just one word: embroidery. said sponge. he added that people should be too concern about an explanation as the morning soon would turn to evening and queues would dissolve and waiting lists would be folded up for the night. he went on to state that embroidery as such had little to no part in the foundation of the united states of america.
no idea, what to say, said sponge, all words seem to be lost. i had them all laid out, nicely arranged last night, in categories. replies, remarks, questions, answers, comments, small talk, chatter, jokes. all that, you name it. and now, all gone. don’t know what to say.
what about memos, said breadroll, are they gone as well?
haven’t even thought about them, said sponge. that’s another story.
why are we talking about food so much, said sponge, is there something?
we are not, said breadroll, we mentioned the canteen recently.
a yes, the canteen. we didn’t mention it before. the perls.
says herr brekst, whenever i come i have a question and no answer ready for me. this is the state of thing and i will have to queue for an answer like anybody else here, if there are any left that is. is this queue for beetroot by chance? or chips? answers?
it is getting silly.
and how did it go today? we have only started. i know, whatever, how did it go, any feedback? none. haven’t heard anything. was there something we were to say at some point. perhaps we missed the keyword. perhaps. or maybe. or that. we should discuss our keywords again. fix our tags. fix our tags, perhaps. metaphysical tags. karma keys. maybe they’ll tell us then.
final sentence: involving sponge and breadroll.
whatever metaphor we come up with, said sponge, it’ll pale in view of the obvious and strike fear into the heart of the uninitiated. herr brekst, back as back can be, was asleep, fast. he didn’t react. won’t react. said breadroll. never really does this day and time. i remember, i saw him doing it. if you can’t trust your eyes, said breadroll, how good is your memory. better i suppose. suppose not, said breadroll with a finishing gaze. oh fate, said sponge. big words were never their forte.
so things would look up. we had that before. pat on the head. the next thing, same thing. right? so you are not so hopeful? no? why not? anything to complain? talk it all down? what?
well nothing, so. we’re done?
herr brekst walked into a cafe (with a short sentence on his lips). these things happen, in a same thing, different day sort of manner. he saw a man. he, the man, drank coffee. a suitable activity but that is another thing; we won’t talk about it now, at this point. they used to celebrate, brekst said, back in the middle ages, more than we would think, if we think about them at all that is. most of the time we don’t. the train people had received some cash as a bonus. the short sentence skirting his lips in brackets had disappeared like a flap dragon.
it’ll be a while now, said sponge, until these train people get back on track.
they are on schedule though. but schedule is a long word, might be a while to be through.
they have a rigid definition, they’ll be on track soon.
they can kiss my dactylion, which i’m more than happy to extend in their general direction. sponge paused. continued to talk about a christmas party some years ago, where he hadn’t been. ranted. raved. on and on. more to be said.
so many fullstops, improperly parting words, assuming full sentences where there are none. that’s it. round bits of chewing gum are the stars in a pavement universe. if only the man with the lucozade knew what worlds he’s stepping on. what difference would that make? he would be walking as before, having no alternative.
so sponge was stuck for a cue, what next, you tell me. a story is only good of it has a story in it, a string of event or thoughts or opinions, spirited or spiteful, for readers to pick and mix. maybe they make a film out of it or a tv show, a late night special. the setting is a platform of station between two other stations, straightforward. someone could push the guy over thee in front of a train, he looks innocent enough to make it into the news as a father of four or a well-liked neighbour of sorts, one other neighbours remember, old-school character. but that won’t happen. there won’t be a train for ages and if one comes it’ll be crawling along so the man would have to be tied up or drugged or otherwise immobilised but then the train people might intervene, they always do, they think they can, so they need to be dealt with and how do you do that? train people can be dealt with, they can be talked out of and into things but that requires time and time is what the villians don’t have. the train, albeit slow to arrive is often swift to go. what then? load the now immobilised man into a car, a black van perhaps or some boxy builders’ transport (white), handcuff and muffle him, ask a few questions, the man might know something, easy ones, we don’t know him very well, try to catch up with the train at the next station, that is one option; let him have it at the next station. to wait for the next train here, there another, trying not to draw a lot of attention. the job can drag on, hours pass one could put to better use, the fence needs mending, ages since a coat of protective paint had been applied, five years they say it’ll last and we started thinking about a new coat five years ago, we were talking, joking almost that five years on we’d still be talking and joking and here we are, talking and joking, but what can we do? we kind of stuck.
the first option adds rapid action to the story whereas the second introduces a time element, characters can be developed better in the rather static setting of a platform. (that theory, however, is not entirely proven to be correct). some cigarettes, smoked angrily, with haste, impatience, the wait tears nerves, they get to know the victim although he would have to be muffled. they stomp on their cigarettes, flung to the ground unfinished, no time to finish before the next. they might reconsider. maybe they beat him. or they go home altogether, the victim plodding along, it’s all delayed. they should have planned to push him in front of oncoming traffic. push and done, but no, it’s all delayed instead. the victim goes home with them, lives with them. it’s all delayed, how to get rid of him now.
that won’t happen here, said sponge. he wondered what the first sentence (they can kiss…) was meant to mean. that’s the thing, he said, when you pack too much into a story – it makes people wonder why.
a round man sat down, preparing himself for things to come with a bag of crisps and a diet coke. his movements were swift and efficient. the task to be done. we whistle songs, that’s all, quietly in the wind. not much has shown up so far. we wait. we whistle. no song in particular, songs that’s all, just that. the pidgeon shat on the man’s shoulder. he grabs for the coke and holds it safely.
shat is an awkward word. but words don’t really happen, so nothing happened really.
train people are required to say shortly with a certain drawl. it must not sound threatening, it should sound both empathetic and helpless but yet suggest strong confidence in things working out well eventually at the same time, you don’t want a panic, panicking passengers are the worst. they shout and complain and want to speak the manager, who almost always does not want to speak to them. who do they think they are? others are not so lucky; others don’t even have permission to wait for a train, let alone see the arrival of one. years of training went into that and some never reach the degree of skill and seniority required to be suitably prepared to talk to the customer.
for budgetary reasons the management had recently started to employ young ladies who clearly did not the their pronunciation right but were hidden behind enforced glass; and wore nice dresses.
shortly, said sponge, shortly.
you have a certain arrogance, said breadroll, as if you wouldn’t want a train to appear at all. your fake tan is showing as well.
that’s my impertinence, said sponge.
but would we?
frozen with terror, should we let them terr’ists prevail? a big a question. a word has been thrown out there. sponge sit. breadroll stands.
we should be safe though, what should happen. the lad over there has a monobrow, does it make him suspicious? the other lads mumbles to himself? a brief prayer before action? thoughts of tearing the lad’s face off. dismissed thought, not good but a start. there should be a line of comfort. remining positive.
q: clings in with the long titles. the stage had cleared at this stage. people did not remember the words. they were swept up and discarded, the long ones broken into syllables.
the sallytokk staff was hanging around, with beers. not much going on. we shouldn’t have mentioned it. it was really a mellow scene. a few discussed tax implications. no longer words than that.
a: no, not to mention. what can you do? title is title, little to add. it speaks for itself and carries the story like an unwanted growth.
room. yucca tree. the usual. fat woman in the corner, sitting, covered with a bed sheet.
we should hang out for a while, said sponge, have a break, get away from it all. (points at woman) do we know who she came to talk to?
no, said block of wood, but i got rather friendly with her.
you talk to her then, said sponge, shall we uncover her?
no, said block of wood, we shan’t.
that’s a swell word to use, said sponge, shan’t.
isn’t it just, said block of wood, and so is swell. a swell word.
there we go, said sponge, and swell isn’t a shan’t word.
you should not, said block of wood, accept clear instructions. the clearer they are the lesser they are tought through. take my word for it. no. don’t. don’t take my word. try for yourself. it is only an advice. i’m only advising, not suggesting anything. it’s only a job for me.
if we enjoy them we should complain, said breadroll.
we should, said sponge, but we can’t. it is all about policies and there is none for complaints. at least not to-date.
no policy, said block of wood, are you sure?
sure, said sponge.
they had tea.
the dialogue had come to an end.
they said, said sponge, the lost episode was a particularily good one.
always the case, said breadroll.
typical, said block of wood.
even though they generally enjoyed these dialogues they also never complained about them coming to an end.
once again the sun was tired of tirelessly illuminating perpetuous reiterations. pale light was shed on the scene where breadroll, sponge and block of wood had takeb on the challenge of finding the right words for most things.
the importance of the task as well as the critical impact of a possible failure had been sufficiently made clear to ensure breadroll, sponge and block of wood were fully aware of forthcoming innovations. episode’s end.
that’s what you get for being eager, sponge said to breadroll who just had stepped into a puddle and looked soaked.
at least it was not a poodle dooh, said breadroll.
exactly, said block of wood, it could have been a bigger dog even.
i’m glad we identified the problem, said sponge, we should make an announcement.
at some stage, said sponge, we should swap the bench for a sofa. we also should tell us each other our favourite words.
paperclip, said block of wood.
hotcross, said breadroll.
thirsty, said sponge.
bread and butter, said block of wood.
that’s not nice, said breadroll.
lads, it’s the one-word competition. one word, alright? now, it’s getting late, let’s go.