Today’s Special (March 4)

“Don’t faff around, Sally! She’s harmless, I tell ya!”

It’s a perfect spring day, shining like a new penny and smelling like a wild honey wind. On such days, sunlight reflects into people’s eyes, they’re late to work, and everyone falls in love at a glance.

Two young waitresses chirp near the back door of a little café. Cigarette smoke blends with the aroma of coffee and the smell of fresh baking. A big cat sprawls in delicate sunbeams, sharing a timeworn bench with some perky sparrows. There’s enough sun to go around!

“Hey you, young ladies! Quit slacking off! Come on, get busy!”

The manager’s shrill voice crushes this idyllic scene in the space of a clap. It shatters into a myriad of tinkling colourful pieces. The waitresses flit into the café. The sparrows scatter away like spilt sugar dragées. Only the cat continues to enjoy itself, correctly supposing that it’s busy enough anyway.

“Look! Look, Molly! It’s her again!”

Sally tugs on her girlfriend’s sleeve. Molly brushes her hand away. The new barista with his bright sapphire eyes and dazzling smile is working his magic near the old coffee machine. No one understands how he manages to get such a divine taste from third-rate beans. Every day, Molly’s all eyes and bated breath, spying on him. It feels so very close, but again and again the secret slips past Molly like a cheeky little Casper to hide in the vanilla steam puffs. The barista flashes her a wink and places some cups on a tray. Order’s up!

Molly takes the tray and rushes out into the street. She’s almost skipping. No one wants to sit inside a café on such a wonderful day!

She’s here. An old woman in a worn coat and a ridiculous straw hat, standing near an empty table. Some visitors have just left, and there are empty clay cups, dirty saucers and cutlery on the table. There’s also an ashtray with two stubs, and one of them has left a tip. The old woman carefully sweeps something from the table into a handkerchief, which she then folds and puts in her pocket. Molly looks at her. The old woman notices Molly, offers a shy smile and a nod, and walks away.

Molly stands there for a little while longer, enjoying the sweet air and its symphony of vehicle horns, then goes over to the table. She places the empty clay cups onto the tray, as well as the dirty saucers and cutlery, changes the ashtray, and drops the coins into her apron pocket. After ensuring that none of the other visitors needs her attention, Molly goes back inside the café. And just in time to see the barista grinding a new portion of coffee beans too! Another chance to distill his secret…

Sally and Molly walk down a sleepy street, eating mint ice cream and talking a mile a minute like they haven’t seen each other in ages.

“No, Molly, I can’t make it out. What is up with her?”

“Silly chickadee! I tell ya, she’s sweet. I’ll prove it to you. Let’s go!”

The girls turn into a narrow side street. It is adorned with small lanterns, sweet peas in big garden pots, and clotheslines. Sally and Molly approach a tilted shabby fence and find a hole to step through. Of course, the gate is right there—only a brick throw away—and it’s wide open, but who cares about gates when there’s such an alluring fence hole?

The old woman is here. She’s writing something on a scruffy blackboard. When she steps back, Sally and Molly see… a menu. It reads: ‘Madam Maganti’s Bird Pastry. Twenty kinds of the freshest every day cake crumbs!’

Sally stands open-mouthed. Molly smiles, pulls a small package from her pocket, and approaches the old woman.

“Twenty three, ma’am.”

Madam Maganti nods, and goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on the fire.

Day rolls under the bench, jumps one more time, and settles itself in the cozy warm dust. If you ask the cat, it tells you that the day lays tails-up. However, no one really cares.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2019

DARWINIAN // Wonky Vision

So, I’m waiting at the lights for the little green man to stutter. That’ll be my signal to cross.

I’m late for the bus again, and my back is sloughing into the seat of my pants via a river of sweat. Sizzling in this heat and humidity like a piece of rump steak is no fun, and the light is searing its bad self into every cranny of my awareness so there’s nothing but blank canvas everywhere I look. Yup, I’m a squinting Mr Magoo at the Seeing Eye Olympics. On the face of the sun. Being spit roasted by Satan himself. Or I may as well be. Summer sure loves to make me its inelegant, sweaty bitch.

I can barely make out the couple in front of me. They happen, as it turns out, to be making out—I can make that much out. Oh, hang on, they’re not actually making out. They’re just holding hands, sharing adoration and kisses despite the sun’s brutal, disapproving efforts. How sweet! I can’t help but smile. Not that you’d know it was a smile. It’s more like a scrunched up, mortified towel really—one that’s been used to exfoliate Donald Trump’s junk. Well, abused more like.

We’re hearing the green man now, so we all step out onto the road. The couple are still hand-in-hand, swinging their arms in time with the endearing skip in their gaits and hearts. We’re halfway across when a horrible realisation hits me. It’s two men! Shit! TWO MEN! I immediately begin to panic. The squinting has to stop. Like. Now. What if they see my expression—the grimacey scrunch that reads nothing like a smile—and come to the conclusion that I’m hating on their public display of affection? God almighty!

I try to unsquint as much as I humanly can, only to be blinded even more. Jesus! Fuck! The pain! The light is so fucking aggressive… and, holy fuck, the tears! My face is contorting all over the place like an epileptic cow with a cattle prod up its arse. It’s a wonder I’m not staggering into oncoming traffic. Still, I’m certain there’ll somehow be blood and recriminations next.

We reach the other side, and it’s only at that point when I realise something. Not only has this couple failed to notice my wank-walk of over the top social maladjustment, they clearly wouldn’t give a damn even if they did. They’re so besotted with one another, and so at ease within themselves and their immediate surroundings that… well, so what if I existed? Hell, it’s not even remotely about me. Or about what I think, for good or ill.

I’m just lucky to have witnessed this unabashed display of affection without getting smeared up the road by a Mack Truck—you know, like red jam over toast. Gaydom’s so normal that I should be considering it a bore really, not something to be noticed and having judgements formed about. Yup, nothing to see here. Just two folks very much in love. All’s right with the world.

And that’s enough for now.

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018

Oops!… We Did It Again (a grief with no name)

Erm… hullo there. (This is rather awkward…)

Dear Reader, the stuff that was originally posted here has been removed.

We have done this because said stuff has since been included in one of our published books. We hope you’ll believe us when we say we’re not trying to be stingy. No, this has been done to honour the people who have already spent their hard-earned money on our eBook creations.*

If, however, for some reason you’re unable to buy one of our books, and feel you’ll die without seeing this piece of writing, then please contact us via admin@unbolt.me. We won’t allow our Dear Readers to fade away in the dark. We’ll send you the piece in question, and it will be absolutely free. All you need do is ask.

* Of course, we would be like two happy puppies if you too decided to buy one of our books.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017-2018

The Odd Days & Life of Elatha Jarlath McGhille. Part B. Feabhra ~ The one came in from the cold collaboration

Scylla Beach

∼ Part I ∼

It’s midday and there are anxious knocks at his front door.
He wonders if the neighbors’ friends got the wrong door.
Opening to see about the commotion,
Seems to only heighten his confusion.

Nothing is there. Nope.
Nothing is there.

At his back door he hears those knocks again.
He rushes through his home like a madman,
To open his back door hoping to see who’s knocking,
Again he sees nothing.

It’s like staring into a nebula of discombobulated shadows.
Back to his living room he goes, then finds a black unicorn, a purple owl, and two black crows.
Overwhelmed. The sight further rattles his compunction.
As they fuse together causing a huge static emersion.

His body wilts to the floor
And…

∼ Part II ∼

“I told you, Clothra, owls can’t look like a bush of lilac!
See? What will we do with this unconscious sack?!
We should bring him to Emain Macha until Beltane
And I’m not going to get it in the neck again!”

“Shut up, Sweeney! Give you a choice and you’ll paint black
Even a rainbow. It would be better if you stop to clack
Like a clocking hen and help me to bring him round…
Hey! You, twins! Hurry up! Are you too spellbound?!”

“Clothra, don’t go playing the big boss!
Sweeney is right… you make too much of gloss!
We’re not buffoons… We’re… Oh! Did he open his eyes?
Hush! Hush, guys! Turn on the fireflies!”

The air is filled with a subtle glow
And…

∼ Part III ∼

His eyes. The color. Vacillates between black & violet
In a haze, volcanic echoes vibrate. Commanding him to fight…
Fight! Fight! Fight! Finger snaps, claps, and slapping wings
Bellows him to awaken with voices like un-Earthly beings.

He hears voices commanding him to come forth to receive his messages
A feeling as if his body is being bent into a set of strange corsages
He hears another set of voices, “Oh! Did he open his eyes?
Hush! Hush, guys! Turn on the fireflies!”

His visage of things seems blurred but are truly clear.
His mind again perambulates confusion and fear
As a hybrid bird stands before him speaking strange things,
Talking a language known and unknown, then odd names.

He surveys the room, their faces, and concludes there is no hostility here.
Soon enough he loosens up, wonders about message, curiosity wins here.
Wings extended, inviting him to take a seat. He does.

Their beak opens
And…

∼ Part IV ∼

…in the far country, where springs are crystalline,
Where trees are vibrant and women hiss like a feline,
At the world’s end where all must be as was foretold,
She embroiders a shroud with pearls and gold.

A needle pricks,
A horologe ticks…

She whispers prayers mixed up with ribald couplets
About kings’ weaknesses and queens’ merits,
She sips thick gin, wiping her mouth on the sleeve.
Intricate patterns on white samite interweave.

Beltane is soon. She looks at the dark sky.
A lone star gleams like a tiny firefly.
Elatha… She bites through a gold thread
And limply drops her body into bed.

A horologe ticks,
A door latch clicks…
Hush, guys! No monkey tricks!
Please, let her sleep!

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & GREGORY WAITS JR.
© All rights reserved 2015

 

P.S. Happy Birthday, Greg!