Cricket

It's a funny game. As the days roll on the nature of it seems to change, the ground gets browner. Dust starts to kick up from his opponents as they hurl themselves across the pitch. It feels to him as if there are more people around. Maybe there are more, at the very least they're less spread out. No, he thinks, there are more than there was a few days ago. There's certainly fewer from his team. They've fallen slowly, but they've fallen, it's just him and one other now.

It's hot and the sun burns through his whites, he can feel it on his skin. His sweat has turned to a sticky dry salt feeling. Granules stick to his head, and his hands, and well, everywhere. 

It's the fifth and last day. He feels like a win is within reach. There's definitely more of them today, surely, but he feels like the end is close. Things happen at a slow inevitable pace. He can taste victory. No, maybe that's just salt. He swings wildly at times, forgetting the value of concentration. But their concentration is dimming as well, so he gets away with it for now. Slowly, inevitably, he inches closer. Not to victory, but not to defeat either. He inches closer to that hollow feeling of not having won, that is still so much more preferable to the only alternative now. All he can do now is avoid the bitter, the sweet is out of reach. 

30 Seconds

“Sounds to me like it’s two standard deviations on a normal distribution curve” conversation pieces don’t come too much better than that. She was confident that he would be riveted by her. Well, as confident as she could be. Jude had never been very full of confidence really. But tonight she felt better than she had ever before. Her molars stopped their constant grinding for an hour or so. But now, with Steven looking at her through his thick black-rimmed glasses, she could feel her jaw tightening again. Maybe she had miss-read him, maybe he wasn’t going to find her funny at all. Steven’s face slowly clunked and computed and worked its way into a smile as he parsed this unusual social situation. This girl seemed to like him, she certainly wasn’t trying to escape back to the company of her friends. The two of them had been speaking for nearly half an hour now, and what’s more, he was fairly certain she’d just made one of the funniest jokes he’d ever heard. Yes, this was going well. Why not follow his instincts for a change. “Ha” he laughed a genuine but tightly throttled laugh, “you like maths, I like maths, maybe we should go out some time?”

In Transit

It’s a dream; it’s in between time. Nothing much happens, you go then you come, mostly you just wait. There is a lot of waiting. A lot of waiting and very little sleeping. The settings change but only just a little bit, they’re a watered down version of the place you’ve just been, or the place you’re arriving at. The fast food is more or less the same. There is never good coffee. The mind tends to wander when you’re in transition, it can feel like you’re at a destination, that this is a place. This isn’t a place, it’s the essential part of getting to that place you’re excited to be. The excitement of the travel gets caught up with the actual travelling. Airports are a place to love. And a place to loathe. 

Portal

It's not instant like in the science fiction movies, it's a lot slower than that, the portal that takes me home from work, but it's still magic.

I enter it from the office door, leaving the square building in the outer limits of the city, where everything seems to be the colour of a nineties computer, beige and faded and a bit grubby around the space bar.

I slowly edge my way to another place. Sights blur past me with my glasses off and eyes adjusting to the light. I don't even realise when I'm nearly there, the slowness of the portal means my journey’s end sneaks up on me.

At the other end of the portal the difference is stark. Colours and sounds seem crisper and more alive. I'm back at home and feel it too. I need a glass of cold water and a seat afterwards, breathing deep contented breaths as I untie my running shoes.

There's a Morepork on my Street

There's a morepork on my street. He lives in a big Norfolk pine up near the top of the hill, the other end of the street to me. He stands guard up there, when I walk past in the evenings he always sends me off with a hoot. Then when I come back later on in the night he’s still up, standing guard and telling me that he’s still there. Watching me come and go.

His tree is a big one, some of the trees on my street are bigger than the houses, which is saying a lot. His pine must have been there a long time, it would’ve come along with some of the first houses here. Now newer buildings surround it, even a tower of apartments. It still stands proudly near the top of the hill, marking its place in this old suburb in a relatively young city. And it holds in it the little owl with the loud voice. There’s morepork on my street.

World Famous in Three Lamps

I’m not entirely sure if he’s homeless, if he isn’t he must be pretty close to being homeless. Dishevelled and a little bit dirty, but he does have a few possessions. He has his guitar and he has a little stool. I don’t imagine he makes a lot of money at his spot, it’s a busy piece of the street but not a crowded piece.

His guitar seems like it could be out of tune, it’s hard to tell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he only knew one chord. The guitar is just a prop really, something to strum along in the background of his song. Because it’s not the music he’s selling it’s his voice. What change he does manage to collect he earns with his voice, it’s a voice opposite to his outward appearance. His voice is crisp and clear, it’s a voice that cuts, it’s powerful and unforced.

I wonder if he’s ever been a musician, a professional musician I mean. Maybe he used to be famous, or as famous as you can be in this city. I drop a coin at his feet and give him a smile, at least he’s famous on this little corner.

Daring

He was a brave guy, strong and confident. I don’t think I ever saw him show any fear. Looking back now, that was probably his downfall. He got too comfortable really. I don’t know exactly what he thought at the time, he wasn’t one to share his emotions freely. But if I had to guess, I’d say that he was thinking that he’d be fine. He knew that the chilli would be hot, but I don’t think he thought it would be too hot for him, he thought he could handle it.

It’s a pretty tough way to go, when you think about it. I was talking to the doctor afterwards, after it was clear what had happened. I don’t know why I felt I needed to speak to the poor doc, it must have been my way of reacting to the shock. But I asked him about the detail, and he told me that in these cases, generally speaking, the tongue swells and the ears burn and the entire brain actually explodes. It sounded to me like a horrible way to go, and I said as much to the doctor. But he told me no, for the patient it’s just a numbness, the heat rises up in his chest and throat and to him it feels like he’s slowly drifting off to sleep.

I don’t really know how the doctor thinks he could know that. But it’s what I’m choosing to believe. I like to imagine that my fried went quietly and comfortable, despite the terrible circumstances. The only thing that’s left for me now is to spread the word. Sure they’re tasty, but please ladies and gentleman, think carefully about how much chilli you’re adding to your meal. It may seem like fun at the time but it’s a very serious game you’re playing.