He came through the door and she wasn’t surprised. Whenever she was struggling to arrange her alphabet, he would appear.
He watched her as she typed. The clicks of her delete key were in time to the ticking of the clock.
He wondered why she had moved it into the kitchen from the living room.
You moved the clock…
Er yes, it was kind of interrupting my living.
So, what do you call this?
What DID she call this?
He knew he was her reverse genie in a bottle, that his presence freed her from her own mind. They had pretty much established that in chapter 2.
They did cover quite a few of the clichés in chapters 3 to 10.
From 11 to about 26, when they realised they both held their tongues in the same cheek, they sifted the nuances with greater intention.
After that, the chapters were water colours, impossible to number.
And now she couldn’t remember what the question was.
Oh yes…he loved to remember when one of the clichés was water coloured:
she looked up at him, and the clock stopped.
His breathing, stopped, he found it. Four dimensionally, he opened it.
Its fragility stunned his eyes with convoluted memory tears, while his new inhalations syphoned the colours from the pages – colours that would help him navigate the convolutions –
that’s when he noticed some words were underlined.She had underlined them! But the ones left untouched – he smiled – they were the portal.
"Can we just lie here for a moment? She knows what
to do and it's so much easier to make out the words
if you press your ear against the stone."
He hated this place. But she promised it would
be the last time. And it had started to snow.
It would hopefully slow the others down.
They needed to leave. He was too scared to look
at his watch and now he was struck by how beautiful
she looked in this light. That pink light, reflecting
from the tears frozen on her face.
He pulled her gently up from her mother's grave.
mother they are coming again
they come to shoot what we already lost
mother they are coming again
our silver covered by their rust
father they are coming again
they come to jail the things that i have seen
father they are coming again
burning minds to keep the ruin clean
no one is around
„little girl there’s safer ground
follow the sea and you will find that place
little girl there’s safer ground
come take your years and put them in their hands“
She didn't say anything. Why wasn't she saying anything?
But she had. She just couldn't hear her. She had always
heard her through her heart, and now it was frozen
to her cheeks.
He lifted her up as her chest was caving in. He sang
instead. The words she had taught him when they met,
The ones she had heard from her mother's friend. Before
they never saw him again.
"Little girl, there's safer ground..."
That ground. Rising up out of the sea of him.
Her breath pliable, she crouched down in that corner, the one that didn’t fit like a glove.
Her movements were whispers, soft and borrowed from someone she couldn’t remember, but they had told her to use them in times such as these. The movements abandoned her though, as she started crying the music her mother used to sing to her.
this rake isn’t as heavy as I thought it would be,
I feel your suggestions as you’re watching me
make these corrugations –
they were in my dreams,
bursting from the seams
of my mind’s eye.
From here below periphery,
silent door’s epiphany,
you hear my eyes as you look at me…
one of my current ear worms. if you need a little energy boost, or a push through a portal or something…(and if this video doesn’t play for you because you don’t live in the best country on earth 😉 there is this acoustic version:)
She drew back the curtains with all the care that wasn’t in the world. It was the only way she knew how. To stop the time. To restart his breathing.
(I could have that wrong – it might be, that she was the only one who knew how to do it. No one remembered. No one cared.)
The air was so thick with the calligraphy they had forced out of him. She uncurled it and admired it in the twilight/non-time. All things considered, it was still exquisite.
She had a new idea. And when he read her thought, he sat bolt up right, smiling.
one foot in Pause'sdoor unravelled, by tones wined
into rain's chalice
(featured image credit: Pixabay)
He knew it.
This would be the place. The place at the end of the wrong road. And somehow, it was exactly how he pictured it. It looked just like the other fork where he made the wrong turn.
His favourite music particles flew past in perfect, mesmerising harmony with his non astonished gaze, landing at his feet. Forming those pages. He just wished he could remember which was the wrong page turn.
Every way she listened, there were endings.
This weight of pretense had to be shifted.
It was time to chord change them out of the cliché, and even though his music always made her dance, his shadows were not hers.
So she did what he didn’t expect. She brought the pig’s heart.
And they drank the wine…
It was the first time she had come back to his space. They walked into the room where he didn’t do much living and he showed her the place. On the wall. Where he strung up the different shades of pathos.
In the right order, of course.
She was more impressed than she thought she would be.
And now she was scared.
Scared that he knew right where to put her.
Confused by the vapid voices of renewal that languided out of the new year cake, they did used to jump, she recalled,
she thought it was time to do something.
Something had to be done with this pile of the unsaid.
She searched for that wisdom file, the one they’d all spilt wine on at the new year’s eve party. How they laughed. Such a good night.
She wondered if she should rake through those coals over there. Some were still smoldering.
Melancholied by the cold she had a better idea.
As she cast the pile onto her knitting needles, she was struck by how colourful it was…
It was going to be a normal day. If it was the last thing they ever did. A normal day of picnicking in the sun, like normal families. On a sunny spring day. With a packed basket. And a blanket. And outside games. And other normal things that nobody they knew ever did. Because, well, they did time travel to get there.
And this was where they were going to meet her grandmother. She told them she had the secret to normal and she wanted them to have it. It would be in a little box. And normal people carried such things around. Although, she had never opened it herself. She was just going by what her mother had told her.
And sure enough, it was labelled “normal”.
On one side. The outside.
The other side, the inside, was a lot more than they ever did not expect.