Senseless

The more you examine things, the less they make sense.

Writing is hard. If anyone tells you differently, they're lying or haven’t been doing it for long enough. This week’s short story felt like pushing a boulder up a hill only to have it roll back down again. But eventually, I got there. I hope you all enjoy it.

In other news, my debut novel will be available to buy from the 15th of March. I hope you’ll all give it a go and share it with a friend. It’s a personal story, although not biographical, touching on feelings and observations I’ve had for a while. I’ve titled it '‘Love, Loss & the view from my window’. But more on that later. For now, sit back, relax and enjoy the flight.

The more you examine things, the less they make sense. Waiting around at the airport, for example, without the intention of flying or greeting someone who has been. I’m not the only one who meets that criteria - hundreds of us exist. Each has a story etched on their lips; they all have a reason and a purpose. Every time the doors turn - spitting people out into the rain and others into the cavernous belly of the terminal - another word of their tale is committed to paper. 

There are policemen - with navy uniforms, assault rifles, stern faces, and keen eyes. They stroll around under the lofty ceiling, cutting through the echoes with their hands resting on the butts of their weapons. Their presence is a cold reminder of how fragile packaged holidays, neck pillows, and pre-flight cocktails are. For the flyers, their broad shoulders and thick fingers are shocking, provoking hushed silences and awkwardly muttered jokes. 

Then there are the cleaners, pathways clearers, and fast-food feeders. One by one, they arrive, clock in, and yawn. Not everyone can do their work: shifts in the shadow of sunny retreats. Most of us would gorge ourselves on thoughts of spontaneous journeys waiting to take off. But perhaps they’ve stopped noticing. For them, temptation is no longer flawless, intoxicating with a flash of her golden eyes. To them, she’s just another colleague clocking in and out. I envy them for that. I’m still a sucker for her gaze. I’m not sure I could look the other way even if you offered me all the money there is. I can feel her eyes on me now, burning a hole into my neck. See, that doesn’t make sense either. 'Sense' is one of the rarest things in our world. 

“Do you mind if I take sit?” I look up from the book I'm failing to read. 

“Of course,” I say; his face is tired, and a drop of coffee spills onto the table when he puts his paper cup down. I turn the page. 

“What are you reading?” I wish that was his question, but we both know it isn’t. He meant to ask, ‘Do you mind if we talk? I feel like talking to a stranger.’ 

“It’s a thriller. My friend wrote it last year.”

“Oh, cool. I’ve never met an author. It must be interesting to have one as a friend.” His words are nothing special, but he has a look in his eye that’s working. 

“It’s pretty interesting. You get to hear about new plots and ideas…” I glance at the bags at his feet - sand and holes fill each.

“I've always wanted to write a book about my hometown.” 

“You should. Everyone has a book in them,” I quote, and he starts chuckling. “You haven’t heard that before?” 

“Never. It’s a good line. I’ll remember it.” He says, pulling out a tiny notebook from his jacket pocket. 

“Nice notebook.”

“You like it? Everyone says it’s too small.”

“It's on the smaller side,” I say, digging mine out of my bag to compare. 

“Nice. But I find the smaller the better.”

“How come?”

“Words are like hairs. The fewer, the better.” His right hand is rubbing his bald, toned dome. This guy makes less sense than a man hanging around in an airport for no particular reason. 

“Most people would contest that point,” I say, looking out to the crowd weaving among each other. Two older ladies with big suitcases pass by on an assistance cart. The orange light flashes above their heads, colouring their silver hair. More than a few young men are woven into this scene, all with long locks in every colour; some curl upwards into afros, others hang down their necks, and even more, neatly swept to one side. 

“I used to have lots of hair; it came down to here at one point,” he's gesturing to his shoulders. “But three kids, two marriages and a handful of bad life choices took care of it quickly.” He's coming to what he wants to talk about. I lean forward a few inches to lure it out. 

“So, where have you been?” I ask, glancing at his bags again. 

"Me?" He's looking around, shifting his eyes to the young girl taking orders, at his bags by his feet, and then at the policemen strolling by. His fist slides across the table. "Fewer words, the better," he says, opening his fist to reveal his tiny notebook. "Take it. I don't mind." Is it just me, or are people getting weirder? 

I take the notebook from his hand; callouses and a fresh scar cut horizontally across his palm. His notebook is heavy as if each page is lead and each word is a regret. 

"What's this made of?" I look up through my brow and catch his smile before it washes away. The notebook opens with the ease you might imagine with pages made from lead. 

I feel a wind wrap around my ankles, but it's no ordinary draft; it's rough like sand and as hot as a splash of boiling water. My mouth feels as if it has never tasted water, and my vision is bleaching itself white. I look down at the page and try to read the scribbles inscribed. 

"What is this?" I ask, looking around for the man sitting opposite. There's nothing around me other than sand. Even the sky has taken on a yellowish hue. But I can still feel the weight of the notebook in my hand. I move it under my T-shirt and hide my face under the collar. Now, at least, I can open my eyes. 'Rest and become sand' fills the page. 

"Hey! What are you doing to me!" I scream.

I can feel my legs sinking, or are they being buried? Either way, I need to get up. With my head still wrapped in my T-shirt and my eyes fastened shut, I lean into the wind coming straight at me and feel my weight lift. I'm standing. 

"Rest and become sand, rest and become sand, rest and become sand..." I'm hoping the phrase might transport me back to my table in the airport because that's all the sense I can find in this Land of Oz. But nothing changes. Only my T-shirt is starting to yield. Tears become holes quicker than I can move. But I am moving; I'm more sure of that with each step. I'm moving quicker, running now; gravity's pulling me. 

"Faster," I hear a whisper. My feet can't keep up; the sand is too soft, and my feet are sinking again, throwing me off balance. Then, bang! My cheek hits the floor. 

There's a weight on my back pointed between my shoulder blades, and I can taste copper on my tongue. The wind has turned cold and smooth with a hint of rain. 

"Get back!" A stern voice shouts. I can hear the echoes again, whispering and the rhythmic clicking of rolling suitcases. My vision has returned. I'm looking at the tiled terminal floor. In my clenched fist, I can feel the edges of the tiny notebook. Now, where is the sense in all of this?

---

Love, Luke