Tag Archives: 30 minute fiction

Shoes Poems 007: velcro shoes

Do you feel complete?
What do you mean?
Complete.
Huh?
Finished.
No I wouldn't say so. Do you?
I don't think so.
How can you tell?
That's a good point.
We're not even thirty.
Are people complete at thirty?
I don't think so. People have meltdowns at thirty.
People are always having meltdowns.
Not like the ones you get at thirty.
How would you know? You're 24.
I've seen them. On the train, the supermarkets, you can see it in their eyes.
So now you're a meltdown expert?
No. It's just obvious.
Look at that man over there.
Which one?
The guy with the denim hat. Does he look happy to you?
Sure. Yeah he does.
Look closer.
I don't want to get up though.
Not like that silly, with your eyes. Really look.
Hmm he's wearing velcro shoes.
And?
And that means he's a man child.
No.
Okay what does it mean then Mr meltdown.
It means he's in pain.
Righhhht. And how did you come to that conclusion?
Well, no one loved him enough to tell him how to tie his shoes when he was younger.
Because he has velcro shoes?
Yeh, and when he puts on his shoes he is instantly reminded of his childhood loneliness.
I think you're reaching.
I don't think I am. Does anyone you know own velcro shoes in your life?
Not that I can think of. Oh wait, my grandpa used to have velcro shoes.
Well there you go.
What do you mean, there you go? He had arthritis.
So he was in pain.
I mean I guess.
And therefore he was unhappy.
No. He was unhappy at times because he missed my grandma.
Either way. He was in pain and he wore velcro shoes.
There is no correlation.
That's what he wanted you to think.
Right, so all kids wearing velcro shoes are unhappy too are they?
Yep.
Now you are lost. They just haven't learnt yet.
Learnt what?
Learned how to tie their own shoes.
Because?
Because they're too young.
You can never be too young to tie your shoes.
Says who?
Einstein.
Now I know you're lying.
He learnt to tie his shoes at two months old.
So he was baby wearing shoe laces. Lies.
No lies here m'dear.
Everyone knows Einstein was chronically sad though.
I didn't.
Well now you do Mr Velcro shoes.
I would never have been able to tell with his tied shoes.
Great.
More to the point. Where are your laces?
I don't want to talk about it.

October Poetry: A Mountain in Peru

On this Peruvian mountainside
that lays a million years old,
where kids grow up under the sun,
where the best of stories are told.

Of the brave and weary,
of the old and meek,
of characters sad and funny,
of those which from betrayal reak.

A history threaded from a cultural cotton,
where narratives are spun,
with tales all worth passing down
stories of lost soles that have only just begun.

A tree grows up and up,
earning a place among the tilt,
next to them people of the earth
toil among centuries-old silt.

Pineapples, yuka and potato,
sit in rows on rows
a man perched upon his rake
watching as it grows.

His wife inside the house,
prepares the rice and beans,
she boils a soup, a tasty soup
in her husband's eye a gleem.

Here tradition lays frozen in time,
spare the mobile phone,
destroying a way of living slow,
from many decades and millennia ago.

How to survive the blazing sun
and the blistering snow,
all this and more could soon be lost,
with an undetermined cost.

The market every Saturday
is where you'll find this change,
Yankees, limas and Trujio Pilson,
all sold at a range,

"4 soles por un kilo"
shouts a lady behind her sack,
it's filled to the brim with seeds,
a seriously nutritious snack.

Scatter them around the pigs,
and the chickens too,
each pecking at the ground,
bidding the passers-by adew.

Look up from the concrete slabs
you'll see mountains up ahead,
each one taller than the last,
a day of trekking will have you wishing for your bed.

Yet here the old climb narrow paths,
with lungs full of air,
no panting or sweat on their brow
or cramping in their calves.

Strong feet and a straight head atop,
from years of working tough,
a mindset that the west has forgot,
with hands anythint but rough.

Here is where true freedom lies
in the mountains of Peru,
where a family grows with each crop and a hearty stew.

Short Fiction: London to Peru

He had parked his car on the edge of the street outside of the bakery. This was not his local bakery; in fact, he had never been to that particular one before. The cakes all danced in the shop window, each trying to sell themselves through their array of colour and sugar content. He had never been one for the sweeter things in life. Rather the thought of strong wooden chair, visible in grain and all it’s modest joinery would have truly made him feel content. That and large Cigar. Putting his keys away in his large pockets he proceeded to make his way to this appointment. Pausing for a moment, he turned his head slowly in order to look back at the fine motor parked outside of Pemberton’s Bakery. The afternoon sun glistening off its dark green chassis, a wonderful display of British engineering. His Uncle was a kind man but even he had outdone himself with this kind gift. Although he had earnt it, all those years tucked away in Peru had made him a slightly hostile man. It had only been two months since his return to the concrete streets of London but he could not have been happier to be back. A Tweed suit was fastened round his body. Long had it been since the weather had permitted him to don a suit without it sticking to every part of his body. It was not the fact that he was away from home for all that time that had made him upset but instead the little things that made him feel at home that were absent. The Amazon, had no room for error let alone the small markings of comfortability. The tall rubber trees were not your like your friendly Oak tree in Holland Park. In fact, nothing in the entire Amazonia was comparable to a stroll through Holland Park. Not even the sighting of a frightful looking dog could come close to the general looming danger that followed everywhere you trapesed. 

Realising once again he was in the safe streets of South Kensington, he walked towards his meeting with Dr. Shaw. Impressed by the natural looking finish on the door of 22 Debbing Street, he knocked on. It wasn’t but a moment later that large square panel of wood creaked open and the sight of a rotund gentleman greeted his view. Dr Shaw was everything you would want and expect from a professor. A gold pocket watch hid in the breast pocket of his well-tailored suit, a suit that did well to provide some elegance to his large frame. Round spectacles clung onto his nose, an aid to his expansive yet Eurocentric mind. It was no doubt that he was a highly intelligent man but tainted by his own awareness of that thing deemed him an equally ignorant man. 

“Well do come in Mr. Drift” said the Doctor. 
“Gladly” replied Arnold. 
“I don’t suppose the underground was too busy at this time of day”
“I drove actually”
“Is that so? Well a fine day for it at that”
“Truly. The weather has been kind to me since my return”
“London has truly missed your presence in that case. Either that or you have brought the Peruvian climate back with you.”
“I’d rather it stay where it were if I’m honest.” 
“I can imagine. A Savage climate over there” Dr Shaw said, shaking his head as if he had remembered the weather from personal experience. Yet he had only known of such information through pages of writing and the cosy confinements of his study. “If you’d like to follow me.” 

He slowly walked back to his leather chair. A cane in his left hand supported the slight waddle he had obtained from his hip injury years ago. Dr Shaw had previously been a huge Polo player, having traversed the professional scene in London almost twenty years ago. Once a sporting man, the lack of movement had allowed his body to decline, yet his mind was all the more active for it. The large oak desk not only did well in breaking the room up of its empty space, but also excellently exaggerated the importance of Dr Shaw’s intellectual findings. Upon browsing, Mr. Drift glanced over a whole host of artifacts sitting amongst the different book shelves which made up the outer portions of the study. Focusing now on what he knew to be an Amazonian Spear leaning over in the corner, his mind was instantly fogged by the many daunting memories he had experienced during his time in Peru.

“Isn’t that right Mr. Drift… Mr Drift?” asked Dr Shaw.
“Sorry, yes of course” he replied not entirely knowing what was being asked in the first place.
“I thought as much. A three week trip back must have been exactly what you’d hoped for after being in South America all that time” chuckled the Doctor. His sense of humour had quite often surrounded the misfortunes of others. That and the comic strips in the News Paper, a fascination of his that had been passed down through his father at the breakfast table.
“One would have hoped for a more forgiving journey back. Nevertheless, I am back in one piece and that’s all I could ask for” said Mr. Drift, not knowing himself whether or not what he just said was true.  
“I suppose you’re an adventurer now then aye?” questioned the Doctor with a child like smile on his face. 
“I do not think I am cut from that cloth. It was merely reconnaissance for a client of mine.” Drift replied with a deadpan voice. 
“Modest too. Lucky the client has such a hard-working researcher such as yourself in that case.” Shaw said trying to provoke some information from him.
“That I will take credit for.” Hard work had been instilled in Arnold from a young age. Growing up as the youngest in a heavy male dominated family meant he had to grow up fast. The small village of Keswick had meant learning to love the Countryside of the wonderful Lake District.