A Moment of Family

The boy was about eleven years old; he was excited to have his camera, to be alive beneath Spring sunshine, to be his parents' son, to be in London.  They were from Canada, I think. He suggested to his father that he might take a picture of the trees. 

"Go ahead," his father said. "They’re wonderful trees, with their branches jutting out", he said, "just be careful they don’t reach out and grab you!" The boy took himself off to take his photograph. He was pleased it wasn’t raining and that he could use his camera.

Whilst the son was distracted the mother looked at the father and they were pleased also. Pleased with their holiday choice, pleased the weather was being kind to them, pleased their hotel room hadn’t been a waste of money.  Cash had been hard to hold on to this past year. They lent in and kissed each other. He thought they might make love tonight, after dinner, once the boy was asleep.

At this point, as the parents embraced and inhaled each other, their son finished his photography and turned to tell them, but they did not notice for they were still being in love. Unperturbed the boy approached his parents and hoped so much they would see him. Sure enough they broke away, and invited him to join them, and they made a circle. He was always welcome to a slice of their love. After all, he was their only child. He was one third of that circle.

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We Will and We Are

We will be born in the future with smart phones in place of hands and we will have USB sockets instead of arseholes; we may even be told when we are a specific percentage through our life, or perhaps how much battery we have remaining.  We will forget how to cook but it won’t matter for we will have eaten enough. We still won’t believe politicians, but they will be able to re-programme us. Holidays won’t be necessary because ten-dimensional images projected onto our eyeballs will suffice.  We are launching ourselves from one boredom into an even greater one. 

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An Ordinary Man

You wouldn't know it to look at him.  That’s what I was thinking, all be it a ridiculous observation to make.  He just walked like any man with a carrier bag; he returned to his house like any father does.  He looked at the sun and felt it lick at his skin.  He bent down and picked up junk mail.  He had a plain face and didn't even look tired.  Why should he? I didn't know of any sleepless nights, I didn't see any exhausted eyes.  You would never know to look at him that his boy had killed himself only last month. 

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