A flying fear.

flight flying plane air travel
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‘You nervous dear?’

Sat next to Rio was an American lady. She looked to be in her 70’s, but her exact age had been externally distored by a Beverly Hills surgeon. Whereas her neck was shrivelled like a prune, her face was perfectly smooth, looking like it was being stretched by a thousand Lilliputians.

I’d never get plastic surgery, sod that.

The woman was elegant, her attire more suited to a first-class, rather than economy passenger.

Why can’t I be in first-class?

Her sleek, well fitted, black suit he guessed to be Chanel, and the womans shiny Rolex was certainly not one you’d pick up in Thai flea market.

Underneath her perfume was a hint of lemon sherbet. The sweet, sickly aroma reminded him of his beloved grandmother. How he wished to tell her that he was sorry.

‘Don’t worry, everybody’s got a little fear of flying.’ Her accent was like that of Dolly Parton, he half expected her to finish the sentence by shouting, ‘Yee harr,’ before slapping her thigh.

‘It certainly is.’

I hope she doesn’t talk the whole journey.

‘My granddaughter Taylor gets into a terrible state everytime she travels on a plane. You sure you’re ok sugar?’

The old lady was mistaken, his anguish had nothing to do with flying, it was owned by something far more sinister.

She placed a hand onto his arm, it was clammy.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied.

He was anything but fine. His whole existence was about to be twisted into the realms of no return. The brakes of life had been cut, he was now hurtling towards a wall at 100 miles per hour.

He turned his head, stared out of the window and began to cry.

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Dead flowers

red rose on brown wooden surface
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On the table was a drooping bunch of roses in a clear vase. The flowers once offered hope, but now took it away. A single drop of sadness clung to a wilted petal before eventually plopping into the water below.

 Were they in denial?

The room smelt musty, like a charity shop on a hot, summers day.

Does everything serve a purpose before dying?

Arm pit spit wash.

lost-places-old-decay-ruin-162389.jpegSat next to Double-O-Benton was a guy named Paul who looked fidgety and agitated, as if his skin were too tight. Next to Paul was Neil.

What the fuck?

Lee watched as Neil put a hand underneath his armpit before giving it a good rub. He then put it underneath his nose and sniffed intently like a sommelier studying the bouquet of a fine wine. After satisfying his nasal urge, Neil placed his hand underneath his mouth, snorted hard and spat. With an impressive amount of spit on his palm, he returned to his armpit and scrubbed with furious intent.

Lee caught Wonky’s eye, arm pit spit-wash, he mouthed nonchalantly. Continue reading “Arm pit spit wash.”

Childhood chess in Oman

pexels-photo-206904.jpegAlthough many years ago I can still feel the intense heat, it was so violent it could’ve taken the skin off a worm. As I stepped out of the car the temperature immediately slapped me in the face forcing my body to tense up. At that moment I would’ve done anything for a cold can of fizzy Fanta……….

Mohammed took my hand before guiding me down a dusty road.  A couple of skinny goats lay panting underneath a fig tree occasionally shaking their heads trying to rid themselves of flies.  The shaded area was at a premium and the goats reluctantly shared it with an ugly camel. The camel had dark, goofy teeth and a ball full of saliva coming out the side of its mouth. The stinking animal made me think of my sick grandmother who was living in a nursing home.  The rotting stench is still with me all these years later and I can still smell the camels body odour and bad breath. Back then it reminded me of a dead cow. Continue reading “Childhood chess in Oman”