Issue #85

Spring 2023

Hoarse, Pink Foam, and Strangers

by Simon Collings

Hoarse

Ben had talked so much at the party that he had become a horse. He stood amid the assembled company out on the lawn munching on small sticks of carrot people held out for him. 'Such a gorgeous face,' one of the women said. 'His eyes are like sapphires.' It was a warm summer's evening and he began to crop the sweet-smelling grass at his feet. He was sure his metamorphosis was due to a typing error, but he couldn't speak, so had no way of communicating this to anyone. Sooner or later, he thought, someone would notice and change him back into his former self. He was in no hurry. The novel he was in wasn't exactly literature and he didn't much care what happened to his character. Having powerful muscles, a tail he could swish, and a rich horsey smell was fun. He thought he'd make the most of being equine for a while.

***

Pink Foam

A wheelbarrow filled with pink foam was standing on the drive when Aaron stepped out of the house to take the dog for a walk. Small flecks of the stuff were drifting across the lawn, where they settled like rose-coloured snow. The dog began to bark and snap at the flocs floating past them. The next-door neighbour Len was leaning over the garden fence. 'What the hell is it?' Len asked. Aaron dragged the dog away from the foam and looked over at Len's drive where an identical wheelbarrow stood, filled with the same froth, fragments drifting off into the herbaceous border along the fence. Everyone on the street, it soon emerged, had a suds-filled barrow in their front garden, and no one knew how they had got there. The foam smelled faintly of mould and seemed to be expanding. 'Could be some kind of protest,' Len suggested to the residents now gathered on his drive. 'Though what it's about beats me.' Blue patches had started to appear on the grass where the foam had settled, and Len's begonias had blue splotches on their leaves. Aaron noticed a small hole in his coat where a blob of the stuff had landed.

***

Strangers

Three women I'd never seen before were sitting on the bench where normally at this time of the day I stop for a rest. I felt put-out, and somewhat disorientated by this interruption to my usual routine. The women were no longer young, though well short of my advanced years. They were telling each other jokes, the nature of which I was unable to follow, but whatever it was it caused great hilarity in the group. I edged toward them as inconspicuously as I could. Once or twice I thought I heard them mention my name. Was it possible they knew me and were having fun at my expense? Perhaps they were aware of my habit of stopping daily at this spot and had decided to thwart me by occupying the bench themselves. As I came within earshot they all fell silent and stared at me. I assumed the air of a man preoccupied with his own intimate concerns, and sauntered slowly past. Their mocking eyes followed me as I did so, a barely suppressed smirk on each of their faces. When I was safely past they burst into shrieks of laughter. Needless to say I did not look back.

Author Bio

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Simon Collings lives in Oxford, UK. His poetry, short fiction, translations, reviews and essays have appeared in a wide range of magazines including Stride, Fortnightly Review, The Cafe Irreal, Litter, International Times, Junction Box, The Long Poem Magazine, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Mercurius, and The Ekphrastic Review. A collection of his prose poems and short fiction, Why are you here?, was published by Odd Volumes in November 2020. His third chapbook, Sanchez Ventura, was published by Leafe Press in spring 2021 (and reviewed in our literary supplement, irreal (re)views). He is a contributing editor at The Fortnightly Review. His fiction has appeared previously in Issue #69, Issue #71, Issue #77, and Issue #81 of The Cafe Irreal. More information at: https://simoncollings.wordpress.com/