Category Archives: Memories

Magic Stick

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The stick, without a doubt, was unique, magical, no longer was it lost amongst the woodlands fallen, a delightfully crooked stick had tickled my fancy, held my attention without ceremony.

Waiting for me to notice it, call it to my hand; to grasp it, hold it aloft my busy dome, with childish influence.

The stick imprinted its distress and aged decay onto the palm of my soft, puffy hand; in the colours of the earth and leaf.

This staff, or a wand, some kind of weapon of my calling, or just an old warped walking stick, was to defend myself against the unknown, in shadow, as I sometimes danced staccato through woods and hedge way.

Unscathed, my unspectacular home door, now unlocked, into my actual security. I leave the stick outside, importantly, in the back garden, propping up the garage of course.

Now, somehow, my stick has gone, from too much time being forgotten, time stretched so thin, washed out, into an unnecessarily detailed painting of an adult realm, crumbled into invisibility, to earth, maybe it has travelled back to its place where I first owned it… maybe.

 

 

 

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The Indestructable Toy

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Infuriatingly Indestructable, and at that point of my childhood (back In the 80’s) when a little destruction would do me fine. I was convinced that this truck was not a toy, but more — a test!

Somehow, forged with alien metals, this orange dump trucks’ durability bore an unforunate resemblance to that of a black box flight recorder (how can it endure such incomprehensible abrasion?). Maybe, just maybe, I’ve been living as a slow aeroplane ever since; having the good sense not to allow myself to crash, all the while i’m harbouring a toy (Yes, I don’t really need an object such as this in my daily life) but realistically knowing there is a possibility of engine failure (but il keep it anyway, because i dare not forget my nice, average boyhood).

As my nostalgic tendencies continue to serve me, Is this innocent truck a stark reminder of how fragile (It still has no dents) my adulthood can be, and in the future: will very likely be, if i’m ever so lucky to be so old that i can only remember the distant past (the black box is no longer black, but now, also orange in its colour).