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R & R Ramblings

Fictional Fingertip Tapping Tales…

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Vignette

Cocoon of Corridors

escape from reality -prison- mind prison- mental health- darkness- monsters - R&R Ramblings post - MelAROWE.com

Dark’s fingers creep like ghosts that linger. They envelop the skin, infiltrate the bloodstream, to smother the last embers of the soul’s flame. Here, doors open but it’s impossible to peek inside or find the courage to visualize beyond their darkness.

Yet, it’s curiously comforting. This cocoon of corridors Continue reading “Cocoon of Corridors”

Boundaries Pushed

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‘Don’t. You. Dare.’

Continue reading “Boundaries Pushed”

Silenced Surround Sounds

 

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They didn’t smell the pungent regurgitated mashed food that battled against clouds of floral perfumes and spicy aftershaves. They didn’t hear the loudspeaker promoting the latest motivational activity or the surrounding shouts accompanied by scraping chairs and falling cutlery. All they saw was Continue reading “Silenced Surround Sounds”

A Floral Front

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He sniffed, wiped his nose on the cuff of his gloved hands that held the sharp snips he used to trim the stem on the thornless white rose. “Please feel free to browse.” His red eyes wandered over the slim build of the bottle blonde, turning her nose at his art. “Can’t find anything to suit?”

“I want different.” She popped her littlest fingernail into her mouth and teethed on its edge like a termite on timber.

“Of course, you do.” We all do. He sniffed, wiped beads of perspiration from his brow, and eyed the clock’s countdown.

“So, any tips?” Continue reading “A Floral Front”

Scent of Silence

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Silence has a scent.

It’s where dust settles and breezes still. Continue reading “Scent of Silence”

Functioning at a Dysfunctional Function

‘Eating meat this year, Jen?’

‘Your sister’s name is Jenny.’ Mum wiped palms upon her apron, following Dad’s swagger from the kitchen carrying the prize turkey.

Jenny’s fingertips traced the delicate outline of the crocheted threads in Grandma’s lacework spread across the food-laden table. The silent witness to another annual passing parade of corrupt cousins, divorced aunts, and derelict uncles. Continue reading “Functioning at a Dysfunctional Function”

Pizza Rain Parade

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“STOP THE CAR,” she screamed from windpipes that rarely whimpered past a librarian’s whisper.

“But -“

“I said, Stop.” With a mobile phone in hand, she leant forwards. “I’m taking a photo of your Identification and texting this to my partner.” She lied but tapped away to maintain her bluff.

“Fine.” He slammed on the brake and the taxi skidded in the rain, forcing his passenger to shoulder slam into the driver’s seat.

Too livid to speak, her tossed coinage bounced across the front passenger seat. Tucked her phone into her shouldered bag. Kicked the door open. Snatched up her pizza box and jumped out.

Shoes disappeared under water swirling around her ankles that divided the river’s run for freedom to the sea. All topped off with the taxi’s exiting rooster-tail tsunami dumping across her back. “Damn.”

Head balancing the warm box, wiping beaded brow, she spied her oasis beyond the watery wall. Against the tides rush, peeking through the cardboard’s guttering run-off she headed for shelter. Lost her shoes from uncoordinated lurches, and yet, with a leap of luck, she jumped onto the bus shelter’s bench-seat.

The drenched box splatted onto the bench while she performed an ungraceful belly dance to rid excess water. Checked her phone’s screen, dry, with the rest of her handbags innards. Then scowled at the last photo, realising there was never a happy-snap on her phone these days.

With pursed lips, she began mentally drafting her complaint about the driver’s monologue on how ‘roadworks are a cover for Council corruption’, while taking her on a skin crawling, stomach churning, expensive, detour.

She glanced at her painted toes wriggling with silt. Peeled paper remnants glued to lower legs. Then wrung out the bottom of her skirt. It was useless. She wanted to be at home, have a hot bath, a glass of wine and eat her, now-waterlogged, dinner.

Instead, she sniffed at the potential onslaught of a gutter-grit flu.

When between the shadowed slats of the bench seat she spied movement.

“Eww. A rat.” On tiptoes, palms slapped the tin roof, about to leap into the depths of muck. Until big, summer blue eyes gazed up amongst a grey grunge. “You’re not a rat,” wiping at her nose drip.

“Aww…” Deaf to the rain’s roof pound, naked soles slid into the unfelt cold water. Her hem floated, she reached forwards. Fingers curled around filthy fur and trembling rib cage. She cradled the bundle against her heart and wrapped it up inside her damp, yet warm, jacket.

“I got marinara.” She raised the lid, exposing pale cheese and bloated dough. “Perhaps not,” tipping it into the shelter’s pooling rubbish bin.

“Well, aren’t we a couple of drenched gutter-rats.” She took a selfie, laughing at the soaked duo reflected onscreen – proud to finally have a fun photo. And with pizza box draped over her scalp like a melting tepee, she smiled. “Let’s go home, Kitty,” and was rewarded with an offbeat purr.

 

Bush Strawberries

“Here, try one.” Continue reading “Bush Strawberries”

It finally happened…

mindil sunset 4 (1 of 1)I’ve tried to:

Tickle it
Tease it
Toss it
Beg it
Curse it

Continue reading “It finally happened…”

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