Tiny Rocks

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Dyed pink hair, like the kind you see on a plastic pony. Reminds me of the lightness of being I associate with childhood visits to the seaside. Y’know, deprived places that were once golden places with all those tacky shops full to the brim with cheap tat to make a simple soul smile a simple, toothy grin. Like a rabbit. Less Bugs Bunny, though, and more Donnie Darko. Country music. Stick of rock. Harmless souvenirs to remind oneself that one shouldn’t take life too seriously. Bare legs cross and then uncross beneath a table outside a bar situated by a sandy beach adorned with a needle-like pier. On the beach are trillions of tiny rocks that were once much larger rocks. What’s the study of rocks called? I wish I knew. Those legs, though. Bone and flesh, I know, but as the waves ring in my ears and the songs of the sea cause me to sweat out last night’s vodka, the sight of them is enough to bring me the relief I so desperately seek. On the pavement that swirls around ruined buildings threatened by the ever-rising tide, I see chalk drawings of triangular dicks. They’re so childlike. Not the dicks, but the way they’re drawn. The lines of white swirl beneath my feet, and coupled with the sounds of crashing waves of the thunderous sea, I feel as though I’m ready for the end. Blue dress. With brunette curls. She eats a donut. As her tongue tongues the shiny rocks of sugar of which most drop into her lap, a stray dog strays too close to the waves, and as a hand reaches out from the maelstrom beckoning the dog to come closer, a stupid child is snatched from the streets by an individual with demons too numerous to mention. They never see the kid again, only a pile of clothes and a lunchbox full of soiled bandages. His name will be in all the papers, and then, it won’t. If I close my eyes, there are tiny handprints on a crumbling wall surrounding a churchyard. Brightly coloured handprints they are; each one a silent witness to the horrors that befall their kind. The church in question is situated by the clothes store I once worked at. It’s been many years since I worked there, and yet if I calm my breathing and close my ears, I can feel those days as if they were with me once again.

X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon UK

X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon US

2 replies »

  1. Places like that are very cool. Life definitely is not meant to be taken too seriously. We’re born. We die. Have fun in between and don’t worry about the rest. Great post, SK!

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