The flowers in the bin


Courtesy of johnnyberg on

A host of golden daffodils poked their head out of a black bin at the exit to the park. From a distance, they still seemed healthy, and as full of glee as Wordsworth’s. But there was no immediately discernible reason for the ignoble end they had been sentenced with. It’s unlikely the groundsman would have done it; he had his own bucket on his cart for weeds and fallen foliage. IT must have been a visitor to the park. But who? And why?

Was it a jilted lover, who eagerly ran to the park to meet his new love interest, only stopping to pick up a bunch of flowers at the supermarket? Was his woman nervously sitting straight-backed on a bench, feeling guilty at the pain she would cause him but remaining firm in her resolve? How long did the conversation take? Did he argue with her and try to make her stay with him, or did he accept it quietly because he knew himself they weren’t going to work together. Did he storm off, and plunge the flowers stems first into the bin opening in a semi-sub-conscious act of violent penetration? Or did she hurriedly walk off first as he sat in bewilderment, still clutching the bunch of flowers, which he would continue to do until he was brought back to reality by the slipstream of a latex-clad cyclist hurtling past?

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The limo ride


black limo


The first time I ever rode in a limousine was the day of my husband’s funeral. I felt it was a fitting send-off for the most miserly, dried-up scrounge in the country.

Our daughter didn’t join me. I rang her the day he died and told her “Marie, your father has died.” “Good”, she said, and hung up. I did not press the matter.

But I do think she would have relished the plushness of the limo. It was so warm inside, and the seat was so cushiony! I stretched my legs out in front of me as far as I could reach without falling off the seat, and settled back into its softness. The town looked so different through the tinted windows, exotic or glamorous, almost.

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Slipping away


You lie in your bed, waiting for the house to settle, the steady rhythm of snores from each of the bedrooms. Then you know that you will be undisturbed.

The glass of water stands beside your bed. Tall, narrow and imperious, it is indifferent to how you intend to use it. The vial of pills sits beside it, much shorter and squatter. You flip off the lid, and run your thumb over the pills that fill the vial to the brim. You take the first one out and swallow it. They are not easy tablets to swallow, being round and flat instead of the patient-friendly capsules. They are dry too, and their coating sticks to your tongue. But you were prepared for this, and brought the tall glass of cold water to keep your mouth and throat lubricated.

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