Georgia Todd -Writer
Short Stories: Browse through latest peices freshly written...
Christmas -
(C) Georgia Todd
On Christmas Eve I sat in a garden and took long drags on a joint, my friend taking long sips from her glass of chilled white. We made it to the local, far too early and smoked a pack of light cigarettes, while the towns old and lost stared at us from the corners of the dusty pub. They had never seen young ones so glamorous and poised. Our stories were punctuated by loud filthy words and long exhaled plumes of smoke or a glass banged down on the cracked table top. It was Christmas Eve, and we were out. They served us free ham off the bone and in between two sheets of white bread. No mustard. But we ate two anyway. I wanted something sweet. We took off towards a pizza place we knew served the best cheese cake in that small, quiet town. It was summer, but summer was late and hadn’t sent its apologies. Just a glancing hint of what should have been grazed its fingers of sunlight over the township’s watery bay. Light was golden and local kids swam alongside the stony shore riding waves dipped in gold. The Pohutakawa flower was blossoming and I remembered my Mum saying once that the red of the flower was the most powerful, gutsy red around. Like the colour of blood spilt during war.
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Mob -
By (c) Georgia Todd
The day he died the first thing he saw was a bumble bee, as he opened his eyes to the dank afternoon light. His vision was hazy at first, a film of moisture coated his eye and all he saw was a slow moving object, humming in the stagnant air. The color came through, blurred then sharp, he saw wet black legs, hanging with coated pollen, gossamer wings beating a million miles per hour. It moved as if drunk, suspended and lost. It aroused in him the immediate feeling of the very small contrasted with the very large. For a moment, he lost himself in the natural wonder of the small world that carried on despite world-wide atrophies, personal catatonic level ten disasters. Fuck that, level one hundred. The bee couldn’t save his ass. He could stare at it all he wanted, it would never make the world go away. Serge moved slightly on the rough hewn sacks serving as his makeshift bed. In his makeshift hideout. The bee shifted away from him, aimlessly moving towards the roof. Away. He closed his eyes.
Ann -
By (c) Georgia Todd
I hate myself, some days. Days when I look in the mirror and there I am. Fat, pallid, greasy. The only things alive are my eyes – the rest is useless. I’ve given my body over to a life I don’t want. I was forced by cowardice and a safe sense of duty – what the bloody hell was I thinking? Does he even know the real me? Look at me. With my fierce eyes. Look at him – in the reflection of our cigarette stained mirror, God, he snores loudly, a picture of absolute ignorance. He’s so ignorant he makes me feel tender towards him. He needs protection and care. Like this kid of ours I’m carrying. Bloody hell, Fuck it! How’d it come to this? I was going to represent my country for hockey for fucks sake! Now the only hockey I’ll be getting is the plastic useless $2 shop job…Yeah, that’s right, playtime is over for me. Its’ all for the kid now, the kid and him. Well that’s what I’ll do then..my kid’ll play hockey in the pathetic barren yard of ours… No, screw that, we’ll be down at the park, I’ll be teaching em fielding, attack, goalie, all of it. Maybe we’ll make it a family thing, maybe he’ll want to come. Probably, he’s like a god dam puppy at times, he’s so dam enthusiastic. Yeah, the three of us, down at the park. Maybe I’ll lose weight. Maybe I’ll get back into bed, take his hand – place it on my ballooning belly. Then he’ll wake, kiss me with stale forgotten breath, the same kiss every morning for the last five years…and how many more to come?
