Micro-fiction I

Inherent Ash

There is no need for me to write this. I have no agenda to make you feel elated, excited, or disillusioned. It is not my intention to make you question anything about your life, the world, or the greater cosmos. I do not wish to entice you into joining some great universal cause or cosmic force. I am two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth, two arms, two knees, two feet and a heart. I am not merely a brain on a pillow. One day, what I am will be ash, hopefully scattered and returned to the earth and its ether. I carry all the ashes of history in my veins, and when I watch the ladybird trekking across the grass stem, I fancy she carries all the ash of history too. Maybe I am mistaken. Maybe I too am a ladybird trekking a blade of grass.



She wants me to stabilize. To find a steady job, plan a pension, get sick pay. I want to live not plan for decaying. She wants to live in safety. I tell her there is none. She urges sensibility. I wax lyrical about chaos. She urges me to look around and blend in. I highlight the fallacy of blending. She craves comfort and easy sleeping. I despise my comfort and am alive when awake. She wants to win at life. I tell her there is no winning because there is no game. She lectures about value and meaning. I eat chocolate cake. She demands make your mark. I laugh at dogs peeing up a tree. She screams the bigger picture! I play music, read a book, write a poem. We sit on a zafu and make love to one another, then we get up and go our separate ways.



She slumped in the chair and picked up the newspaper.

“Hallelujah! That’s me – I am bored.”  The advert said Girls! Don’t be bored. Be a temp instead.

Judy Kirby was a indeed a bored girl. She frequently sat with her hands clasped over her belly, thumbs swirling in a circular motion just as the picture in the advert indicated. It resonated. There wasn’t much else in the advert apart from telephone numbers so she turned the page. There she saw a larger more detailed advert for the same thing: Great temp jobs at Brooke Street Bureau. The large photograph, made her heart sink like falling lead. Teary-eyed she sighed,

“That’s not me”, and immediately ripped out the picture of two sets of long lithe legs beneath tiny skirts. She tossed the paper aside, adjusted the buckle on her dungarees, pulled on her wellies and went back outside.

“Fuck that!”