Short Story

Cutting floor

Envelopes. Paper. Painted with letters, woven with words. I sit. Scissors in hand. Feel their weight. The solid steel. Lift the first letter from the pile. Place the blades gently around it. Slowly squeeze the handles. Smile at the satisfying snip and slice of cutting paper. That crisp crunch of the blades biting. A metal smile hiding teeth within. 

With my eyes closed

Night walking. Head hazy. The streets warped like an Escher picture.  Yet my routefinder kicks in. My feet walk a path they’ve walked too many times before. 

Third lamppost on the left, take the snicket Dark and narrow I snag on brambles falling free, skin torn, stinging. Head for the light, the other side. Stumble on loose paving stones down the steps to arrive on your street. 

Quiet. Calm. Unchanged.

I sit on the pavement. Hug my knees tight. Here again. 

In a blink

Thinking back it seemed to last an age. My memory reel playing in slow motion. Recounting frame by frame an event that lasted less than ten seconds. That’s how long it took for the world to change. Just ten seconds. A fall, a dull thud and then silence. Heavy silence. Winded by inaction. I couldn’t get to you. Couldnd’t cry. Sirens wailed, a seagull screamed, an arm on my shoulder, steering away from the scene. Away from you.