Old Mr Toad

 Happiness and its direct consequences derive categorically from the ability to be proud of oneself. This is not to say failure and rejection can deter eventual happiness. But this is to suggest that laziness and addiction is the key to its unattainable manner. Disappointment, self inflicted or otherwise, is a vile poison fed into the soul to blacken the heart. Its antidote is hot sweated determination, though the common course of treatment is often a self-pitying seat under a steady drip.

I met my friend the toad this way. It was a Sunday and Paris was grey, as though all its beauty had been shaded in charcoal, then trampled on by its tourists. I took shelter in the rain by the canal and watched my broken reflection shatter with the drips from my hair or nose or eyes or sky. I hardly noticed his presence for near half an hour, and daresay he knew as much of me. A desperate hope, however, leant me to catch his eye.

“How do you do” said I, in a tone like lead and mud and gristle.

“How do you do” he replied, much the same.

“Would you like to borrow my umbrella,” I asked him, “on account of the rain?”

“No thank you,” he replied, once again, much the same. At this I threw the umbrella in the stream.

“Why do you sit out by the canal in the rain?” I inquired. “The weather is quite atrocious. I find myself beaten further by every drop. Slowly eroding I believe. Dissolving maybe. One can only hope.”

“Indeed,” he replied.

“And why, pray tell, would a good old fellow like you want to cave like some chalky cliff, destined to slowly melt away centimetre by centimetre thanks to this tortuous, continuous, unfailing drip? A poor man like myself, a horror to society, a sniveling, driveling wart of a man. A man who frightens and disgusts and repulses. A man who eats and drinks and sleeps and hopes that one day he will be forgotten. A fellow of no consequence and estranged family. A man bread from a strange consequence, moulded from nonsense, scratching and clawing for his underpriced rent. The stars had it right for me. Let my skull thin slowly, let the water diffuse into my brain and blow the fuses. Let my entire body combust and let them look on and laugh. But a good man like yourself, take shelter and be thankful,” said I. And breathed a sigh, looked to the sky, and awaited his reply.

But good old Mr. Toad was a man of few words, and a reply never came. Only an old lady walked past, and with a glance at the pair, her nose turned to the air, she offered me her Umbrella.

Helen Scampion

IF THE BUILDINGS WERE THE WORDS AND EACH SENTENCE WAS A TOWN,
I'D PULL OUT ALL THE LETTERS AND WATCH THE BRICKS GO TUMBLING DOWN.



1973 by Sarah Martin


  image used is the composite image of the universe from the European Space Agency's Planck telescope.

The End of it All
Streaking across the universe, an unstoppable force flashes at the speed of light.
Encountering a massive rogue star, it blasts the stellar mass into oblivion.
The explosion debris lights the skies.
The resulting nova lights the universe.
The force continues unabated.
When the force encounters the edge of the universe, it doesn't bend following the curve of the cosmos- it bears straight ahead.
The unstoppable force meets the immovable object.
The collision blasts the entire universe; in an instant the entire unive...

by Mike Berger

Trees drift in the night, their branches cast out over the sky like brittle nets used for catching stars. And, likewise, I send out my nets into the vast ocean of sleep, searching for you over these seas.

I could have loved you. I’d have left stories on your doorstep in the hope of enchanting your day. I’d have painted for you the little pearls of rain which hang in your hair when you walk home from work. There must be a hundred poems I wrote for you on windows of steamy buses and yet, when it came to it, I couldn’t even find the words to say hello.

And these are the thoughts which I find flitting through the gaps of those nets as I awake to find myself quite alone, washed up on the shore.

Sam Nash

Things for You- To Do List





Recollection of a day

 

    The sun rays danced upon the surface of the Saint Martin canal as I took a seat on the cobbled paving to watch. It was mid-spring and the joys of the season were just beginning to be seen. The trees that hug the waterside had started to show their former glory and I could feel the sun’s heat upon my face. I was on my return home from a long day of giving out CV’s and my feet were tired. Reluctance to spend any money had led to a day of walking so as to avoid taking the metro. As I sat and rolled a cigarette and began to contemplate my options if a job did not come my way soon, I was joined by a well-groomed tramp.

    He stumbled over and asked me for a cigarette and I obliged. I handed him some tobacco and a paper, but he denied the offer of a filter. He took a seat next to me and began to roll. He was bearded and wore a coat that did not reflect the temperature and his breath had that stale smell of cheap beer. He looked very clean, which he later informed me was because of a shower that very morning. We talked for about half an hour and he wasn’t in the least bit offended by my curiosity in his plight. The conversation was only hindered when he was distracted by a small child trying to walk on the ledge that ran by the canal. He seemed to yearn for the child’s attention and made a bid for it by mimicking their movement, all the while the child was trying to gain the attention of their parents.

    As we talked I said, “ah oui” or “je vois”, feigning full comprehension in an attempt to keep the conversation going. After a while he asked a question to which I replied, “d’accord”. From his expression I could tell that I had guessed wrong and had but a few seconds to regain the flow of the conversation. I quickly went back to the last thing that I had understood and made a joke that I could soon be living like him if I didn’t get a job soon. He was satisfied and again my loose grasp of the French language was enough to fool the French that I had any grip on the language at all.

    Eventually he decided that he had more pressing things to attend to, and excused himself with courtesy and an apologetic smile, saying that he had to be somewhere else. Before he made his exit, he said to always be aware in Paris of those people that will try and steal your attention with the secret intention of stealing your money. With this thought in mind I headed home towards Gare de l’Est and him towards Bastille. I checked my pockets for a missing wallet and wondered how a tramp had more things to do in his day than me. But I suppose maybe, like the tree’s, he was in the process of returning to a former glory.

 

Luke Appleton

Outer outer space

Spread the words...

donotlookatthesun@gmail.com

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