"What's this one?" he asked, tracing his fingertip down the words inked across her hipbone.
"It says 'if you're reading this, you're standing way too close.' In Latin."
"Seriously?"
"Oh, yeah."
"You're kidding."
"It's a quote from a book. 'Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also,' except I'm pretty sure they got it wrong. A friend of mine told me they put an apostophe in the your."
He smiled. "What about this one?" He touched the tiny birds on her neck.
"Freedom. Being able to fly away and leave whenever you want to go."
"Nice."
"Mm."
"And this one?" he asked, running his fingers across her wrist. Ivy crept around her wrist and then down the inside of her forearm, following the line of her veins.
She sat up awkwardly, gently pulling her arm away. He looked up and saw that she had tears in her eyes.
"I got that one in India," she said softly. "A long time ago."
Showing posts with label Indian Ivy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Indian Ivy. Show all posts
Friday, 25 May 2012
Indian Ivy by Sam Smith
Someone threw it out. Drove out of town to avoid suspicious eyes and left it on the side of the road. Not really a surprise that no one picked it up. Everyone has new, flat screen televisions nowadays anyway. This old CRT, a battered bulky box with a dark grey screen wasn’t really worth hoisting up into the boot. On the side of the road it stayed.
People noticed it for sure, but they didn’t take it. All sorts of messages were scribbled or scratched into the plastic. Most of it obscenities, some of them in other languages. The screen had to be kicked in at some point. Break all the glass, expose the out of date technology inside the body.
Soon enough, it was moved further away from the road by some kind soul, spilling some sharp triangles of glass and broken metal. Into the bushes, where it would stay. Animals tried to nest inside it, but that was a bit dangerous, considering all the pointy bits. Plants grew into it until they eventually grew out of the screen, ivy leaking over the edges. Nature can be more accepting that people.
People noticed it for sure, but they didn’t take it. All sorts of messages were scribbled or scratched into the plastic. Most of it obscenities, some of them in other languages. The screen had to be kicked in at some point. Break all the glass, expose the out of date technology inside the body.
Soon enough, it was moved further away from the road by some kind soul, spilling some sharp triangles of glass and broken metal. Into the bushes, where it would stay. Animals tried to nest inside it, but that was a bit dangerous, considering all the pointy bits. Plants grew into it until they eventually grew out of the screen, ivy leaking over the edges. Nature can be more accepting that people.
Indian Ivy by Emily Chadwick
If someone had told Bryn that he would lose his husband before their kids were old enough to really understand, he would not have believed them.
Sure, Kane’s job as a policeman was dangerous and there was always a chance that he would get hurt, and Bryn worried, but… Kane was one of those invincible men. Strong, solid, tall and dependable. Hot-headed, sure, but always a rock. If Kane had died in some drug-raid shoot-out, Bryn reckoned that he could have come to accept it. There was always that chance. To watch his amazing, resilient husband slowly waste away due to an inoperable brain tumour had never even crossed his mind.
Yet, here he was, curled up on his side on their bed, straining his eyes to catalogue Kane’s every slow, painful breath.
The doctor said it would be any day now, but Kane still clung on, though he was only conscious for a few brief moments a day.
Bryn couldn’t help a smile that came out more like a sob. Stubborn until the very end, that was just like him.
To his chest, Bryn clutched a silk scarf that Kane had given him for their anniversary, just a few months before. Bryn had many of these scarves, knotted around the bedhead and the wardrobe and, well, everywhere, but this one was special. It was dyed many shades of deep green – Indian ivy, Kane had called it with his heart breaking smile. To Bryn, though, it was the colour of hope, the last remaining reminder of a time before the word ‘tumour’ entered their lives.
He still had an irrational, stupid, childish belief that, as long as he had the scarf, Kane wouldn’t die. Couldn’t die.
Squeezing the scarf close to his chest, Bryn glanced at the clock and made a face. Time to pick the children up from school. He leant over and pressed a kiss to Kane’s cheek, hoping that he didn’t imagine the flicker of his husband’s eyelids.
“I’ll be home soon,” he said, knowing Kane could hear him somehow. “Keep holding on until I get back, please.”
He tucked the scarf into his jean pocket, kissed Kane again, and made himself leave the room. On the threshold, he paused and turned to look at the pale, inert form on the bed.
“I love you, Kane.”
Sure, Kane’s job as a policeman was dangerous and there was always a chance that he would get hurt, and Bryn worried, but… Kane was one of those invincible men. Strong, solid, tall and dependable. Hot-headed, sure, but always a rock. If Kane had died in some drug-raid shoot-out, Bryn reckoned that he could have come to accept it. There was always that chance. To watch his amazing, resilient husband slowly waste away due to an inoperable brain tumour had never even crossed his mind.
Yet, here he was, curled up on his side on their bed, straining his eyes to catalogue Kane’s every slow, painful breath.
The doctor said it would be any day now, but Kane still clung on, though he was only conscious for a few brief moments a day.
Bryn couldn’t help a smile that came out more like a sob. Stubborn until the very end, that was just like him.
To his chest, Bryn clutched a silk scarf that Kane had given him for their anniversary, just a few months before. Bryn had many of these scarves, knotted around the bedhead and the wardrobe and, well, everywhere, but this one was special. It was dyed many shades of deep green – Indian ivy, Kane had called it with his heart breaking smile. To Bryn, though, it was the colour of hope, the last remaining reminder of a time before the word ‘tumour’ entered their lives.
He still had an irrational, stupid, childish belief that, as long as he had the scarf, Kane wouldn’t die. Couldn’t die.
Squeezing the scarf close to his chest, Bryn glanced at the clock and made a face. Time to pick the children up from school. He leant over and pressed a kiss to Kane’s cheek, hoping that he didn’t imagine the flicker of his husband’s eyelids.
“I’ll be home soon,” he said, knowing Kane could hear him somehow. “Keep holding on until I get back, please.”
He tucked the scarf into his jean pocket, kissed Kane again, and made himself leave the room. On the threshold, he paused and turned to look at the pale, inert form on the bed.
“I love you, Kane.”
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