130 Tales: 11 through 20

Today brings the next slightly embarrassing instalment of my old twitter project 130 Tales. I mean, it’s not really all that bad (I specifically like #s 11 & 13), but these first 20 are just so… cold? I feel like I was trying a bit too much to be deep, cryptic. After #20, I clearly relax a bit. Humour starts cropping up in unexpected places. And as much as I would like to skip these 10 and go straight to #21, I cannot. I must bear this, IF only for a week.

130 Tales

# 11 – 20

11. He lays there staring down his body at a dichotomy. One lithe and angular. The other rounded, puffy. When did he become two?

12. The bus pulls over to the side, its driver silent. The passengers get up, angry at his inaction. Witness the loss of importance.

13. Leaving, I feel a tap on my shoulder. A card pressed in my hands. “Call me later and I’ll explain everything.” What? “Just call.”

14. I saw the same cat twice, trailing itself. Real or fake, I don’t care. It was the exact same. Crossing my path. Telling me to go.

15. It wasn’t until that first mouthful. Before that I was nothing more than a spectre, floating amidst waking and dreaming.

16. My hand digs, past scab into flesh and bone, massaging bone as I lay beneath the forgotten trees of my dream.

17. My eyes catch leg, only leg, always leg. Soon she’ll stop, turn and our eyes will touch, belong… Yet our voices will never meet.

18. The earth moves, its structure rumbles. I see two lights break the darkness. My feet shake and my mind jumps. Still. This is art.

19. A moment like that: when people just forget – what they are, who they are and just Are. That moment – it’s why I do this.

20. The night of the theatre gives her freedom. Eyes, mind open, expanding, questioning until she questions herself: why is this new?

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Published by

A. Gaboury

An emerging playwright, devisor, actor and director, Andrew spends most of his time dreaming beneath those beautiful willows.

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