Author: R.

• Richard
• Lizzie
• Serendipidy
• Tom
• Norval Joe
• Planet Z

The next topic is It’s a dirty job.

RICHARD

Railroad reflection

The mournful sounds of train horns filled the frigid air.

Blowing into my cupped hands had little effect on my numb fingers, and I longed for the warmth of a friendly flame and woollen mittens.

This was the reality of the hobo’s life.

Cold, unforgiving, and distinctly lacking the romance of the open road.

The winter sun, slowly dipped in the Western sky, glinting from the steel rails, bestowing a lustrous sheen of glowing golden light;

Buttery tramlines, leading my gaze towards the distant, unknown horizon:

My destination on the next passing outbound train.

The traveller’s dream; the vagrant’s curse

SERENDIPIDY

I found the photograph in his wallet: A happy, smiling child. His daughter.

It was old now, cracked and faded with time, but still he’d kept it, all these years.

And now, he lay dead at my feet; the knife in my hand, slick with his blood.

He deserved it.

And that’s all I have to say on the matter. You don’t need to know the details, you only need to know that he had it coming.

I trace the little girl’s smile with my bloody finger.

I was happy once.

I looked down at his lifeless form, “Goodbye, dad”.

TOM

VAST

During my undergrad degree in Photography our inter-circle of A-students got the university to give us a van for a road- trip to the Grand Canyon. This prompted a new university policy of no vans for field-trips. Proud of that legacy, I am. The Canyon is number two on the national go-to destination for an American youth, just behind the Happiest Place On Earth. Not your fine art major venue. But the Canyon fine arts written large. As hard as I tried my photos never captured the feel of the Canyon. In a word it is the soul of Vast.

LIZZIE

It was a trying endeavor. A man sitting on a beam, working up high. No ropes, an emptiness below him. Just sitting there and hammering away. But she took that photograph, plus the one with the buildings. Her father had told her that those two represented the company’s prestige. A man dangling, hammering away for a pittance, building the company’s prestige. The pride of the family. When her father died, she took those photographs and burned them. Yes, she got rid of the company’s prestige, and she got rid of her family. It was a trying endeavor. Freedom’s never easy.

NORVAL JOE

The woman struggled, trying to escape from the thorn bush. Sabrina took out her phone and took a photograph of the woman’s face.
“What are you doing?” Billbert asked.
“Evidence,” Sabrina said, putting her phone away. “Let’s get out of here before she gets out of the bush.”
They joined hands and lifted off in the buttery yellow light of morning, flying north across the Eel River delta and the South Humboldt Bay before landing just outside the Eureka city limits.
Sabrina scowled. “Why are we stopping here?”
Linoliamanda started walking. “That’s okay. My house is just up the road.”

PLANET Z

Back in the day, there was a streetcar on Main Street.
From City Hall to the College.
Along the way, there was the factory, the hospital, and the grocer’s.
The town got bigger, the streets got wider, and the streetcar tracks were torn up.
I collect postcards of the old days, women in big dresses and men in their top hats.
Mounted and framed at the old-timey bar by City Hall.
They were going to build it out of a pair of streetcars, but they weren’t big enough.
A toy streetcar goes around on a track near the ceiling, though.

• Lisa
• Richard
• Lizzie
• Serendipidy
• Tom
• Norval Joe
• Planet Z

The next topic is Photograph, Buttery, Tramlines, Vast, Unit, Trying

RICHARD

Starch

Don’t chop the onions next to the potatoes.

Potato eyes are easily irritated, and unlike you, they can’t turn away, avert their gaze, or mop the tears when they flow.

If you don’t believe me, ask the carrots, they’ll tell you it’s true – inasmuch as you can believe anything a carrot has to say!

You could argue that sore eyes is the least of the potatoes’ worries, and once you’ve dealt with those onions, their fate will be far worse.

And, I suppose you’re right.

Maybe, it’s not the onions that make potatoes weep.

It’s knowing they’re about to die.

TOM

Linden Sweden Jonas Peeler 1953

Glance at a “Old-School” Professional Potato Peeler you are witnessing the height of 1950’s form follows function. Built to last several life times. If you never had to use one, despite its striped down simplify you may well miss one of its built-in utility tools. At one end is a blunt tapper curvy part. Dull as a butter knife, but deadly in a well-trained hand. This my friend is a Potato Eye Garroter, as in surround and choke off. With a well-placed stab, quick twist and a sharp snap you can render your tubers eyeless with chief potato peeler efficacy.

LIZZIE

Don’t say that. Don’t put it there. Don’t look that way. Don’t, don’t. Didn’t I tell you not to…
I am sick of it. And I want to move on.
But she grabbed my ankle and her hand was a shackle. She drags herself through the mud and she doesn’t let go.
I knew I would… Yes, die, say it, say it, die.
She would never let go. Never.
Don’t throw that away.
The potatoes? Potato eyes. The potatoes have eyes. The potatoes have…
And I throw it away, I throw everything away.
The eyes, the will, and the soul.

LISA

We’re lucky. We live in a shared house on a posh street. The teacher’s strikes have been tricky though. I’ve not been able to get time off work, but a lady down the road has been looking after my youngest, Louise.

“Estelle never had telly. They just did playing.” Louise said excitedly thrusting a picture towards me. The picture was a face made out of a meal’s worth of dried pasta. “Tomorrow we’re going to do printing with potatoes.”

We put the picture on the empty fridge. It watched us while they ate, and I pretended I’d eaten at work.

SERENDIPIDY

They’re watching me.

There, look at those ugly potato eyes as they follow me around the kitchen.

Those evil, nasty things, staring at me.

It’s almost as if they know.

Carefully, I fill the pan, set it on the gas and slip the biggest, sharpest knife from its slot in the knife block.

I know what I have to do, and I know I must be ruthless and show no pity.

Slowly, I heft the knife in my hand, approaching the chopping board with intent in my steps.

Then, I rapidly turn, thrusting the knife deep into my husband’s throat.

NORVAL JOE

As Billbert and the pudgy old woman climbed higher into the sky, the woman’s gimlet, potato eyes grew wider. In fear, she wrapped her arms around Billbert, her ample bosom pressing into his face.
The more Billbert tried to push away, the tighter she locked her arms around his neck.
He leveled off. “Come on, lady. Are you trying to kill us both?”
She only whimpered.
Flying parallel to the ground he could see that only Sabrina and Linoliamanda waited below in the empty street.
Billbert shot back to the ground and dropped the old woman in a prickly bush.

PLANET Z

Nietzsche says that when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back.
The same goes with potatoes.
If you stare into a potato’s eyes, the potato stares back.
I know, it doesn’t look like that when you first stare at the potato.
But try it. And keep at it.
You’ll see.
It’s disturbing, isn’t it?
You want to look away, but you can’t.
Peel the potato, slice it up, boil it, mash it.
And you can still feel it staring at you.
Can you eat it?
No.
So, throw it on the compost heap.
And not into the abyss.