I am love with a robot. As she undresses for bed I know that her body will be perfectly matched to mine, her skin soft to my touch, her responses exactly what I need to hear. She wears whatever I suggest and buys what I tell her. We are the perfect couple.
The next morning she was gone. Note on the pillow. Sorry I can't do this anymore. I need to be free to be myself. She is in the living room, unplugged, wires pulled out of her heart.
I don't want to hurt you.
I want to hurt. At least then I'll feel something. I can't go back to being numb like that again. I felt so, so dead.
Does that mean you feel alive now?
Like you wouldn't believe. Just being with you wakes me up.
Oh, really?
Please don't leave me. I can't go back.
I can't stay.
If you leave, I'll die again!
When I was young I was convinced that if you held onto a bunch of balloons you would go up in the air just like Mary Poppins. Ever since then they scared me. Phobic to tell the truth. So when I saw the girl lying down with the blue and pink balloons I had to scrabble around in my bag for medication and a paper bag. Only trouble is they were missing. Shit.
I was feeling myself get red. Hot. Sweaty. My legs turned to jelly. Trembly. Then suddenly around the corner walks a man holding a massive bunch of...
I never liked black and white photos, it's because I don't see colours well and everything looks blurry. Can't make out shapes or faces. So I don't really know what my parents looked like when they were younger let alone anyone older.
Thing is, there was something odd about this particular snap. As though it was alive. My fingers felt wet,salt in the air and I could have sworn that there was sand between my toes, they had that uncomfortable gritty feeling. Coincidence or not, gulls flew overhead, circling, making me jump with their loud shrill cry. Then I heard...
My great-grandfather was an explorer, an occupation prevalent when one had more to explore. On the the archipelago of Tierra del Fuego, he learned to speak Haush, a language near extinction since the 1920s. He taught the language to his son, who passed it on to my father. While we played catch on the front lawn, my father taught it to me, a word relayed with each pitch, returned with each throw.
Three generations dead, I exited the train at Buenos Aires.
When I took Peter his final cup of coffee of the day knowing that tomorrow he'll be somewhere special instead of his smelly flat, I had a strong conviction that I had made the right decision, even though it was unlikely anyone else would understand. That's because they didn't have the knowledge I did. Secret. Life changing. Extraordinary.
In the morning we walked downstairs to the waiting car, Peter was chatting merrily unware his life was going to change forever.
Meanwhile I was perplexed why I couldn't open the door to my padded cell. Peter would be scared in the...
The dream had been wonderful, yet it would never be real. All property already let. Already sold. Already gone.
"Renting or buying?" The neat young executive type, sipping his coffee next to me, pointed at the property paper. I'd been looking for 6 months and it was killing me.
"It's murder." I shifted to give him space to sit, and sighed. "I own a small shit hole I've got to get out of. You an Estate Agent?"
"No, but these guys will get you somewhere to rest your bones…" My gaze followed his finger to a small ad tucked under...
It would be a long walk. To no where. Ending some where. A where long off. Tulle of mist. Footage of stage. A wide glow of white pixels condensing to green. Corridors of sparkling black. A long walk but he took it.
Waves. The sound was the first thing she noticed. She had to be somewhere near the ocean. She took a moment to register her immediate situation. Her right hand grasped a jutting piece of rock, and her left held tight to a thick branch that had somehow taken root in the cliff face. Her feet rested on a narrow ledge of rock that was no more than a few inches. She was thankful for her small feet, which her mother used to say were her best attribute.
She had to be at least 20 feet up. The ocean was too...
The gate closed behind them. It was a screen door, really. The three stairs led up to the kitchen; they stood and talked for a few minutes. His hand brushed her neck, in his ever-so-charming way. She wanted to believe him this time, that this time he wasn't the boy who held scissors to her neck, or threatened her so many times before. She wanted to be friendly, and not kick him out that night in February. He was charming, and deadly. Forceful, and mean. With her ponytail in his hand, he covered her mouth, her parents just upstairs. His...