It Ran On Two Legs For Eleven Strides And Then It Did Not
I counted the strides because counting was the only thing my brain could still do. Eleven upright. Then it dropped to four and it got faster.
I counted the strides because counting was the only thing my brain could still do. Eleven upright. Then it dropped to four and it got faster.
At my cousin's wedding the best man gave a beautiful, tearful toast to the groom and his lovely bride, and used the name of the groom's ex-girlfriend. Twice. Into the microphone.
I only noticed because I visit my mother on her birthday, and the light was there all three times, doing the same slow circuit.
My little one has a rough mark over his heart and a story about a boat that was not his to tell. He named a harbour we had never visited and a man named Tomas who did not come back with him.
Relief keeper at an automated light, I found the old logbook filling with entries in my handwriting — recording weather and a passing ship, on nights I know I wrote nothing.
Between 02:14 and 02:31 the chat went from "is anyone else seeing this" to "please stop taking photos". Then someone deleted the group.
In basic I hated the drill sergeant who screamed about hydration and boot socks. Two years later, in a place I will not name, his stupid little rule was the reason I walked away from something that should have broken me.
Sitting in a clinic I'd never visited, I 'remembered' the nurse saying 'the doctor will want the left one scanned too' — hearing it for real made me insist, and insisting mattered.
One passport control queue. One shuttle bus that never came. Ninety seconds too late for the only connection home for three days, stranded in a country where I did not speak a word and my bank card had just been frozen.
It was never just one figure. When I wake frozen there are several, thin and dark, crowded at the foot of the bed, leaning in together like mourners around a grave.
She showed me the shot once, on the back of the camera, at 11pm behind the marquee. Then she deleted it and told me she needed the review.
A year after my dad passed, I dreamed him standing at the bottom of the basement stairs, saying "not tonight, not those stairs." I skipped them the next morning. The top step had come loose overnight.
On a quiet base at two in the morning I challenged a man in an old uniform walking the perimeter. He did not answer, did not stop, and left no tracks in the frost.
A hotel lobby hit me with crushing familiarity — but the harbour painting hung left of the clock, not right, and the concierge's answer to my question ruined my week.
Long-haul, 3 a.m., empty interstate — a truck matched my speed in my mirror for twenty miles, headlights blazing. When I finally pulled off, it passed: a cab, no trailer, no driver.
For fourteen years our cat ignored my mother. Then one ordinary Tuesday she sat outside her bedroom and cried until dawn. By morning we understood why.
A quarter of a million pounds of machinery went dead in a field at 01:20, and my father would not talk about it for the rest of his life.
A single bouncing basketball, on concrete, directly under my bedroom window, every night for eight months. This is the story of how I nearly lost my mind and what I did about it.
The company script forced me to say every caller's full name three times a call. Then Richard Bottomley phoned to cancel, and I said his whole name nine times while he slowly lost his mind.
She barks at bin lorries, hot air balloons and the moon. That night she sat down in the wet grass and simply watched.