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I’m not sure how I will ever get home. Even worse, I am alone and have to … find laces for my rollerblades now that the old ones snapped apart. I glance to the edge of the alleyway, and notice something. I hobble over on socks. Two wires, connected to an old 8track player. I snap the wires and lace up, zig-zagging home.

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I’m not sure how I will ever get home.

Even worse, I am alone and have to get dressed before I can go on to the streets again.

What happened last night? I don’t know.

I do recall going into that bar and ordering a drink.

A strange looking bearded man came up next to me.

He looked me in the eye and said: “Can I buy a drink?”

As I returned his stare the barman must have done something in my drink, because very soon after that moment my memory is blank.

What happened? Does anybody of you out there know?

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With a keening cry like a worn old spirit, he landed the axe in the jagged crook of the tree trunk, and saw it teetering under the last fibres of strength. Despite its bulk, the tree fell to the earth gracefully, silently with only a whimpering slump of a noise.

He knew in this moment that he had severed a connection. Not just for the tree, but within himself.

Something wild inside him howled in self-pity. The breeze seemed to crawl over his skin. There would be money in his rough hands for this hardwood,  his family fed for months.

Yet, he felt deeply, from the tangled sadness that hung in the air, that there had been a shift. The body of the old tree, the splintered heartwood, made him feel that he was immutably, irredeemably, indebted.

To whom, or what? he wondered. As he bent to begin to remove the limbs, he began to whistle, to quell the urge to run.

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I never made it to the top of that tree. This is not metaphorical. It's true. Oh, but I tried, every Sunday morning. But thin branches and my own fear kept me stuck in the middle, yearning to reach the very top of the tree, to see beyond the beyond and into the blue sky above. I never made it. Maybe, despite what I said earlier, it was all metaphorical. I am here, in the middle life, wondering what lies there beyond my field of vision. I am still climbing this tree.

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Gently his right hand slipped over her tender waist on to her back while softly holding her hand with his left hand.

His feet started moving inviting hers to follow.

Together they moved to the center of the dance floor completely in sync as if they were one.

No words were said. A simple look into each other's eyes would have been enough said.

As he finally opened his eyes, standing next to the dance floor, he saw her leaving the disco with her friends.

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After his jump, while flying through the sky, with ever increasing speed, his thoughts went to his home.

His thoughts went through the front door, passed the hall way (library on the left, drawing room on the right) on to the large kitchen.

He approached the bottom of the fjord faster and faster, about to hit the ice cold water with (probably) to much speed, as he cried out his (probably) last words ... "DAMN, I left the refrigerator door open!"

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He buys me a ticket and a comic magazine, walks me to the train, makes sure I am sitting in my favorite place next to the window, then he waves goodbye and leaves.

It is Friday and I am on my way to visit my grandmother in Helwan. I love the train trip and the walk from the station to her house.

In the afternoon I retrace my steps, dreaming of my next visit. I am eleven.

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She danced with abandon, she did. This little girl, on the stage of her own design. A tabletop platform balanced on the bars of the moon. The spotlight, rays of sun, cloaked her in warmth, and she danced, this little girl did. She closed her eyes and imagined the audience, rapt and attentive, moving to her rhythm. I watched from the window, next door, and silently applauded a performance of a lifetime.

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Tonight when I looked west down the avenue I could still see the last vestiges of sunset low on the horizon and the lights on the tiny street-side trees sparkled in the fresh snow. Then I turned towards the river, walked a few blocks and watched the full moon, orange tinged, rise in the eastern sky.

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She checked her watch. The hands moved backwards to its own gear systems. As expected. From a distance, she could seem him approaching. Walking. Backwards. As always. But how, she wondered, would he take back the words he said to her tomorrow when yesterday was still around the corner? She hoped she had already figured that out.

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A short scene submitted as a Daily Create Assignment for DS106

https://ronleunissen.wordpress.com/2015/11/08/the-little-green-bottle-tdc-1400/

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When he realized it was the same cliff he had fallen from last time, he rubbed the scar on his leg and jumped.

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The winter storm rolled in. The flight was cancelled, as he expected. He put his bag on the ground and slumped into a seat. Waiting. She arrived minutes later, her head covered in bandana. A smile on her face, as if this were the only place in the world she would be. She appeared unruffled by the storm surging outside the windows. "I'm used to the world and its whims," she informed him, although he had not asked. "I'm in recover. Every minute is precious."

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He sat on the wall looking at the juicy berries. 4 yellow eyes watched him hopefully. Quickly he dived down and grabbed a juicy beakful. The cats watched, thwarted.

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From my favorite place on the terrace, I could hear the morning songs. One particular tune sounded closer than the others. I turned around. There it was, a bulbul, perched on a Purple Queen plant near me. I smiled feeling happy that it felt safe enough to come close and sing for me, or was it trying to say something? I turned back to my book and in a little while the singing stopped. Tomorrow I will wait, I will listen better and I hope we become friends.

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I Hope We Become Friends by Maha Abdelmoneim

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she wondered what would happen when both legs were covered.

What could she turn to?

She decided to take a picture and share it with the wide world. Just with the warning 'don't use a biro, they can hurt your skin'

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They told her to draw something beautiful.

On her leg.

Instead of the scars and marks and cuts that had been her previous release. Now her leg was full of an intricate mono coloured design. Like a henna design that was spiritually significant.

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She pulled the picture out of the box. Took it out of the bag. Unwrapped the cloth that held the newspaper that hugged the image as protection against time. Every layer gone was another story remembered, until she was left with remembrances of that year on top of the mountain, him with mouth open in a shout of triumph.

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He twisted the nob. Turned it. Fumbled his fingers and cranked it. Still, it stayed out of tune, as if it were some resistant force on the neck of the guitar itself. This required another tact. He detuned the other strings, bringing the entire instrument into harmony with the string itself. And then, to his joy, it sang with beauty.

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There he stood. In the dark. Hidden in the abandoned alley.

All his clothes were wet. He was cold on the outside, yet his anger kept him warm on the inside.

He waited. As he had been waiting for 2 hours now.

He squeezed the knife handle in his hand so hard that it hurt. His knuckles were white.

Why had she left him? Why him?

The door of the restaurant opened. There she was. Laughing. With him.

He stepped out of the alley. Now he would bring an end to it.