She submitted the following short prose pieces, and I for one really enjoyed them. Reminding me a little of Murakami in the seeming absent semiotic referent; short, sweet and really effective, here they are in their entirety:
Dog
Once, in the town where I grew up, a man was bitten by a dog, twice.
It was one of those mangy dogs with shaggy, grease leaden hair, I guess. The man maybe not that different from it, just that his jeans were greasy too, as were his hands, which spannered under car bonnets and the hot sun.
Perhaps it is early afternoon, the heat caught and congealing beneath the garage canopy.
The man is idling an engine, his mind in some girl’s bedroom or the backseat of a car. Like a bored kid, his eyes cast around for diversion. And then he sees the dog.
Perhaps the dog has lumbered into town from the highway in search of food; a dusting of sand clogging its hair makes the man move towards him.
The dog steps back from his metallic smelling hand and the man steps forward, because what’s a dog doing if he’s not coming for petting? The dog’s paw crunches like a nutshell under his boot. The man winces in stupid empathy that comes too late. The dog lunges for his hand. Lunges at what it has cowered from, and with a whining growl and yap of teeth, clicks first on air, then into the man’s fingers.
Bandaged up a week later, having lost a finger and some confidence, the man sees the dog sidle over from the highway so gets up and goes towards it. The dog steps back again, he steps forward, and crunches over its paw. The dog plunges at his hand, this time enclosing it up to the wrist in a clutch of tooth and bone and oily knuckle.
Like I say, it might have been like this, I don’t know. All I know is that a man was bitten by a dog, twice.
The Game Of Life
This board game embodies – or rather boxes – expectations and perceived norms in contemporary Western society. No surprise that players’ pieces are plastic cars. On a yellow square marked ‘Start’, The Game of Life confronts each car with a crossroads: a choice of work or university, the latter route curving in a delay of space, time and money before rejoining the worker at a blue junction. Though temporarily poorer, the graduate is educated - if only with the knowledge that he can choose a higher salary, while workers must accept what life deals them. Spin five on the roulette and marry, at a further spin of two, buy a second home. Next time, six: twins to click into the plastic car seats, behind the plastic spouse.
Progressing along the blue and yellow cardboard road, life gets comfier. Work promotions, knighthood, becoming president and winning the Nobel Peace Prize earn banknotes. Virtue (recycling or saving a kitten) also earns; individualisation – each to his own in his plastic car – is the message. Exceeding the speed limit or being burgled checkers life with fines, but the road trip continues, accumulating Life Cards to stash away with money and property for the Day of Reckoning’s weigh-in. It is as if there are no snakes but only ladders in this game. There is no ladder to freeganism; philanthropy simply earns a cash bonus; life’s road is too narrow for u-turns or a greener cycle-lane.
Spin the roulette and round the final bend. Another decision: Millionaire’s Mansion or Country Park? Upon arrival at chosen abode, the weigh-in. Life Cards reveal ten thousand pounds amassed for finding a solution to pollution, but a rival has earned more, producing a cinema blockbuster and climbing Everest.
The game ends, but its players live on, competitive neighbours in a plastic state.
The Game Of Life
This board game embodies – or rather boxes – expectations and perceived norms in contemporary Western society. No surprise that players’ pieces are plastic cars. On a yellow square marked ‘Start’, The Game of Life confronts each car with a crossroads: a choice of work or university, the latter route curving in a delay of space, time and money before rejoining the worker at a blue junction. Though temporarily poorer, the graduate is educated - if only with the knowledge that he can choose a higher salary, while workers must accept what life deals them. Spin five on the roulette and marry, at a further spin of two, buy a second home. Next time, six: twins to click into the plastic car seats, behind the plastic spouse.
Progressing along the blue and yellow cardboard road, life gets comfier. Work promotions, knighthood, becoming president and winning the Nobel Peace Prize earn banknotes. Virtue (recycling or saving a kitten) also earns; individualisation – each to his own in his plastic car – is the message. Exceeding the speed limit or being burgled checkers life with fines, but the road trip continues, accumulating Life Cards to stash away with money and property for the Day of Reckoning’s weigh-in. It is as if there are no snakes but only ladders in this game. There is no ladder to freeganism; philanthropy simply earns a cash bonus; life’s road is too narrow for u-turns or a greener cycle-lane.
Spin the roulette and round the final bend. Another decision: Millionaire’s Mansion or Country Park? Upon arrival at chosen abode, the weigh-in. Life Cards reveal ten thousand pounds amassed for finding a solution to pollution, but a rival has earned more, producing a cinema blockbuster and climbing Everest.
The game ends, but its players live on, competitive neighbours in a plastic state.