Everyday disasters happen whenever they want and wherever you’d rather they didn’t. A city holds a glut of such disasters lurking behind each affable street name and behind other places you might not have thought anything of before. Designed to happen with grace and executions, a deep-sea dive for a dreadnought a juxtaposed jive for those juggernauts and for a little girl, well, we’ll see.
There’s nothing you can do about these events they’re already there: every disaster will happen.
Now, Maisy made waves in round-a-bout ways and was not prone to disasters nor was she naïve: she’d lied through her teeth many a time but she couldn’t always grasp the simple pleasures that litter a life and she often had trouble falling asleep. One night, in the dead of night, she counted 12 dozen and eight sheep, her eyes parched and her lips flicked but not a glance of tiredness. The question, possibly even dilemma, for anyone in this situation is which option do you go for: stay where you are and hope you’re on the cusp of sleep or get up and do something?
Maisy got up and walked around, she looked around too and thought around and eventually about what she could do to make her decision a little more worthwhile. A quick look in the fridge held none of the answers. Outside a dog rattled a cat. Inside: Nothing. She snook to the cupboard (almost like her intentions were gonna make her move louder (than before)) and pinched her dad’s leather jacket- a forgotten remnant of a previous mid-life-crisis to make her feel tougher and warmer.
She was already in the town centre by the time Maisy remembered that she was supposed to be sleeping. She’d never seen the town without any people before, it’d always felt like some people’s only purpose was to walk around town centres with somethings to do- the people she never remembered or really noticed thouh she knew they were there. Obviously no-one has anythings to do at this time of night, not in the town anyway. There wasn’t much of a noise without the people either, ‘is it really a town centre if it doesn’t have any people anymore?’ she wondered on her own, ‘does it count?’.
Just louder than the silence was a noise. A little later it was louder and before she knew what it was it was a moped.
(on the moped was a girl. Yes, a girl. The girl had a convincing smile. You might know the type.)
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7 comments:
Predeterminism in the first paragraph. That's as it should be. Disaster is a smile's natural bedfellow - anything that creases, cracks. If you ask your man in the street. (A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN).
I like it but I dont entirely agree with what you said about the lack of stories. I think most (if not all) the things here have story to varying degrees. I think maybe you mean something more specific, like third-person or something?
Probably, does it matter? I can't say it does.
It mattered to me. I think I had to defend something. But we're all clear now.
Part 2!!
Oh here we are! Far back in time. I read this at the time, but this rather prickly bit of commentary above put me off posting. Anyway, I think I prefer the play format. But as an in introduction, and of course reinforces the idea that trouble is about.
Minxy had a lamb one day...
I'm not very good with the word moped either. If one it ride a moped I imagine a small miserable looking creature. Never mind, I can deal with it.
It is good that moped and moped are two very different words.
But sad they look the same.
I was reading the other day (I do that sometimes), and I read the verb "to mope", in the perfect tense, as a kind of a scootery thing. I know why.
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