Strings

The fiddle gently pulls him under,
The cozy sounds of distant thunder.
He is but a fool.
Seduced
by notes from in the sea,
As tears to widow’s misery.
.

Depths of sorrow beyond the tree,
A place where sun and sky can’t see.
Empty in himself.
The centre of the broken clock,
Where time is lost, but never stops.

.

He hears the devil play each note,
The strings of death that pull and choke.
He eagerly descends.
Seduction pure, true, unfair,
In prison now with
body bare.
.
Evil thoughts and evil deeds,

He throws his coins at Devil’s feet.
Darkened is his heart.
He’ll play until the final dawn,
The final day when comfort’s gone.

Written by Randall Evans (while listening to Edvard Grieg).

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Shadows and Shame

The excitements builds rapidly in the invisible space between my lungs and my throat. It’s so powerful that my fingers start to tremble and I’m forced to close my eyes tight. Please, please let this feeling pass!

I have friends who struggle with real addictions. I watch them relapse into substances and thank God I’m not addicted to those. I alway try and give advise and act lovingly towards them, but who am I kidding? How am I any better? I’m worse.

There’s a shadow in my past that follows me. I didn’t know it was there until this moment. It’s impossible to see a shadow in the darkness, but when the light starts to seep into your life, there it is. Following you… Reminding you.

The moment passes. I can breath again…

I go to the local Woolworths for some sort of escape into normalcy. Movement is healthy. Doing something normal is healthy.

The lights of the supermarket seem unnaturally white, but it’s good to see other people shopping. I imagine that this is all they have to do, that their lives are so simple, that they have nothing going on under the surface.

If only I was just there to shop.

No, I was there to escape my shadow.

I fill my basket with one packet of M&Ms, a block of dairy milk chocolate, cookies (reduced to $2), meat pies on special and a 2L bottle of milk. I feel like a woman who’s just gone through a break-up. Actually, I don’t know how they feel, but certainly in movies this is what they do.

I get home and put on the TV. Family Guy isn’t my favourite, but tonight it’s hilarious. I dip my cookies in a warm cup of tea. I’m ok. I’ve beaten it.

I’m ready for bed, but the feeling comes again.

Just do it. Get it over with.

It’s 11:11 and my shadow leads me out the door.

I walk past the stairway. A flush comes over me and I keep walking. Head down, hoodie over my face. It’s a cold night… I look normal.

“Please God, let me bump into someone.”

I walk past a pub that taking the chairs inside. Nobody recognises me as I keep walking into the night. But, there is nothing ahead. I turn around and go back, passing by the Pub again.

“Someone call me. Text me. Something. Save me!”

My heart beats faster and faster as the decision comes closer and closer. My shadow has me by the hand and won’t let me go.

My whole body is shivering.

I pass the stairs again. This time I take a quick glance upward. The pink walls remind me of the smell. The smell of essential oils and fabric softener.

The smell of excitement and shame.

I stand on the edge of the street. It’s freezing. I could just go home.

No.

Let’s get it over with.

I’m not at a bad point in my life. I thought the darkness was a phase, a black hole in my past that I’d overcome. But no, I was wrong. I’m haunted. I’m drawn into darkness. My shadow will lead me. My sin leads me… And I follow.

Lord, forgive me.

I walk up the stairs.

Written by Randall Evans

***

Thanks for reading The Vile Mint. If I was able to spark your imagination, make you think or open your mind to new perspectives, please leave me a comment. I love hearing from readers and building relationships. God Bless.

Silence

A week of trekking through torrential rain has my energy depleted, but as I turn my eyes to the sky I see her. The oldest tree in existence. I fall to my knees beneath the terrifying branches that hang over me like the pain of time pressing on my chest.

In my delirium I get to my feet and press through the sinking mud to the base of the great tree. The wind laments it’s warning in accelerated oscillations, throwing rain through the darkness, but it’s too late now. I’ve come too far.

I throw a rope around the oak. The creatures dwelling inside flee their home. The fear paints their faces with each lightning strike. I tie the rope and jump down from the tree.

It’s time.

I pull with all my might. The rain falls through the canopy. The rope burns my hands until they bleed. The deepest roots that hold the fabric of the universe together start to vibrate and quiver. They Scream, “Why? Why are you doing this?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but I don’t stop pulling. As I use every single cell in my body to pull, it starts to end.

The world begins to slow in it’s spin. The roots start to tear through the surface of the earth, but they desperately cling to the ground like a child’s hand as she’s being dragged into torture.

The world slows even more…

I know what I’m doing, but I can’t stop. I’m looking for forgiveness as I’m committing the crime.

The wind and rain and lightning all form a harmonious plee in the last second of time until:

Silence.

The world’s stopped spinning.

In shame. In loneliness. I sit upon the centre of the universe. The great tree is nothing more.

Written by Randall Evans

***

Thanks for reading The Vile Mint. If I was able to spark your imagination, make you think or open your mind to new perspectives, please leave me a comment. I love hearing from readers and building relationships. God Bless.

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.

chatillon-car-graveyard-abandoned-cars-cemetery-belgium-fb

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