particles
Particles of thought strewn
through space, across time – both mine and yours alike
sand grains let loose from loose hands
that fall where they fall, lost to us forever
but found again perhaps, on some other world’s shore

To these pockets of warmth we build for one another
small comforts of unabandoned hope
in an ever-cold dimming universe that drifts wider apart

Opening text from
My Fabric Moved

tekkon4tekkon8tekkon7tekkon6tekkon5tekkon2tekkon3tekkon1

kidssee.png

daytona

  • nostalgia, childhood, time capsules, dating a time period
  • bikes
  • death and love and vengeance
  • places to eat
  • introverts
  • self-inflicted injuries
  • bittersweet endings and/or fractured relationships
  • varying degrees of genre thrown in (scifi/supernatural/fantasy/magical realism/thriller)

homergenius

I think I just gave my trade secrets away.

“So how is it?” Shafi watched her lick the humous off her thumb and little finger before taking another bite.

Bronagh frowned a concentrated frown as she chewed. “I don’t know. It’s a lot of aubergine. I was hoping for more meat.”

“Yeah it’s light like mediterranean food. Easy on the belly.”

“Well it is mediterranean food.”

lfood

Wasn’t Lebanon in the middle east? “Oh. Right.” Shafi grabbed a laminated menu from the table beside their own. Everything on the menu was numbered, named and priced. None of the dishes were described however and not many more were photographed, so the two of them had picked their dishes largely by the sound of the arab words.

“We should try some more things. This one might have meat in it.” Shafi looked over the lumps in the image. If only they had brought their phones. “Or potato. I’m just gonna ask the guy.” He waved a hand to no success. “Boss. Brother.”

The old chef behind the counter grumbled at the disinterested waiter and came out, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Everyone’s a brother,” Bronagh solemnly observed.

“That or uncle.” And nobody liked being the uncle.

“Yes habibi. You order?” The chef turned around, suddenly compelled to yell insults at the waiter. “Kelb! Kol khara ya hmar!” The young waiter to his credit refused to engage, but for a condescending whistle, which seemed to further anger the old man.

Shafi pointed to the menu. “Which ones have meat in them, boss?”

Wleh all meat halal. I make for you.” And with that the chef stormed away, the only one who knew what had apparently been ordered.

Bronagh played with her straw. “So that happened.”