[Braille Face flash fiction no. 6. The album I’m working from for this, Glow.Neck, is particularly good and contains several tracks that made it onto Kōya, in addition to having a really strong, yearning mood of its own. And yet I got stuck. So this is a short one and maybe one day I’ll come back to it and turn it into something else.]

Swimming up unwilling from deep sleep she wakes confused, words on the tip of her tongue – what? There is something she has forgotten. But here is the cat standing on her pillow, giving her arm a little nip to help her out of bed. Stumbling down the stairs into the routine: bowls, water, dry food, kettle on, teabag.

Did she hear someone calling her?

Shower, clothes, makeup (just a little), toast, teeth, checking for keys. Down the road to the bus-stop. If the bus is on time, she will be given a clue. She has to do something, find someone – something is broken, something is missing. If the bus is late, there will be no clue.

And yet she is peaceful. The trees go by one by one, the cars and the houses, one by one, all in order, keeping the rhythm. The minutes fall into place. It’s as though she can keep the disquiet in a little locked box, hidden in her chest. It’s there waiting, for when she hears the voice again, and is not asleep. And will follow, even unto the fire.


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