Microfiction: Armour

Sacha Black’s writing prompt was one of the stop-watch kinds that I can’t do. Maybe it comes from the phobia of exams that still grips me sometimes in nightmares. I could stare at an exam question until time was almost up before rounding up the thoughts that were fluttering around in panic. I know Sacha isn’t going to come round to our house with a baseball bat and beat the snot out of me for going over the time limit, but it takes me more than the time limit to even start.

Her latest order/suggestion was to write for 120 seconds on the theme—Armour. In two minutes I actually got a few words down, a sort of micropoem. But the germ was there and I’ve since had another go at it.

Attente_à_la_fenêtre.jpg

 

Armour—

what I strap around

the soft, tender places

to stop the barbs of pain,

and a cage for my heart

to stop me reaching out

with misplaced forgiveness.

 

I knew you’d call, and part of me, the tender, wounded, cut-to-shreds part that still bleeds tears of bright memories, longed for it. Another part, the sensible part said: stop your ears to the siren call, and shout your anger and your pain, drown out the mellifluous effusions of sorrow and regret because they are lies, bare-faced and hollow.

The phone rings.

I pick up.

Your voice, deep, warm and hesitant.

The day, the bird singing, the warm light falling in dapples on my hand, all dissolve in a soft muddled haze.

Is there any armour proof against the hope of love?

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