Happy birthday to me

Short Story Day Africa

(They need a comma after '20 June' in the heading.) More here

And here's where I got the idea that there was a 100 word limit.

Either way, I happen to have a hundred-word story somewhere on my desktop. It's like I knew this day would come when I wrote it in October last year! Happy Short Story Day Africa... Or whatever it is you're supposed to say. Here's mine:

**

So two men were walking down the street one day. One said, “hey, wanna hear something funny?” The other one said no.

“So these ducks were swimming in the water yea, and then this guy comes out and snatches them right out, and… hahahaha!”

The other one kept quiet.

“Wanna know what happens next?”

The other one said no.

“Your loss”, he said, “It’s hilarious.”

Then he chuckled, stopped, smiled and whistled to himself, and then chuckled to himself again.

Then the other one said, “Oh whatever, just tell me and stop whistling!”

And then the first one said no.

**

The Linguistic Playfulness blog is here if you're interested (and can't be bothered to type out the address.)

You already know. When you ask yourself these questions, you already know what the answers should be. So you ask anyway, and you consider every option except the one that you know is the answer. And you do that again, and you do that again, and you do that again.

If you don't ask, the answer's already no

Which is why i'm sharing this semi-ambitious >>>wishlist<<< in anticipation of my birthday.

I will also be receiving warm hugs, thoughtful messages, cards, new music, good books, sunglasses, white wine, moustache-inspired jewellery, gluten free desserts and general loving thoughts, so there's a gift option for everyone! ^_^

It's my first birthday away from home and I have a deadline to hand in that morning, so i'm shooing away the blues with the power of positive thinking. The presents will help with this. Thank you.

(Or seven. But that's okay.)

It doesn’t feel like butterflies, not quite. It turns slowly, bubbling up from the bottom of your belly as you swallow and swallow to choke it down. It doesn’t go away. 
You realise it will not go away, and that’s when it boils over and spills out of your eyes.

You let it pour, because you hope it means that it will finish. But you know it won’t.

That means no.

I love you.
I know you do
You're perfect.
I know I am
You're everything I've ever wanted, and everything I'll ever need.
That's a lot of things for one person to be
It's what you are.
You're sweet
I mean it.
Thank you
Do you love me?

You know I do

Today will be different!

In her dreams she’s alive. She runs, she jumps, she flies. Her hair blows about in the wind, her skin tingles in the frosty air. Her breath is quick and sharp as it counts the seconds, and her feet slap the ground beneath in a rhythmic beat.

She says everything she wants to say, without killing it with her thoughts and crippling herself with her fears. She lives, in the moment, because that is all she has, and all she can count on. Every minute marks the active pursuit of her dreams, her real dreams, until she wakes up.

Her mind opens before her eyes do, and she clings hard to the moments before, the clarity of unconsciousness that is more real than anything around her. She goes over the contents of her wishes, marks them up against the blankness of her life, and she closes her eyes again. She can hear her breath; she can smell the musty air of her room. She can taste the sour tang of failure.

Today, she says. Today will be different! She stays where she is, she dares not move. If she does yesterday might come back, and yesterday might win, and the best part of today would have been the one in her dream. So she fights.

Her eyes outline the minutes, the seconds. She sees herself on her feet. She feels the wind from outside, she hears herself speak with certainty and clarity. She has a plan, she has the will, she has…

Fallen asleep.

Where the tears go

I have a pretend dimple.

I cannot see it, unless I squint.

I roll my tongue around my mouth, touching it against my cheek, trying to find it.

But the inside is smooth; it does not make way for anything. It does not bulge. It does not dip.

People, I wonder, people with real dimples. Do they have to say, hey, don’t touch my cheek, the skin is sensitive, the skin is thin, because, you see, it goes in, it dips, so beautifully! That you must not touch it, or it will stretch, and disappear.

I have a friend, she has dimples, real ones. They part her cheeks like the red sea. I wonder, sometimes, do her tears go around them when she cries? Do they follow the creases or do they disappear in the hollow of her face as the holes swallow the drops as if they were never there?

I have never put my finger in her face. Why have I never put my finger in her face? To feel her dip? To measure the crease? To feel how far it goes before it touches teeth?

I wonder what dimples are for; what they are made of.

Why have I never touched her face?

I promise to find out, the next time I see her. I wonder if I can make her cry too, so that I can find out where the tears go.