I thought about asking the boy who had been hugging me for the last 23:59h if — … there is a limit to the duration of a hug before it becomes a Clingon. I restrained myself as I new the answer already; I had heard it many times: No! Cuz hugs are Jaysome, and Jaysome is infinite! I thought about asking Charlie how I might remove the glue but reckoned she was happy with the peace and quiet of Jayvoid.
The robed man looked out over the immaculately striped lawn resting in the moonlight. He closed the heavy curtains and turned slowly towards the woman sitting on the gilded four poster bed.
“Thank God this day is almost over. How are you faring my dear queen, finally this consort nonsense is behind us,” he said.
“We are indeed blessed; the day could not have gone b—” A sudden rumbling from the walk-in wardrobe made them both turn towards the closed door. There was a faint light eminating from the keyhole.
“How peculiar, that door never used to have a keyhole…” the man said and started towards the intense beam of light that now seemed to grow larger and almost embracing the whole bedroom.
“Careful my dear, do call the guards instead of —” The door opened and out through the light stepped a small figure.
“HIIIIIIII! All doors want to have a keyhole, so I did a helping!” The boy spoke and the light seemed to dance around them in a merry waltz. That it was a waltz they were sure of; that the boy Jay was eleven and from outside of the universe there was also no doubting. How they knew they did not know. Some things just are. Especially on days like this.
I left highway 99 and sped towards Billith, Rosie’s Diner the specific target in mind.
With the sun at zenith and my nerves at nadir I slowly dragged my feet across the cobbled yard towards my single source of sustenance for the day.
‘The soup … of the day?’ the proprietor and part time chef said hesitantly, looking bewildered at me. ‘We no longer serve … soup … at this establishment.’ She wiped her beaded forehead and continued, ‘There was a surprise inspection by the Food Stuff and General Health Authority this morning. Apparently they had received a firm complaint from a customer, a boy had given a stern lecture in the composition of soups. Enough quantity of some special kind of crumbs … can’t remember what the inspector called them… ailsome, balesome … apparently needs to be present to call a soup a soup. The boy had even brought all 25 volumes of The Primordial Soup – How to Satisfy the God of the Stomach, as evidence!’
I looked across the empty booths, empty tables, empty chairs. I was the single soul in Rosie’s Diner. A single starving soul that craved soup.
‘So when will you get these “crumbs” delivered?’ I said with as patient a tone I could muster, my knees beginning to weaken.
‘Not for another week I’m afraid. But the inspector left this red emergency push button for… well… emergencies… Is this an emergency?’
‘YES!!!!! … sorry … I need to sit down. Please push press and proceed …. I just need soup right now …’ I sat and my head started spinning. What I saw next could not have been real, and I blame my interpretation of these next events on my lack of soup.
As Rosie slowly placed the red emergency push button on the counter a silence fell across the aisle; the light seemed to dim and a tangible presence could be felt. We looked at each other for what seemed an eternity before I nodded to her to go ahead. The red emergency push button did not light up. Nor did it make any sound. No words were spoken. Nothing needed to be said, we both understood the meaning of scams. But as Rosie made ready to hurl the red emergency push button out the open front door a cloud of smoke swiftly rose between us. Dissipated it left a wide-eyed boy standing in its stead.
‘HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII,’ the boy said. ‘Don’t throw that away! It can be reused you know, like hugs!’
As I drove away from Rosie’s Diner later that afternoon I felt a joy as innocent as that radiating from a newborn child. That joy lasted for days, and I often think back to that specific junction in my life when I first met Jay – a boy of eleven, the source of Innocence and Jaysome.
This is @randomlyjay fan fiction.
So What’s Next?
An idea I had a long time ago was to turn Ghosts into a Greek tragedy, with a lot of emphasis on the Chorus to give context to an otherwise rather bleak and minimalist piece of … me.
So, what about Bumblebee you might ask. Well, most of the writing is done; a few more weeks of tweaking and I might be looking at an another printable piece of … me.
Additionally, there’s the idea of adding music to my writing, as in Hayden Veil and the Sauntering Shower Heads; but my progress in the area of music is even slower than in literature. Oh, well…
But most of the next eight months will be focused on studies, studies, and … studying; halfway towards a degree in … something useful I hope. Looking forward to the new academic year starting on October 1, with life returning to predictability once again.
Oh, yes … there will be some poetry posted here… drafts as always; drab as expected; but hopefully showing a quill pen sharpened, and ink newly brewed.
👋🏻
A
“So what’s her verdict this time?” A said. “Any fanciful new insights into your stagnating life? Anything worth repeating I mean.”
I was barely through the frontdoor and here she was again, poking and prodding; she should know better, after all she’s the one forcing me to go.
“Well … yes.” I said. “ … she had one insight … relating to my dreams…”
“So? Spill it.” A said.
“Something … about expiry dates …” I said. Better to be vague; ragged and baggy eyes, she could do with a few more hours of sleep.
“That’s it? Is that what I’m paying for?” A said. “Should we switch to another one? A male perhaps?”
“Definetely not.” I said. “You know me and men, doesn’t really work now does it.”
“No, sorry, I forgot.” A said. “I’ll grind another bash of black beans for a brew, then we’ll sit for a chat.”
Oh great, another sitting down, digging deeper into the life of …
The Nobel Prize in Poor Judgement
If there was a Nobel prize in poor judgement I would win, hands down I would and claim it with my record as evince, signed and sealed by the magistrates of fate.
I have no defense, no means to fake my failing flaws, hereditary in nature yet I did not see this coming, did not anticipate rust where no iron could be present; where love came knocking like a vacuum cleaner salesman on a Friday just after lunch.
Yet I refuse to give up, refuse to give in to the promised land, the green grass and swelling seas beneath the permanently present sky in all hues of blue.
If there was a Nobel prize in poor judgement, I would win. I would thank them for their judgement, being a being of poor judgement, what else could I do.
I can feel myself awaking. There are birds nearby, I think, but I find it hard to make out any specific sounds indicating their presence. There should be birds nearby, there should be bird song. I am alone in my parents’ cottage in the forest. I was dropped off yesterday by Grace, my mother, as my father Barry had his weekly Friday meeting at the club. It is my first time here alone, a trial my parents had called it on my eighteenth birthday a week earlier. At the time I saw it as a cheap present from someone who did not care, now I wonder if there was something more sinister behind their insistence that I should stay the weekend by myself. To get my bearings of being an adult, they had proposed, alone at their cottage in the forest. Forests have trees. Trees have birds. Birds sing, or should sing at this time of the day, I think. What time is it anyway, I try and open my eyes, but they remain firmly shut. Odd, I say but nothing is said, and nothing is heard. My lips do not part as instructed. But how am I going to brush my teeth if my lips do not part. I need to brush my teeth now, I think, as I always brush them in the morning and this is morning, I decide, without any evidence of the contrary.
There is a knock on a door, or a window, there is no difference in my mind right now. Someone shouts ‘Harriet, are you there,’ and I shiver as I realise that they might be addressing me. I try to respond but no words are heard. My lips are not moving. I try to stand up, to swing my legs over the wooden bedframe but my limbs are not responding. I remain in my bed, stuck without knowing how. There is no pressure on my back, I think, so I must be hovering. I have never hovered before. This thought stays with me for some time.
‘Harriet!’ the voice much louder now. Closer. ‘Did you give her all of the instructions as we discussed,’ the voice now just outside the window.
‘Yes dear, both verbally and in writing, the checklist you made, remember?’ a calmer, lighter voice this time.
I am right here. I am right here. Nothing. Silence. Darkness. Why am I still hovering here. Why is my mind not racing. I should be worried. I am always worried. Why am I so calm. Is this what it is like to be an adult, a grownup. Always calm. I can live with being an adult then.
‘Here’s a copy of the checklist. Look, it is all there in your “Everything needed to survive a weekend in the Cottage – by Barry Hoople”,’ the light voice said.
‘But there is a page missing, Grace. Where is the page about the ventilation for the gas heater? Where is the warning of carbon monoxide poisoning.’
The note attached to the empty bottle of vodka was clear, I had no doubt that whoever left it was sincere. It read ‘Jay was here #hugs’. I had no doubts that I knew this Jay and that their intervention had once again stopped a major downfall of the man. The word oops came to me but I did not understand, could not comprehend the magnitude in the simple spelling of a word once revered now sitting there before me: oops. I had made an oops but I did not know why, or when. Though I was not sure who the man might be, nor why I pictured a boy of eleven smiling at an impression of the man, I found comfort in the knowing that all would be revealed later, sooner or later a voice told me. Sooner or later there would be a revelation, a hunch ? told me. A huncho ? wearing a poncho? walked across the street and signalled that I should approach them. Did you answer his call, the hunched man queried. I thought it best to shake my head in ignorance but deep inside I felt the magic gathering, and it was powerful. He turned and asked the woman passing if she had seen a Jay recently, if he was still eleven. It made no sense, how could a boy of eleven no longer be a boy of eleven. She shrugged and continued as if unbothered, untouched by the events unfolding. The hunched man said he had to call a Charlie, to find a balance and a credit for the Fae. He left me standing, wondering about the events unfolding. Wondering about a boy of eleven, and hugs unlimited.
“No sir, I was standing under this very tree when they appeared in a puff of smoke, over there”
“I didn’t, no, no no. There was no flash, just smoke”
“Except for two people appearing out of thin air? No today’s been like any day I guess, the play has been good, I’m enjoying the park setting”
“Not allowed to say what? What does [redacted] even mean? [redacted] implies [redacted]? Oh. Even on a Tuesday? Right. My lips are sealed. Zipped.
