Flash Fiction V

Sitting on the platform, waiting. Train pulling up on the opposite side, I see a man drinking straight from a plastic milk bottle. Woman using a pen instead of the fingers on her right hand to push the keys of her laptop, people pretending to be absorbed in their phones, their papers, their books. 

I read and read and read until the words swim like fish in a haze of black and white water.

The hours of tomorrow that will be spent in the sky; the boredom, the fear, the angst. The wondering at what the hell you were thinking going on this trip, because it was unnecessary and he wasn’t actually serious about any of it, maybe. Falling between clouds of panic, you will be rained upon for just under a week and you wonder how can you possibly stay dry.

Could you run, could you sit. Can you honestly say that you weren’t expecting anything?

Something Resembling Sun

I've become besotted with a park here that I always knew existed but had never frequented, and it's joined the list of 'places to escape to'; it's quiet and away from the centre and during the week seems to often contain only a handful of other humans. Green spaces such as this one are so kind to those who simply want to lie on the grass with a book and temporarily forget what it means to exist. 

Meanwhile these oil-on-paper paintings by Kirsten Beets capture some of the feeling that people around here have been swimming in lately (we've had some sun).

Flash Fiction IV

Buildings have always made you feel small, looked down at you from their multistorey heights with an unfiltered double-glazed condescencion. Heavy eyed, you pass them and think about the locked doors, the latched windows, the gardens that they refuse to reveal. They are attractive only when hit by the sun, when rain floods. Those landscapes left without concrete scarring push fear into your lungs, with air so pure it hurts to inhale. The trees taste like optimism but you won’t notice at first, because you will be too absorbed in the struggled drowning of your dirtied past in clear blue lakes. Leaves stroke at your pale face; ferns and pine and maple, all vying for your touch, your gentle tucking in between sheets of paper, sheets of cotton.



Napisal sem izmišleno notico:
kaj sem ti pustil v hladilniku, kje imaš
sveže perilo, zakaj je na mizi vino
–ne moti me, da v resnici
ne bom odpotoval nikamor.
Prekladam knjige, ležim na zofi
in s svojo prisotnostjo zgoščam temo:
moje megibnost je stvar med stvarmi.
Ne, zares me jezi to, da se mesec
še ni pomaknil čez hišo na to stran,
čeprav je dvorišče mokro
od mesečine in stara jablana
za sabo pušča dolge vlažne sence.
Vem. zjutraj bo spet vse isto, zakaj
mesečeva velikodušnost je
tiha in hladna.

Andrej Hočevar


I wrote an imaginary note:
what I’d left for you in the fridge,
where to find the clean laundry,
why there was wine on the table—
It’s alright that I’m not
going away.
I re-stack the books, I lie on the sofa,
my presence only thickening the dark,
my stillness but a thing among things.
No, what really bothers me is that
the moon has not yet crept
over the building to this side,
yet the backyard is wet
with moonlight and the old apple tree
is leaving long, moist shadows.
I know that tomorrow it will all be
the same again—the moon’s generosity
is quiet and cold.

(Translation by Kelly Lenox)