Here are five easy reading short stories for coffee time...
Image by VintageSnipsAndClips from Pixabay
THE WOUNDED SLAVE
The beggar as a bleeding heart was dragging himself across the road trying to get home even though he didn’t have a home anymore.
“A miserables, a miserables,” he went, trying to cure his bad dream.
“Oh how wounded to be so like this in the stuff of miracles with the road so hard it shivers the bones. Doom, doom, must I be forever the wounded slave?”
When the beggar bumped into a million dollars dressed up as a suitcase he came to a halt. Reaching out to feel what the obstruction was he came to the conclusion it was a box of some sort and in his way so he began the long haul around it.
“Where are you going?” asked the suitcase in a French accent. It was a French suitcase.
“I’m going home,” replied the wounded slave.
“Take me with you,” said the suitcase.
“Why should I, I have enough to carry as it is,” moaned the slave.
“Look inside,” said the suitcase, “and all will be revealed.”
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A BRIEF APPEARANCE
The tiger cage was so lonely without a tiger to seduce so it stood in line at the bus stop for the next bus to the jungle where there were sure to be tigers.
Sometime later on the mountain top with the past just a memory the tiger cage was supping slowly a tasty soup when a shooting star looking for a new home chose that very moment to put in a brief appearance and then was gone forever.
A seagull far below on its way to the ocean missed this fly past and so carried on flying as if nothing had happened.
And as a by the way of a by the by at the foot of the mountain with his foot on the last tiger, old Jim, the burnt-down cigarette hanging out of his mouth coughed and took another drag of the thing and then threw it away and then posted the photograph of him and the dead tiger off to Tigers Monthly where it was received with much ado about nothing and put on the front page for all to see.
Image by ElisaRiva from Pixabay
TAKING STOCK
When in the sometimes maybe of a long lost moment that comes back again from out of the blue a strange déjà vu is felt that it could be the time to take stock of the time.
Taking stock is an age old tradition where all the ingredients are listed in order so that you know where you are in any given moment that is slipping this way and that in the jolly-oh of it all and is sometimes confused with reality, but is most often a falling backwards to find the last time you knew where you were.
The generating engine that never sleeps may keep you awake in this, but not to worry there are things you can do to appear normal most of the time and not appear too far-out of it which is a trap in itself for then you may become stuck and this is usually far worse after the boredom sets in and with no way to escape you may find yourself waiting for a very long time for a favourable wind to come and move you on.
So be careful of taking too much stock and shake yourself out of any moments that become too long; and never let it be said in the beck and call of the too strange that you were unprepared to move mountains to find your way again to where you want to be.
Tip of the day:
On meeting the nowhere man in your travels give him a kiss and then move on fast before they make a religion out of it.
And never look back or regret what you can’t change, what’s gone has gone and once done lives on only in your own mind, for only you can see it the way you see it.
Image by Marcos Marcos Mark from Pixabay
BESIDE THE OCEAN
Forever young once was married to the beach and never blamed sideways anything that could be taken head on except the ten pieces of silver in the corner that had a life of their own and was a story too tired to be told most days.
Anti-deed would come around when the winds were changeable and sometimes not and bore holes in the dust with her fallen hero who’d forget as soon he’d open his mouth anything he could say; or maybe it was the ten pieces of silver catching his eye that evoked his soul to what he’d signed up for once that he’d never forget and that chased him down through his dreams; some things never die no matter how dead you kill them; and stand against you from ever playing that organ machine upstairs with the best of them.
Anti-deed knew all this and so used the winds as a distraction to lift his anchor points above the levels of doom and those well worn pathways that kept him down, and so he followed her as his light and more than that for love is never fake when it comes from the heart.
And that’s why the beach was also married to forever young once in the symbiotic love affair of shared beauty foretold so long ago before the age of making came about to make it so.
When the broken walk here in their dreaming the sands sooth them and they are washed clean by the ocean that bathes their hurts, and with their redemption are shown the way home beyond all fable ways to tell.
And fortunate are those that find this path through the pain of their awakening.
But not all come this way from hurt, some come from love in the gentle unfolding of their hearts and are held above the suffering and are privileged to be so and shine as a light to those that would see, and singing of the beauty remind those too tired to go on to take one more step: come this way to where the dark is banished and you can rest, where love whispers your name.
Above the waves almost touching, the big bird flies and is no stranger seen under the sky so huge above.
The sands absorb the rolling ocean and give it back for the waves to re-make the moment’s embrace, and embracing so breathes into being its continuation.
Image by Sabrina B from Pixabay
A BUTTERFLY STORY
Yoga butterfly poems was a clean sweep and lived in the dust beneath the matt at the bottom of the stairs that would someday be built, and murmured sometimes when a soft tread came to evoke a poem that would be carried to the window seat and read by the light of the moon.
When creaking in the wind the house would tell of its former life as a ship of the seas that caught the wind in its sails to proudly plough through the waves, and no happier vessel was it that sailed the seas, until one dark night the storm of storms wrecked it onto the beach where over long months it was transformed into the beach house that would forever look out at the ocean and dream of what it once was.
As the years passed ones would come to stay in the house from out of the world. Some to read and write; some to walk the sands, and some came to find that elusive dream of their dreaming and walk in the water at the ocean’s edge, only to find it was their looking that was their hope and so soon left to search elsewhere.
When the stranger came to live there the house stirred from its reverie and from the deeps it came back to itself to find the next traveller setting up home, suitcases set down on the floor and staring around as if searching for something.
When the house stirred the stranger seemed satisfied with the welcome and went to explore.
Images from Pixabay