Rooms – Train Freewrite 


We live our lives in separate rooms.

When the first racing games were developed, it became evident that the car didn’t actually move, it was the track that was moving. Sometimes this is how I feel.


As I write this I’m sharing a room with a Vietnamese family. It’s probably the only room we’ll share in our life. Just now the little girl shoved her tiny hand across her father’s face to shut him up. Slapstick knows no language.


The room is powering down the tracks towards the lights of the big city. I’ll get off at Newtown and jump on a bus back home to Marrickville. I wonder if I’m writing like this because I’ve been reading ‘A moveable feast’. In any case, I don’t own a shotgun.


We form attachments to the people who occupy the same spaces as ourselves. I feel like a busy train is similar to a new seating arrangement in school. We are separate from our friends and the silence is evident. In a few weeks, however, we’ve made new friends and the seating arrangement must change.


Thousands of people have written on trains to try and pass the time and somehow contribute to the oversaturated use of the train as a metaphor for fate or choice, or even a concept as loose as ‘life’. The truth is that anything short of the Orient Express is a waste of time.


The family just jumped off at Cabramatta.


I wonder what the inside of their house looks like? I’d imagine that it’ll still be raining when the father opens the door for his family, his little girl running past him to grab the last thing she was playing. The warmth inside is the closest thing the room can do to say ‘I missed you’. The red curtains, soft carpet, and the dull hum of a fish tank filter are the signifiers of home. Yet, they are nothing special.


It’s association. The rooms we occupy only have significance when memories are forgotten about them. When we can’t quite remember all the stories about high-school, that’s where the nostalgia comes from.


It’s 9:55pm and a woman is getting restless. In a true bogan fashion, the man yelled , “Stop your fu#king bitching”. I know the space they occupy and it’s why they are here. It’s why they are on the move. The forgotten memories that have seeped into the walls push them out. Sadness… hurt… disappointed. It’s why they’d rather be outside than in.


It’s why we crave holidays.


My room is like a cave. It’s dark, damp and ancient. I had a strange feeling when I was eating breakfast of the time I have left. Picturing myself as an old man, but at the same single table… eating alone. It’s a terrifying image.


The happy couple are still fighting. Next stop is Grandville. I remember changing trains there countless times and purchasing chicken rolls. Three people got off. One lady is watching makeup tutorials on her phone. She has purple hair.


Your body is the train, your consciousness is the track. You are right here with me. Your consciousness determines where you go, which rooms you occupy. Your body merely follows your mind.


Not the Orient Express, but hey, I think this bogan behind me might murder his wife.


Written on the train by Randall Evans


This is The Vile Mint

Giving Blood

I would slit my wrists to give you meaning. I bleed my unformed thoughts to show you truth. Yet, is it helping anyone, or am I as superficial as the next ‘blogger’, posting a premature idea to be an early entry on the daily prompt ?

I was contemplating a creative way to communicate the depth of real relationships compared to surface level, superficial ones. That’s when, in my half conscious state, I made the decision to give blood.


I want to give. I want others to take from me. Get a knife a slice away what you need. I’m a busted pipe, a deflating tire, an empty shell. My selflessness rides on the ironical coattails of ego.


I’m too tired and worn to give any more words. I’ll give blood. My ramblings into the void bear little fruit, but the blood in my veins is a fountain for those I’ve never met.


Superficial


Fashionable

It was a mid-morning start, which meant the traffic was a little lighter and the gangs of retirees were taking over the cafes. I pulled up next to a trendy family car – Upper middle class.

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I couldn’t see the driver. All I could see was the left arm of the passenger.

The wrist was decorated with the cuffs of a women’s power suit and a gold bracelet that was probably purchased in 1993. The bony hand, barely visible through the window tint, was worn and stressed.

Why isn’t she at work? It’s past 10…

Why wasn’t this independent hand on the steering wheel?

She had probably just come from the doctors. An elbow so casually, so… tensely resting on the window could only mean bad news. Her husband, or dare I say, old friend who’s always loved her but never been able to crack through her tough exterior, had driven her for moral support.

He left his car at hers because she’d rather be dead being seen in his bomb.

What’s the point? I mean, what’s the point of that gold bracelet? It doesn’t impress me much. I wonder if she was rubbing it in her anxiety as the doctor told her the news.

I turn up the music in my car. I wonder if I do it to impress the retirees with amazing heavy metal.

The status symbol is too heavy. It becomes a chain… A metal chain that pulls her along.

What hit her the most in her appointment? The realisation that she’s going to die, or the realisation that she’d wasted her life.

The car, the chain, the suit, the nail polish…

The skin, the muscles, the bones…

The heart.

Let’s strip it all away.

She’s protecting herself. The little girl she once was… She was hurt by the world. So, she put on her armor. She wasn’t enough just being a shining light, a pure spirit. She needed to project and deflect. If she fails, and she will, it’s because of the suit, the chain, the car, the lack of skills… never because of who she is.

She’s not a failure… She’s not…

Written by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint

 

Fashionable

 

He Makes Us Laugh !

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The clown’s mask drips down his cheeks, but he has no face paint on. Sitting under a lamp in the corner of a lonely street his mind wanders. The waters rise from his heart to his head, making it impossible to get up and walk home.

This man, this, ‘clown’, spends his time exchanging laughter for pain. People want him around. They lean on him, laugh with him and seek him for comfort.

Everyday he cuts off small pieces from his body and gives it to whoever’s in need. Everyday he becomes more and more… empty. He gives what he wants to receive, yet he doesn’t know how to receive what he gives.

He can’t stay above the surface of the water, because the flood is within himself.

Is there ever balance in life? Is the emotional landscape like the rolling waves? Does the happiness that crashes on the shore eventually have to flush out through the rip tide into the sea?

The man, the clown, the ocean, stands up in the lonely street. He doesn’t stand straight like a hero on a mission. He doesn’t stand defeated like a man who’s lost it all. He stands in his pain with his eyes closed.

He applies his mental face paint.

Another man walks past. Concerned he asks, “Are you alright?”

The clown looks him in the eye.

“No. I’m not alright. I have a left hand as well.”

This is The Vile Mint

Written By Randall Evans

The Honest Poet Bleeds The Most

I can not wake,
I can not sleep.
This heart is heavy,
I am weak.

My eyes don’t see,
They only weep.
My love is gone,
And hope I seek.

What is this path you’ve given me?
Where brothers die and lovers flee?
The me inside has but one key,
And now I’m locked in misery.

I heard her pain as she cried out,
Her heart was broken in her shout.
I’ll take that with me ‘till I die.
As well as our last kiss goodbye.

I held her hand and made her mine,
Each day her eyes would light the sky.
My heart I handed in a box,
Without the thought that I’d be lost.

I’m drowning down in all my pain,
Fragmented self is barely sane.
A broken man, I am again,
Cold, alone, in the rain.

I heard your song, it broke me down.
My tears were falling to the ground.
Have mercy on this sinners heart
I need your love, I’m torn apart.

I know you put her in my sight,
To show me love and end the night.
But, now I’m here and no one knows,
Who I am, my inner woe.

Yet, I don’t care for happy days,
Just for her, to keep her safe.
I do not care if I decay,
Just be with her, that’s what I pray.

Written By Randall Evans

Nightmare – The Tree

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A dead tree alone in a dessert. Burnt, it’s branches claw at the sky. Slowly, the scene tilts. The sky now below, the dessert above. The tree hangs like a gothic chandelier.

The man holds tight, but his grip is failing. White knuckled on the branches as he slides closer and closer to the sky below. Just let go!

The tree begins to bleed. The dark blood rains down on the man. He has no hope. He has nothing.

Useless!

He falls.

A soft surface. Yet, not a landing… He slides gracefully down for miles on a deep red satin dress. The satin wraps him up. It belongs to a beautiful woman. She cradles the man and hums a lullaby.

A nice lullaby.

A haunting lullaby.

A grotesque song.

Nobody wants you!

The satin melts away into an ocean. A rough sea that throws the man under the surface. The liquid fills his lungs. He can’t breathe.

Hopeless.

He falls out from tears that flow from his wife’s eyes as she stares at a tree. A tree that’s been in their yard since they first moved in. Everything is silent. Everything except the tight sound of a rope.

He stands and looks up at the lifeless body. It’s him.

His tortured soul watches his painless body being carried down by his broken wife.

His eyes open and he wakes up in a pool of sweat.

He rolls over and places a soft kiss on back of his wife’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

– By Randall Evans.

Written for The Daily Post prompt – Nightmare

 

Guest

I hate it when guests linger around. They can’t take a hint. Normally, I’d stand up slowly and take our coffee mugs to the sink, or I’d stretch out my arms and say, “Well, it was so good seeing you!” But, this time I can’t. My guest is still here.

My guest keeps saying the same thing, but I can’t here it’s voice. It whispers, “Remember.” My uninvited guest is the byproduct my life circumstances that I, clearly, couldn’t handle the way my brain wanted me to.

My logical mind talked calmly to me (‘me’ being somewhere other than in the physical realm). He told me it was going to be fine. “These things happen”, “It’ll all make sense one day” and “You just have to get on with it”, all sound like terrific little phrases to repeat. Yet, my guest remains inside ‘me’.

Remember.

I purge my room. Everything that reminds me is stored away, but it’s voice grows louder still.

Remember.

I clean my entire house and delete every photo from my phone.

Remember!

I break. My guest forces my hand. It kicks my legs out from under me and I fall to my hands and knees. Tears burst out to the sound of a broken cry. How warm they are leaking through eyes clenched shut.

Hollow and alone, my guest finally leaves. I finally feel relief! They are gone!

Feeling better, I take a bath. It’s just what I needed. There is nothing more relaxing than drinking the cold tap water while lying in a boiling hot bath. As the water drains I wipe the fog from the mirror. A small smile curves. It’s been a long time since I felt the muscles around my mouth go through so much work.

As I walk downstairs to get a glass of water, I feel something in the corner of my being whisper. Now I know.

I know this guest will never leave.

– By Randall Evans.

Guest