meredyth

meredyth

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The end of an idea is drifting through my mind, irritating isn't it. It is like the call or barkers in the market about the first or last of the fresh fruit, that if you listen becomes a meaningless rising and falling of stretched vowels and extended consonates, a tidal wave that you walk through, each sound causing tidal drifts of people to one side or the next.

There you go again; you have just pushed through me and stepped on my idea. What is logical about your opinion that made mine irrelevant? I have a proven track record and the strength of numbers: must I bring up again the number of times your ideas have crashed and burned. Pay homage to the power of position. You know people listen to me and that is important here.

'It doesn't take much to let it ride. You can just cruise by, ignoring them, and the insults will be forgotten.' 'That is not the point,' he said. 'They need to know the hurt they've caused; that they are wrong, that they cannot do that to people and get away with it.'

'You don't need to do that,' she said as she stepped to the side trying to avoid him. 'Thanks anyway.' 'Why not: is there someone else who does this for you? Am I treading on someone's toes, cutting someone else's grass?' He was dancing on his toes, stepping from one foot to the other, blocking her retreat. 'I don't like talk like that, just go about what you were doing and leave me alone.' She had stopped and was standing with her arms folded, looking flat and threatening, like a magpie remembering him, getting his measure. 'Hey, hon, didn't want to make someone jealous,' he said. 'Was just trying to get a laugh, you know.' 'My husband's not the jealous sort; he has no need to be.'

'It's time, cousin,' Jason said. 'Why are you being so creepy?' she asked. 'Here's the gate,' he said. 'You're plane's ready to take off, you should get on board.' 'Give Aunty Cassie my thanks; she was so sweet the whole time. I've had a lovely holiday.' She smiled, but Jason's face didn't change. 'She couldn't help that her sons are drop-kicks after all.' 'I'll wave goodbye from here,' he said. 'Here's your bag. Mom put a gift in there for you.' The boarding light was flashing above here on the display but she walked away from the gate, to a nearby seat and started unpacking: her makeup, spare clothes, a book. She stopped when she found a box tied with red ribbon and held it up by the ribbon she turned to Jason. 'Shall I open it now,' she asked. 'Or, do you want to take it home and post it to me?'

'This is the tallest I will ever be,' she said. She had bent down so her face was level with the young man's face. 'If you stand up you'll be taller,' he said. 'I'm going to be as tall as a ship one day and see over the horizon.'

itchy

'Have it all, I don't care anymore.' 'Just don't come around later and say you want some.' Her voice came at me as the screen door slammed behind me, the tone reminding me of a scratched record, the rising scratch of chalk dragged on a blackboard, the scratching sound of the sheets of tin on the roof rubbing away the itchy twists of the rising and falling wind.

"A picture?" she asked. 'Could it just be an image? I haven't had a photograph take in years.' 'It is to be the companion to your bio; as long as what you choose is recognisably you, there shouldn't be a problem. ' 'And there you go' she said, 'Stepping over the line.' She looked distracted and frustrated, the colour in her face rising in blotchy patches. The twitching had started again and she scratched her fingers roughly, marking red lines on her joints lumpy with arthritis. 'My work stands alone, it does not need a bio. I spend hours on the word and want these to be my representatives. My opinions and the thoughts I use to formulate my reality are all that's needed. What I look like, that is a trivial thing; any image of me is worthless. No-one needs to see me now, I am more than this.'

'Now, I'm sure you know I only have a minute,' she said. 'Time to rumble then, get into the groove and turn down the music; I have something to say.'

edits

'And then he goes and he edits it,' she said, her sense of outrage palpable. Even seated across the table I could feel heat rising for her in waves like steam off fresh bread. 'But, isn't he your editor?' I asked. 'He's changed it; he's changed everything. It isn't the same story. He even made the hero a man.'

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writing since 2010 · 410 entries · 407 days shown up

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on this day 13 years ago

Meredyth wrote about bloomed
“Sometime between opening my eyes this morning and the words pouring back in to my brain it happened. I saw it through the window as I woke. There was a scene and movement, even the sounds seemed to b…”

the words Meredyth reaches for

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