With A Skip In My Mental Gait

I don't believe in signs.

You know, Omens. Portents.

It's too easy to want something so badly that you tease meaning out of chaos and call it a harbinger of its fulfilment.

Tripe. Clearly.

The sound of a letter hitting the doormat is a rarely heard in my house; I deal with everything electronically these days. Oh sure, I get junk mail, but that sounds different.

This has a more satisfying thud.

I put down my tea and shuffle down the hallway towards the front door. As I glance at the letter, I immediately know what it is.

Three weeks ago, I'm choosing one of my blog entries to submit for an anthology that's being published later this year. I find the choice difficult for two reasons. Firstly, I'm rather proud of them all, but second - and more important - I haven't go the faintest clue what will go down well with a publisher.

Eventually, I decide to submit a tidy and typically offbeat entry called A Disconcerting Little Tune which I published back in June*. And, with an excited little skip in my mental gait, off it goes via email.

[* You can click the link if you don't recall it.]

Two weeks ago, I receive an upbeat and rather congratulatory mail. They've accepted my blog entry for publication! It's going to be in a nice paperback book in December. I'll see no money for it, of course, but still. I'm being published.

I feel rather giddy as I fill out a pair of contracts. But I notice with some irritation that Wicked East Press are Publishers of Fine Fiction.

Hey, it's a fictional anthology!

Good grief, I know my life is unconventional, but anyone would think that I make this stuff up!

It makes no odds, though; I'm proud that I'll have a tale in the Cup Of Joe - Coffee House Flash Fiction anthology.

I sign and date the contracts and despatch them off to South Carolina.

Back in the now, I examine the envelope on the doormat with an degree of disbelief. I almost invent the word bewildishment to describe my thoughts adequately.

The lovely handwritten address draws the eye, and the bulge of my folded contract inside urges my spirit do a touchdown shuffle.

But it's the stamps that make my heart pound.

The stamps are made for me. They are me!

The first thing that goes through my head?

It's a sign! A good omen! A portent of future success!

But I don't believe in signs. Right?

It's a sign!

I'm demanding the resignation of my subconscious.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

The Butterflies Are Relieved

I'm falling. Hard and fast.

The glass-and-steel building blurs past me, and I'm still accelerating.

I didn't plan this when I got up this morning.

Wow, that's quite a view.

It's five minutes ago, and I'm standing on the roof's edge of a very tall building. As skyscrapers go, this is very scrapey indeed. Two hundred and one floors. The world's tallest. Roth's Spire in Cambridge, England.

What would my shrink make of this thrusting edifice?

It's 2023. I moved house today. It's been hard. The penthouse is a beautiful location, but not when the service elevator is out of service.

Two hundred floors carrying a sofa takes it out of you.

I had help, of course. Bear and iDifficult did most of the heavy lifting, and Yavin and an army of badgers shifted all the smaller boxes. Industrious lads, one and all; everyone lent a hand or paw. Even King turned up - with a dazzling new necktie for me as a housewarming present - though my favourite lion only made it as far as the lobby.

(And of course, he looked very fetching with it tied round his neck as he slipped away later.)

Behind me, an access door clanks open.

Framed in the doorway, diminutive but commanding, is Yavin. The badger casts his gaze about, adjusting his tweed cap to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun as he does so. And, seeing me, he waves briefly and wanders over, the buckles on his workman's dungarees ringing gently against the pens in his breast pocket.

Hey, I thought you'd all gone. This is true; I remember waving them all off as they started the long trudge down the stairwell. Was he there? It's not important. It's been quite a day.

Yavin produces a spotted red handkerchief and mops his brow with a nod. As he folds it away, he hops onto the edge next to me and takes a long hard look down. He huffs a breath; clearly he's impressed.

Yeah, it's a long way down. I wave expansively and look down on the hundred of years of history murmuring in the spires and colleges of the university town. The river is an irridescent ribbon from up here. Hell of a view, mind.

A quiet cough draws my gaze downwards. Meeting my glance, the badger taps his watch meaningfully. This draws me back into focus.

Good grief, am I late to meet Abbey for dinner?

Yavin see-saws a paw meaningfully and then points to the stairs.

You're right. I'd best get moving.

I move to step down from the edge and pause. A strange notion is forming in my head. It does a few orbits and feels even stranger.

I gaze down at the distant sidewalk.

Of course... I mutter, almost to myself, I could take the direct route.

Two hundred floors? Freefall? Am I insane?

Yavin is regarding me thoughtfully. Perhaps he's having the same doubt, judging my sanity for the umpteenth time in as many years. He takes a long look over the edge and then back to me. He frowns and points towards street level, raising an eyebrow and shrugging his confusion.

How will I do it? I shrug back at him. Oh, I'll think of something.

The badger tilts his head at me, and suddenly makes a splatting motion with an articulate gesture.

Oh, it'll be fine, I enthuse vaguely, I'll do what I always do - improvise!

We stare at each other as clouds gather overhead.

Twenty seconds ago, Yavin is rushing off a quick text to the emergency services as I reign in my hesitation on the edge, and spread my arms wide.

Ten seconds ago, I swan-dive with a whoop. Spinning, I see a concerned badger waving me off before he runs for the stairs.

Back in the now, I'm still falling. The wind roars in my ears, and the butterflies are frankly relieved that they're safe in my tummy.

I pass the observation platform on the hundred and tenth floor. I'm almost halfway down.

Man, what a rush!

I didn't plan this when I got up this morning.

But sometimes, you have to seize the day.

And sometimes, after a difficult month has run its course, you have to seize it real hard.

But enough of this introspection; time is against me.

Ah well, best get moving.

I don't want to be late in any sense.

Looking about, I start to improvise.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

No Fault In The Logic

Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats...
Are we home already?
... the plane will be landing in a few minutes.
Good grief, that was quick, Bear.
Zzzzzzz...
Bear?

Are we here already?
Yep. You slept through the landing again.
Was it a good one?
Well, the descent through the clouds was very pretty.
Sunlight through cotton wool?
Pretty much. Nice and smooth when we met the runway, too.
I'm glad. I know you're not a fan.
Thanks. Yeah, take-offs and landing give me the willies.
But the bit in the middle? It's just like being on a train.
Exactly. Nice view, but kind of boring. Always sunny, though.
Ah yes, a last bit of holiday sunshine.
Yeah... it's gone now, I see. Very grey out.
Well, we're back under dark clouds again.
Is that some kind of Bear metaphor about returning to real life?
No, I'm just looking out of the window.
Oh.

Customs is always entertaining with you.
And slow. Sorry.
Not a problem... Why did you bring a live manatee?
It's a favour for 'Difficult.
Say no more.
He can pay the excess baggage, mind.
Of course. That's only fair. And the bees?
Well, they shouldn't cost too much, baggage-wise.
How so?
Well, they fly. They weren't weighing the plane down, right?
I can't fault your logic.
It's nice to be back to normal.

Oooh, look, coffee. I'll go get us coffee. And pastries.
Raspberry Danish with custard if they have one, please!
Slice of pepperoni pizza on the side?
Thanks Bear. Yes sir. Normality.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010
Photograph of 'plane is copyright © Filipe Barrientos, 2007.