If Only

Of all the McDonalds in all of the world, she had to walk into mine. It had been a full two months since the business in the countryside, and only now, once every day rather than once a minute did her face ever stampede into my mind, like a herd of wilder beast, and I had called myself quite settled. I was sat to the side, but quite near the front, so could see who came in and I could see who ordered. I myself was on a steady diet consisting of a large chocolate shake and an similarly named potato prepared side. I was at the end of my fries and was fishing at the bottom of the brown bag they had been sat in, searching for thy cheeky bonus you usually find, a few stray chiplets that have dived out of their red and yellow cardboard home. It's at a time when you think you've had the last, but a quick rummaged gifts you a welcome little surprise. But today, as if a precursor, the fortune telling fries, there was nothing at the bottom of my bag but emptiness. And then she walked in. Irony complete. What was it first that I noticed if not just her essence? It wasn't a mere feature as it was the conglomerate. If held to sword point I'd say it was the hair that first set it off. But on the canvas of a Van Gogh is it not the brightest colour that the admirer is first drawn to? Then the rest of her being flew into the space like a rushing skylark, simply beautiful. Her eyes did not see me but there presence was never a tone to be avoided, as it rang through the air so sharply, the sight of them both filled up my stomach and emptied out my lungs, a withered shell repaired now faced with what it was that shattered it in the first place. My skin contracted in a million different ways and the crackling fireworks retuned to my veins. I have no recognition nor inclination of how her head might have risen if she had seen me that day, if anything, and most likely, not at all. But all this was there for but an instant, a pure second, a fair blip that flashed indeed months of feelings all by my minds eyes with insurmountable speed but for an infinitesimal crumb of time. It was over. That was how things would most certainly stay. Time to get along with my day.

Pudding Pie

He shook his head, like pudding pie, a jumbled sludge of softened crust and doughy centre, clear thought at the minute a figment. ‘No time for this,’ he thought, his mind too tired for words or thought or anything of use. Use. It was useless to think of how she had done this, what ‘this’ had been. He knew it was coming but still he had sat, atop a horse made of mashed potato, the tidal wave of gravy so ready to come. She'd rolled him, kicked him, thrown him all over and out. He wouldn't do it again, he wouldn't wait, this was something that did not need to be undone, but something to be built upon.

City Hum

The fluorescent light hummed away its merry monotone tune, but still the cafe remained a little sullen. The early winters evening had wrapped its cold colourless hands around the place with greedy revere. A deep fryer sizzled in the back, the cook's shuffled feet another instrument added to the soundtrack. The kids were eating happily but making little noise, their cheery red cheeks slowly warming and returning to their original pale rose pigment. A few shadows passed by the tall cafe front windows, mostly black blurs of indistinguishable age or sex. The smell of salt and vinegar and hot fried potato was strong to the point of intoxication. The night rumbled on for miles around, the city was happy. And for the most part, so were its people. S.H.

Chocolate Mistress Of The Night

As I look sideways at my phone, my stomach grumbling, and I contemplate if there is anywhere I can go at this time of evening to procure the correct ingredients for constructing you which I would desire. No. It's late, you fool. Don't give into that. Oh cruel mistress of chocolate and sugar, why do you mock me so? Your luscious lure is upon me like the spirt calling the poor grieving soul, the pain all the more stinging as it dangles in ones face what can not be seized by ready hand. To play with the heart of one so welcoming your gentle rush of everything sweet and good is a wicked game to play indeed. I will have you soon, my pretty. I will have you soon. S.H.

Do Squirrels Eat Toast?

Do squirrels eat toast? Why yes, they do. Don’t believe me? Well, then I’ll tell you the story. The year was 2004 and I remember it as clearly as if it was only six or so years ago. I was taking a light stroll in a north London park, as was my want of that period in my life, and I came across a squirrel in possession of a full piece of white toasted bread.I guess it could have actually just been a discarded slice of stale bread that looked like toast because it was rigid, but it looked like toast to me. I looked at the squirrel, the squirrel looked at me. To be honest it was quite awkward, after all, he was in the middle of his breakfast. How would you react if a six foot tall squirrel walked into your kitchen as you where about to hoe into a whopping bowl of cereal?
Anyways, I looked at him and he looked at me, as if to say ‘got any jam, buddy?’ As it so happened, I didn’t, but he didn’t ask so dignity was retained by both parties. Any how, in answer to your question, do squirrels eat toast? Yes they do, and they love it. S.H.