little michael

The train juttered and quaked, slowing down and speeding up, occasionally stopping altogether. His fingers reached out and played in the sunlight. He wanted to grab it and pull the sun a little closer, but somehow he knew that air-conditioning wasn’t the only reason for his goosebumps.
He shuffled absently in his seat, anxious with no outlet. His mother placed a hand on his knee and smiled warmly; of course it was OK. He sat back and looked out the window: everything was shining vaguely; in the distance, distinct outlines of graffiti and dissolution.
Somehow the city was all and nothing like he had imagined. It felt like his first trip to the supermarket, guardedly holding on to his mother’s dress as they walked up and down the high-walled aisles.

Now they moved in and out of tunnels and artificial light. The tracks clicked like a drummer not quite sure of the beat. He remembered his brother saying that before they left; “I’ve done things I never imagined I’d do.” Like the train tracks; slightly out of time, not quite right.

The train stuttered to a halt and the doors hissed open and he stands and walks off the train. Fortitude Valley. He’s never thought about it before; fortitude. Like solitude. But it was named after a ship and despite its best efforts, neither fortitude nor solitude can be found there.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

An August night. Or maybe it’s July.

In some blissed-out trip and I feel like I could kiss the moon.

But it’s a long fall from the moon; ask anyone who knows. So I stay here on the wet grass, feeling the cold wend around me, binding me to the earth to keep my from my celestial lover.

My lonely, wayward lover. The desire of many, the property of none. I reach so desperately and return with so much less.

But these moments; this bliss, this trip. The grass is cold and I reach again until there’s no more left of me, just my distant lover.

Is it any wonder he provides no warmth; just this vague euphoria and the hope of the journey. A journey oft started but rarely completed; ask anyone who knows.

But why shouldn’t I try for this one chance to get off this grass and into the sky? With so little of me, would it really be that hard?

Then I’m crashing hard, before I’m even halfway there. My lover stays his hand, bitter.

But I should have tried harder, reached further, sooner. I reach again, but there’s nothing left of me.

My lover leaves. And I’m as cold as the grass.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

His voice smelled of the sea; not a calm, romantic splash of salty air, but the harsh reality of rotten fish and seaweed, and twenty-hour days caught in rope and leaky boats.

Somehow, it wasn’t totally repulsive, more of a shock: when someone opens their mouth to speak, you do not expect to be transported back to the seaside hideaways of your childhood.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

the fallen matriarch returns

regal, yet defeated; denied the power that was once her right. her body failing, her mind fading; yet she holds her head high, preserving that final vestige of dignity, as she hobbles into the arms of her loved ones. once giving, now receiving, care. her adventuring days are over, now only reminiscence.

she has left her throne for a bed, and a pair of warm slippers, and a cup of tea in the afternoons, just as the sun is beginning to set.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

Do the consequences of this ever strike him? (1)

Do the consequences of this ever strike him? He puts down the spoon, then realises he never stirred in the sugar. Oh well. He puts down the cup, and forgets the tea, and leaves the house. The grass has never been as long and his mind has never been so resolute.

Yes. He will leave.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)

Skin

A map was etched into her skin. Not the blue-green of tattoo, but grooves in skin, like wrinkles but more defined, clean-cut. I would let my fingers walk over her, trace the paths we’d walked all those years ago, and she’d laugh and push my hand away and tell me to make my journeys elsewhere. At the centre of her back was the centre of the town, where the lines became too numerous to see clearly. When she lay on her stomach, I’d lie next to her and just look at them, try to imagine walking through those streets again.

And as the town grew, she too grew older. The lines became more numerous and less clear. And still I’d walk them with my fingers, but now she batted my hand away and told me that this was no time for journeys.

She felt the weight of the map as it grew, and I felt my mind run through the streets, and let my eyes wander where they may.

It was no longer a town, but a city. She stayed in her bed. I ran through those streets for real, all so familiar though I’d never seen them, only felt them with the tips of my fingers. And then I stopped running.

A single line reached up to her eyes, and there it stopped, the only place I could ever call home.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)