RJ Kiltwara
Back to writing after time away. Black comedy, magical realism, slice-of-life and horror interest me.
RJ Kiltwara
Back to writing after time away. Black comedy, magical realism, slice-of-life and horror interest me.
Back to writing after time away. Black comedy, magical realism, slice-of-life and horror interest me.
Back to writing after time away. Black comedy, magical realism, slice-of-life and horror interest me.
Don't forget, dad. I won't, I say. (I might, I think. And wouldn't Your mother just love that).
So I set the alarm early with multiple Reminders on phone and fridge Already logged in ready for Tickets to go on sale. Floor, front row Middle Not cheap NOT cheap but The look on your face When you see I did it and Your love comes flooding back And you see that I really went and did it Even in this economy and the inflation and
And the Cat Whose slinky shadow Forever darkens my days Knocks over my coffee All over the keyboard Her glance sleepy, Casual, cruel, Evil.
The screen freezes. So do I. By the time The phone logs in All the tickets are gone.
The damned Cat
The damned Cat Licks her front paw And curls up at my feet. It's not her fault. (Which doesn't Mean I don't want to hurl her into the Sun). Instead I scratch her ear. She's all I have even With all the scratched upholstery and broken crockery - Her mild disdain better than everyone else's constant disappointment.
I look at the frozen screen, thinking About the phone call to explain The tears, the I told-you-sos. The Cat purrs as I think Maybe just maybe - Maybe next year.
The afternoon sunlight catches dust and the scent of spices. They blend together in the baking heat, so the schoolboy can't tell which ones sting his eyes and which ones cling to the back of his throat. He wipes sweat from his eyes and clasps at the silky fabric of his mother's hem.
He can feel her weariness. It brings with it an almost whispered staccato to her negotiations with the shopkeeper. Her voice is firm and unswaying. It carries the weight of a world outside of here, beyond the echoing hoarse-throated shouts of buyers and sellers, beyond even the rusty tinkling of rickshaw bells piercing through the honking of cars and roar of engines in the intersection just outside.
The shopkeeper's throat rattles responses but gathers no momentum, until it grunts in capitulation. A pregnant pause is followed by tin rapidly scooping powder and the rustle of paper bags being filled.
The schoolboy holds his mother's hem tighter as she reaches forward to pay. Even without touching anything he can feel the frayed burlap of the sacks holding the spices.
A book that grabs hold of you and won't let go. Literally - the delicate K'Vhalian silk binding softly enmeshes itself around your wrists, drawing you further into the fabric of space and time itself with the turning of every page. An experience like no other, millions of readers across the cosmic reaches have happily given up their molecular structures to this gripping tale of a lowly worm rising from lowly space station mechanic on the far reaches of Alpha Centauri to galactic gunrunner, kingmaker and smouldering lover. A singular experience that the Celestial Times calls "a molotov cocktail to the mind, a detonator to the spirit".