Nobody is to smell the dust and hear he silence before the doors open to let in hordes of children at the beginning of August. Only then the trampling of hundreds of shoes, the cries and laughter of all these mouths should be heard.

Hands in his pockets, he strolls through the empty school. Feigning nonchalance even as a certain tension is keeping him on edge. Listening for the cries and the chatter he can’t prevent himself from connecting with this building.

Inside, it is indeed cooler than under the blinding sun. But still, a group of boys are riding their bicycles, heading down the road from the monumental building at the end of it. They have towels with them, hung over a shoulder or around the neck. Sweat coats their faces as they race each other down the gravel road. Along the road, fields of golden wheat, tall corn and proud sunflowers line up. At last the youths arrive, shoving their bikes away and running for the glinting surface of the lake. Laughter and splashing are soon heard.

After the refreshing break they mount their bicycles again and start the journey home. It is now around three in the afternoon, the hottest time of the day. In spite of the cool water, the boys are drained. No more racing each other. Some lag behind, panting. The energy from earlier is gone.

He opens some doors; looks into rooms he hasn’t seen in ages. Memories flood his mind. The benches fill with children, the blackboards fill with chalk writing of the teachers standing in front of them, trying to get the writing into the head of the children. The feeling of being old seeps into him. This world is so far from his life of today, his home, his work. But still, the memories are vivid. In a room used for geography, he sits down. Listens to the silence. Looking at the maps, he remembers what it was like, learning the exotic names of far away places. Reading about the big world. Back then, it hadn’t felt real. The world was the school, his group of friends, the fields outside. All those names and pictures were just a fantasy, some other magical story to listen to. Even his world of friends and fields and a big, dark building had somehow just been a story. They had been untouchable back then. Until the Hot Day. Sitting on the old bench, looking at these mystical spots on the map, he sighs, thinking about the day they realized life was anything but a story. The day life suddenly – brutally – became real, and they touchable.

By the time they are back at the school, they are drenched in sweat again. Some complain about headaches, all are breathing heavily and licking their lips. They didn’t think about bringing something to drink when they left. When they enter the cool school, they take a deep breath. Soon, tea will be served, everybody gathering in the shadow of the great oaks in the park. Something to drink. At this thought, new energy surges into the boys. They start chasing each other again, hiding in corners and behind columns to jump out and scare the others.

One of the boys, the youngest of the group, not really part of it yet, walks ahead. To prove himself, he wants to scare the elder boys so well that they’ll surely be impressed. There, an inconspicuous door. It looks like a storeroom. Perfect.

He is standing in the park, in the shadow of the great oaks. Here, the best tea he’s ever had used to be served. He wonders if the students today still get tea, and if they appreciate this daily break as much as he used to. It is the first time he’s come back here since the Hot Day. They had all left the school after that day. His parents thought it too dangerous, he was relived not having to see these halls – that door – again. A few years after he had left, he “went to see someone”. He had wanted to. To talk to somebody about it. His parents hadn’t been of any use, avoiding the topic as much as possible. “Best to forget about it.” He hadn’t seen his friends anymore either.

Inside, it is dark. Not completely dark, though. There is a small window in the upper left corner, which lets in a thin ray of sunlight. After some time, his eyes adjust. The storeroom is quite stuffy. Shelves take up the little room there is, various bottles and bags filling them. In the hallway, it was cool, a nice breeze coming through the open windows. In the closet, it is warm. Not hot, but still quite warm. The boy looks around, thinking about the nice tea in the shadow of the oaks, about his older friends. He finally decides to stay. It is only for a short time after all. He settles, ear close to the door, and listens for the other boys.

When he finally hears them, they have already passed. He knows, because he first heard a thump, and then fast steps. His friends are gone. Disappointed by this missed chance, and with a dry mouth, craving for the tea in the shadow of the oaks, he opens the door. Tries again. Pushes harder. Throws himself against it. The door doesn’t budge. It stays shut. Something must have blocked it when the others ran past it – the thump.

Despair fills the little boy’s chest, threatens to spill over as tears. It doesn’t help to bang on the door, to scream for help. Everybody is outside, drinking and eating. The thought of drinking brings his headache back, forgotten for a moment during the excitement of the games. Something is in his head, fighting to get out. All the while, his mouth feels drier and drier.

After a while which feels like hours, he can’t endure it any longer. The different bottles on the shelves have already caught his eye a long time ago. Surely, there must be something to drink in at least one of them. In the dimly lit room, he can see enough to pick a clear glass bottle with a transparent liquid in it. The cap is quickly unscrewed, and after a suspicious sniff, he takes a little sip. Not water. But from the sweet taste of it, it must be some sort of syrup. He hesitates, but then can’t resist.

It had taken some time of drinking and eating until they had noticed the little one was missing. As there were always so many people at tea – the whole school gathered – it was hard to keep count. He remembers the supressed panic of the adults, the shouts in the empty school. The closed door blocked by a broom he had seen. The small body lying on the floor he had found. The empty bottle next to it.

It is not so bad when they find him. The boy is mostly dehydrated, nothing that can’t be cured with some water and rest. But then, it starts getting bad. Worse.

It wasn’t syrup.

Note: the toxic liquid here is ethylene glycol, found in antifreeze. It tastes sweet, and can be deadly. Don’t ask me anything about it, I didn’t really inform myself, just googled ‘transparent liquid poison’ ;-)

[takeapenandwrite]

Apple Crumble

The heavy and sweet scent of warm Apple Crumble lies in the air. It floats through the dark rooms, from the dining room through the kitchen into the living room. All lamps are out, moonlight is falling through the window, a small square on the wooden floor shining with silver light. No sound is to be heard, left for a faint scratching. Then, a golden light flashes up and illuminates a wall of the living room. The source is hidden behind furniture. Several figures stand in front of the light, casting wide shadows over the wall. The figures seem agitated, gesturing brusquely, stepping to and fro. And over all that lies the sweet scent of Apple Crumble, like a warm and comforting blanket.

In front of the light, the argument is heating up. The figures are close to becoming quite rough. That is before a proud silhouette with an authoritarian posture steps up. At once all the other figures back down.

One brisk gesture from the apparent leader, and the lights die out, the shadows are gone.

But soon enough, a new scene unfolds; out of the living room comes, in neat ranks, a small army of mice. As weapons they carry toothpicks, nails and small stones, looking like big rocks in their paws. The battalion is led by an old, yet proudly standing grey mouse. Slowly, they approach the table on top of which the source of all conflict and sweet scent lies – the Apple Crumble.

As soon as the army has reached the table leg, they start piling up to form a tower, not unlike a Catalonian Castell. While a few soldiers keep watch with raised arms, slowly the mice, instructed by their commander, build themselves closer and closer to the tabletop.

Soon enough, a dozen or so mice are standing in front of the magnificent Apple Crumble. Swiftly, they lift the still warm form and start tying ropes they brought with them around it. Then the small party carries the Apple Crumble to the border of the table and gives it to the tower. Their companions slowly lower the heavy dish, passing it to the mice under them. From the tabletop, the descent is secured with the ropes. As soon as the form has reached the ground, the topmost soldiers climb down the tower, which dissolves soon after that.

From the kitchen, trouble arrives. Another army, led by a white mouse with a scarred eye, makes its way into the dining room. There are no neat ranks, no toothpicks nor nails. These mice come with razor blades, a few carry nail scissors. They seem eager to use them.

With a few sharp gestures, the old grey mouse organizes her soldiers, positioning them around the Apple Crumble to protect it. Slowly, the enemy approaches. A clever move, to wait until the heavy work is done and then attack to claim the treasure.

Both forces are equal; the battalion protecting the Apple Crumble has more soldiers, but the attacking army is heavy-armed. It cannot be foresaid which army would win the battle.

The front lines are close now. Soon, they will meet - war will begin. The scarred eye narrows at the proud posture of the grey mouse. All weapons are raised, whiskers twitching, as to feel the tension in the room. The soldiers on both sides are grim but determined.

A key slides into the lock of the entrance door. A rim of lights spreads to lighting to lighting up the whole room as the door opens. A pair of shoes steps in. Rustling and shuffling can be heard as shoes are toed and coat is taken off. Two sock-clad feet stop in front of the table, under which only the Apple Crumble with a few ropes around it is left. A surprised sound, then the Apple Crumble is lifted up and disappears into the cold fridge.

In the dark of the living room a proud silhouette balls its paws into fists. Slowly, the scent of the Apple Crumble faints, until it is finally gone.

Note: I started this story one evening when I had made an apple crumble and was sooo bored I didn’t know what to do with myself. I then finished it during lockdown as a gift for a friend. Hope you like it :)