Church door

Not sure about this one…

It may have had no hands, no feet, no limbs. But it have a voice, more than that it had what it needed. It existed and did so because of one man. One man, once good, now beyond repair. Like it, he could no longer move by himself.

He relied on it for everything and it relied on him – an unsteady and symbiosis had developed or was it parasitism? Both thought of it as such, one thinking he was the host and one the pathogen, but if the truth be told they needed each other and could not shake the other off without the certainly of uncertainty. Where it had come from? It, let alone anyone else, knew.

Its conscience developed slowly like the gates of a lit church opening slowly there was nothing, then a crack appeared, and then the crack widened. The light crept inextricably slowly, round, over the curved top of the door and the light spilled out and washed towards it so slowly. It flowed like thick golden butter to engulf its consciousness could feel itself and it knew that it was what it did not know was why it was p it still didn’t and maybe it never would just a being with out a purpose. It lacked romance and imagination,.

He found it humming gently behind a sofa. He picked it up, turned it , and then dropped it at the sound of a voice. Help me/ for you see it had gone mad ;; a consciousness left by itself in nothing but thick golden butter can not be expected to sustain any level of rational thought for long. You see against all its logic it had found a god.

But not some add onto life to explain what it did not know; the god was all it knew – it was itself/ it saw itself as the crtator for how else could exsistance ahbve occurred it not thorugh it for it w as the only thinkg that existed so it mauhc hav e crastedv it self.s

Did spilt soup always infuriate her?

I feel it coming. The potential of tonight was always too much. Something was bound to happen and knock a pleasant night into forgetful mediocrity, or worse memorable mediocrity. So far looks like tonight might be one that’s not easily lost amongst the cranial folds.

“Yes dear, mine’s a little cold too”, perhaps I can head off the inevitable long enough for us to be gone before…

“I really think you should say something” – too late, now we’re deep into crisis management.

Looking at her now, I can barely recall any happy times we’ve had. I know I’ve felt happiness in her company, I know I used to look into her face and do nothing but smile, but bugger me if I can remember any dates or even places – I’m sure there was blue sky.

“Well?”

Last chance to salvage my hopes of a pleasant dinner, I pretend not to hear, “Do you remember when we were sitting under the blue sky?”

“What?”

Shit, I’ve dug a hole now. “I remember,” I begin, I’m going to have to wing it, “sitting on the grass, gazing at your face”

“Even the lettuce is wilted,” she interrupts, “ they can’t even do a salad.” This sentence is followed by an invisible, “tut”. She wields it like a whip, I know my face squirms under it, I know she’s pretending not to notice my reaction, I know she’s enjoying this. How anyone enjoys complaining about salad and subjugating others at the same time is beyond me.

Still, might as well continue my efforts to save us from drudgery, “Yes, grass and sky,” I trail off as the irritating pimple of a waiter weaves towards us. I know what’s coming and I’m already ashamed, staring at the bread rolls I furiously think how to manage the forthcoming conflict. Pimple will ask, ‘Is everything OK?’, I sink further into my chair at the thought of those words, then my wife will look at me and threaten to Tut – what will I do?

All I can think about is green grass and blue sky – just two blocks of colour, one above the other. The footsteps come closer, pause, a throat is cleared. Then a ‘tut’. No, not ‘tut’; ‘tush’ and it’s coming from the waiter. Sunk in my chair hunched over the bread my neck swivels. I glimpse the underside of Pimple’s chin before he smartly turns and head towards the kitchen – saved – Sweet Jesus.

Bolstered my this surprising good fortune I extract a spoonful of watery soup, and continue headlong with my rescue efforts. “We were sitting on that old rug we kept in the car – remember” I say this last word with such intensity that my soup spoon leaps in my hand. This is unlikely to go down well, remonstration is sure to ensue. Was it always so? Had I spilt soup when we first met what would the reaction have been? A shy smile and touch of my hand. Did such gentle gestures hide her real emotions – did spilt soup always infuriate her?