The neon flashes.
I wobble slowly and try not to puke.
People are fast asleep and so I watch all alone.
Steel cut, razor-sharp edges softened by alcohol.
A smell of rats and fetid waste.
Stars in the sky shine above the silent city.
As if nothing has gone wrong.
Henry lives in the UK. Sometimes he thinks too much. Sometimes not enough.
Misha suddenly said: “I don’t like homophones.”
I asked her why not.
“Because they’re dangerous,” she said.
“Do you mean ‘people who are anti-gay?'” I asked.
She laughed. “Oh, yeah. Wrong word.”
I agreed with her anyway.
Then I wondered weather she wished she had rather not said that allowed.
Henry lives in Somerset in the UK. He likes jazz flute.
I’m still here, you know. Even through these misty eyes, I still see.
But when you look, you see an old person sitting in a chair, unable to speak,
the times I played and danced and laughed
Why don’t you see me?
you should still see
Henry would like to be great at everything but never will be.
“Let’s walk to our tree,” she’d say. Our special place.
Through the wood, twigs snap underfoot. The brook flows by, reflecting dazzling summer sun. At the tree, a blackbird sings. I run my fingers over her initials, still carved into the trunk.
She’s gone. Her name forever in my heart.
Henry writes micro, flash and full fiction. He lives in Somerset, UK and he likes trees.