The mechanics of stationery

MICRO FICTION

42 words…

Notes from a public typewriterMr Hanson’s English

ENCLOSED

I pray no-one talk about these words if they might read them, for if anyone should hear those words, they will not be able to speak of them. Please keep my words safe.

Just that, typed on the front of an envelope.

© Steve Laker, 2020

 

Several moments in theatre

MICRO FICTION

The music of least interest tells you what’s happening on stage or screen. The melody needs to be different, so that it’s another voice.

Seated at a naked desk, without a single sheet of paper to write on, the typewriter becomes a mirror on the stage. A sheet of paper has two sides but reflections have more, as a cracked actor writes a trilogy in monochrome…

DresserCalifornia Typewriter

THE DRESSER

I hate my face. Why does it have to do so much? Why do I have to work so much on it? Why do I have to make so much up? I hate my fucking face.

I make it smile, laugh when I’m crying and lie when I talk. Sometimes I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to show this face.

But I go out. And on the face of it, I’m happy. I talk, I smile, I laugh, then I wipe my face in the mirror.

I smash my face into the mirror, so no-one can see me.

© Steve Laker, 2020

A walk-on part in roboticism

MICRO FICTION

Loosely defined as 100 words or fewer, micro-fiction is a group of places I find myself in while I have more to say than available words. More restrictive than fiction in a flash of 250-500 words, the micro format is the formation of volcanic islands in the oceans of many planets. They’re stories written on an antique typewriter, compressed into a microchip inside a laptop computer, a place of personal data trust. At 99 words, this is one short…

RobotRed-Face-Typewriter2Walyou

MIRROR PLAY

The man in the rainbow coat comes around every night about now, so that we can dream in colour as he illuminates our path.

Imagined in iridescent armour, I need him more than any white sword. Walking is placing trust with his hand in mine.

If I look, I’m blinded by the light the rainbow man makes for me. So I keep my eyes shut, and I dream in colour.

Tonight he forgot his torch, so we walked while he narrated a monochrome past. I couldn’t see him, but I trusted him when he said he’d brought some friends.

© Steve Laker, 2020

Screaming from the sandpit

MICRO FICTION

A section in my longhand journal for what’s on my mind but which hasn’t taken shape, self-contained stories, and a sandpit of ideas…

Run and scream

RIVER SCREAMS

I run away, into a tidal wave of people, screaming and pouring towards me. They really don’t know what’s ahead, and I don’t have time to stop and tell them.

Staedtler Noris 122

sandpit
/ˈsan(d)pɪt/
noun

A quarry from which sand is excavated. A shallow box or hollow in the ground, partly filled with sand for children to play in. A place where foundations lay, where toys can be left for others to play with, and where co-operation can be measured by observing the area over time. Halfway between an aquarium and a vivarium for the mind it’s contained within, the contents may be shared and the alien life within allowed to wander. The first few words of something which others can contribute to via the comments below a blog post, eventually creating a tale of many people and places, all working together without borders. A collaborative project. “Here’s the start of something and here’s what you can do with it…”

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To be continued…