He imagines the flashes of light a signal: a woman with a lantern, her hand in front of it, saying, “Come here, I need assistance,” or “Stay away, this place has dangers.” Quibble has yet to work out if the flashes are Morse code, and, if they are, which are dots, which are dashes. Natalie over his shoulder sights the light, scanning the landscape around it. “It is McClellan’s porch light, and wind in the trees,” she tells him. Quibble is beginning to decipher dots and dashes, writes the sequences in his newspaper’s margins. He does not know Morse code.
––––––––––– “I fear the explosion that would result if I did not write.” – the writer
You are thrilled and eagerly spread the news to family and friends.
I’ll plan a book party, you think, then quickly send off press releases to the local media. The evening of the event you decorate a table at the bookstore, set out wine, cheese, crackers, and fresh sushi.
You wait nervously until a few people trickle in, exactly five. A few folks drink some wine, no one eats. You sign one book.
After an hour of this fiasco, you pack up and leave. You vow to never do this again.
–––––––––– “I write to capture indelible moments in time.” – the writer
There is a rumour going around as rumours do in this community. It is said that a celebration is being planned by humans. Specifically by those humans who feed and pet us. It is being said that we will be invited to join them, that we will be a part, an important part of the celebration. So now we are waiting wondering what role we shall play, wondering if we will get drunk, wondering if we will enjoy it all as much as our humans will enjoy our presence.
–––––––––– “I write to let the words escape.” – the poet
“Hello. Not seen you since that party down Trafalgar Street where I got really drunk and went home with that Mike from the foundry. Good to see you. Have you seen our Barry? He’s home for the hols and was asking about you. Told him you’d split with Wayne. I’ve got a new job at Jenny’s on the High Street. It gives me more time to look after me mum. Her sciatica is worse. I’m on the way to get me hair done and then I’m off to bingo. Anyway good chatting with you and having a catch up. Bye.”
–––––––––– “(I write because) every now and again the urge creeps up on me.” – the writer
Mom always told me not to pick my scabs. I never listened: faint, predictable pain was almost pleasure, was far better than feeling nothing.
I miss the coppery taste and gummy mouthfeel of scab chunks peeled from my knees and elbows, miss watching my blood ooze from carefully preserved wounds, mix with summer sweat, and wind down my limbs in quick red rivers. I thought it made me look tough.
I miss wounds small enough for bandaids. Small wounds that gifted scars : something to be proud of, something to talk about.
Nothing at all like marks left on the inside.
–––––––––– “I write because talking to myself out loud is frowned upon.” – the writer
Death is imminent, was all the email stated. Nothing in the subject line, and just a series of nonsensical characters that made up the return email address.
Janelle looked around the office to see any signs of a snickering co-worker. As in bad taste as it was, she wouldn’t put it past someone to think this was funny. She was the last one in the office though, and there was no sign of anyone hiding out.
She decided to call out, “I don’t think that’s funny.”
An email appeared in her inbox that read, It never is.
–––––––––– “I am forever arming the weapons of mass distraction.” – the writer