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sickle_storiesWell-Worn Hand (Track 10)
A/N: Something I wish I had.
Being friends, we took turns holding each others hands, took turns falling or pulling the other up, dusting each other off and telling reassuring lies. Our hands were always outstretched, gripped, fingers and life-lines melding into the other, curling and resting in time-honoured places, my thumb resting just so, your index pressing there, always the same. We've been holding hands for so long, one would think they'd be immune to the passage of time and blunders, wrapped up in mutual gloves of friendship. But our childhood grips gain strength and subtlety with experience, turn paper-dry or slippery-wet, callouses and scars decorating familiar skin. Still, it is your hand, your well-worn hand, in mine, and I'll keep holding it for the rest of our time.
When Anger Shows (Track 5)
There were scuff marks on the floor, deep gouges on the table, smeared footprints on the wall. Pens lay strewn on the ground like an abandoned game of pick-up sticks. The duvet lay in crumpled restlessness at the foot of the bed, a pillow half-consumed beneath it. The figure standing in the doorway took the room at a glance, a practiced reader of such cryptography, and quietly shut the door again.
Smokers Outside Hospital Doors (Track 1)
A/N: Sometimes you just need a break.
The smoke doesn't cover the ghost if the distinctly medical smell - all tepid green and listless blue - and the nicotine rush harly soothes the right nerves. They stand aroud, in twos or threes, swaying pendulously from one foot to the other or pacing slowly with great sweeping steps, feet hovering endlessly before coming down in defeat. Their faces are inexpressive beyond the basics of exhaustion, closed off and focued entirely on the column of ash, the column of smoke and the pillar at their backs. A couple minutes' peace, a moment of respite in which they give themselves entirely over to their bodies, their small habits and rituals done without thought, canceling out the need for thought. They put time at a standstill even as it burns, because some things will never wait for you, wait for you to be ready, to be strong, to be willing, to be there. They come outside and cup these small offerings of time, time spent not-waiting that might have instead been spent waiting, watching, hoping or breaking. These white cylinders of measured time, modern incense sticks, have no god in mind, but the prayer is clear: "Please", they whisper as they burn, "just give me a minute."
A/N: Something I wish I had.
Being friends, we took turns holding each others hands, took turns falling or pulling the other up, dusting each other off and telling reassuring lies. Our hands were always outstretched, gripped, fingers and life-lines melding into the other, curling and resting in time-honoured places, my thumb resting just so, your index pressing there, always the same. We've been holding hands for so long, one would think they'd be immune to the passage of time and blunders, wrapped up in mutual gloves of friendship. But our childhood grips gain strength and subtlety with experience, turn paper-dry or slippery-wet, callouses and scars decorating familiar skin. Still, it is your hand, your well-worn hand, in mine, and I'll keep holding it for the rest of our time.
When Anger Shows (Track 5)
There were scuff marks on the floor, deep gouges on the table, smeared footprints on the wall. Pens lay strewn on the ground like an abandoned game of pick-up sticks. The duvet lay in crumpled restlessness at the foot of the bed, a pillow half-consumed beneath it. The figure standing in the doorway took the room at a glance, a practiced reader of such cryptography, and quietly shut the door again.
Smokers Outside Hospital Doors (Track 1)
A/N: Sometimes you just need a break.
The smoke doesn't cover the ghost if the distinctly medical smell - all tepid green and listless blue - and the nicotine rush harly soothes the right nerves. They stand aroud, in twos or threes, swaying pendulously from one foot to the other or pacing slowly with great sweeping steps, feet hovering endlessly before coming down in defeat. Their faces are inexpressive beyond the basics of exhaustion, closed off and focued entirely on the column of ash, the column of smoke and the pillar at their backs. A couple minutes' peace, a moment of respite in which they give themselves entirely over to their bodies, their small habits and rituals done without thought, canceling out the need for thought. They put time at a standstill even as it burns, because some things will never wait for you, wait for you to be ready, to be strong, to be willing, to be there. They come outside and cup these small offerings of time, time spent not-waiting that might have instead been spent waiting, watching, hoping or breaking. These white cylinders of measured time, modern incense sticks, have no god in mind, but the prayer is clear: "Please", they whisper as they burn, "just give me a minute."
