Flash-Fiction called Inter-Sensational, Writer’s Block, and thoughts on Death.

Inter-Sensational

I am a mendicant wanderer. A vagabond par excellence. Not that poor. Not that rich. Just enough to keep me rolling along so as I don’t get bogged down in the mundanity of living.  I’d rather sit back and watch the river of existence. People and their predictable habits. Urban places and neutral faces.  You’d think me some brave global adventurer but I still yearn for a well-poured coffee. Pitch black like the centre of my eyes. I also yearn for a well-made bed. Corners tucked in neatly. Bed spread smoothed of creases. I wander but not too far. Through highways and under flyways. Cross cracked pavements and crumpled houses containing caged birds. People come and people go, never my friends, but always an acquaintance. Don’t think I don’t want you to get too close because I fear love. I am in love with it all. The whole round world and its infinite species. Its summer and winters. Self-centred one-person love forces the sun shine rays of loves abundant nature into an unnatural path that makes me feel gloomy. When alone those pixelated sunshine rays fan out across the world. It’s called being free. It’s called being me. Inter-sensational. Multi-dimensional. I would go on but I won’t. Finite.

Writer’s Block

He stared at the burning embers of the paper notes he had just set on fire. Flecks of ashes danced in the wind stream until they came down on the grass beside the fire. He continued to stare into the fire as the police sirens wailed behind him. He could hear the doors close as the policemen jumped out of their cars and shouted, ‘Get down on your knees!’

He got down on his knees and placed his hands beside his head. He could hear the sounds of the police running towards him as they grabbed his arms and twisted them behind his back. He expected five years for the attempted arm robbery. He figured that was enough time to write a novel but was concerned the judge would see leniency on realizing that his was a crime of passion, or a cry for passion. As he walked towards the police car he could sense his story unfolding before his eyes.

 

Death

A lot of people live their final days like they are hammering tent pegs in to the ground. As if they are slowly being pushed towards a cliff dragging their heels. It’s an unconscious thing. A kind of personal choice. The best way is to embrace the energy of approaching death within the mind which opens the body-soul to an abundant energy that keeps you fresh and alive. Those that do will be the ones who are springy right up until that last breath. To keep going. Travelling. Working in the thing you love to do. Or keeping a smile across the face at the constant embracing of life-death. The sunshine smile of the finality of it all. It’s not a depressing thing but it’s a thing to keep checking on to ensure you stand up each day. Think of your demise. Breathe in. Accept. And then take action.

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