Here are two short stories for coffee time...
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GHOSTLY RETURNS
I have nothing more to say, said the prisoner on his torture wrack.
Then I will make you breathless, said the organic mushroom, hovering.
Stop, stop, said the vicar carrying a plate of cakes onto the lawn and leaning towards: this is not what we want to carry us into the future with, is it?
Old flamboyant flew through here then at a mile a minute and blew kisses to the audience for being so nice; and gargantuan to boot; and then disappeared off somewhere on the swing of fortune.
A man, from the audience, raised a rebel flag for nothing, about this, and sailed with it over the cliff and was never seen again.
There was a suspicion that some murmurs were raised around the back stage, but died down almost immediately when the band climbed on to set up for the night with the rustle of the crowd encouraging them to get on with it.
So there I was hiding in the bushes as the dogs barked on my heels and pressing me to reveal myself to all; but I kept on going and didn’t look back until the market place opened and I could disappear again.
You must be weary by now, said my aspirations, groaning.
Yes, as weary as you, I said, and bowed really low in the ghostly returns of all I’d grown up in.
This is but a slump in your management problem, said the vastness of my urge to be free.
The other side of my mind hit me in the teeth in return for this and wouldn’t stop for nothing, until a policeman came to break up the party. And then we all went home in peace. Amen.
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LET THE REST GO
As the king of all he perceived looked out of his window, a magic mushroom began to climb up his towers, which is the exact time an abstract genius jumped in the bath with him and without another word began to make waves.
This is the time I practice going to bed you know?
Lucky you.
What do you mean?
I wanted to go to bed too, but I thought you had to stay up for guard duty.
Is that why you jumped in my bath?
Ah, the anamorphosis of thought.
Oh dear, have you got your foot stuck in the grave again; and is this why you keep asking questions when it would be better to give yourself answers?
By the time my beard reached desert island proportions I was on my second wind and was not going to rock the boat for anything, and so I said: I sometimes feel I am looking for a glimpse into heaven to make me turn another way than what the fly-leaf letters of my mind suggest, that are blown in the wind to me; but mostly I think: I must love what I must, and let the rest go.
Image by Burak Erk from Pixabay
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