THE PORTUGUESE EXAMS - Part 1 (a.k.a. Another Serial Dug Up and Dusted Down)

Speaking

Regan arrived at the exam room on time. The student and invigilator were already settled in.

            'So the teacher found you in the end,' the invigilator said.

            Regan pulled up a chair beside the student. 'I crossed him in the hallway.'

            'So he gave you all the particulars then?'

            Regan held up the sheets and the recording device. She had replaced the one she had received from the teacher with the one she had previously been asked to bring. The invigilator took it.

            'She's had five minutes to prepare already but I'll up it to ten so you can get sorted too.'

            'Actually I'm just about ready to start.' Regan smiled at the student.

            The invigilator scrutinised the buttons on the side of the recording device. 'It's just press record, isn't it? Nothing too complex?'

            'From what I can tell.'

            'All right then. If you're sure you're ready.' he pulled up a chair between Regan and the student. 'And...go.'

            'Hello,' Regan spoke in Portuguese.

            'Hello. How are you?' the student replied, also in Portuguese.

            'Fine. How old are you?'

            '16 years old.'

            'How's your mother?'

            'Still in jail.'

            Regan nodded slowly.

            'I like rock music,' the student said.

            'What?'

            'You're getting too serious. Ask me about my favourite band.'

            'Who's your favourite band?'

            'Toto. Try to be a bit more lively.'

            Regan smiled. 'So the classics then.'

            'This recording will fail, right?'

            'Yes. I rigged the device. He's not listening, is he?'

            'The invigilator? I doubt that.'

            'And he's the mark?'

            'Yes.'

            Regan leant back. 'So what's your favourite Toto song?'

            'Hold the Line.'

            'And how long have you been interested in this particular...classic?'

            'You mean the invigilator?'

            'Yes.'

            'Since he felt me up.'

            'Disgusting.'

            'He looked like he understood that.'

            Regan glanced at the invigilator. He was staring at her but quickly looked away.

            'How long before the device fails?' the student said.

            'Should short out at 2:40.'

            'Not long then.'

            'No. Are you sure about this?'           

            'My mother will pay you.'

            'She's in jail.'

            'She left me an allowance.'

            Regan sighed. 'I'll do it pro bono.'

            'No. She told me to give it to you.'

            The device started bleeping.

            'The money is in my jacket,' the student said.

            The invigilator held the device up to his ear. 'I think it's malfunctioning.'

            Regan took it from him. 'Yes. Fortunately I always carry a spare.'

            'I'm not sure its allowed.'

            'I've cleared it. If it makes you feel better I'll hand it in to the teacher myself, explain the situation.' Regan passed him the other recording device.

            'I'll still have to put this down in my report, you understand?' He barely looked worried. Yet another power trip.

            'That's fine,' Regan said. 'Now shall we start again? We've wasted enough of this young lady's time already.'

            'Fine.' the invigilator pushed a button and rested the recording device on the table.

            'Hello,' Regan spoke in Portuguese.

KISSING THE FISH TANK (a.k.a. Some Flash Fiction Romance)

      He might have said, 'are you in love with a koi fish?' or just 'a koi fish?'. His bottom lip had a tendency to tremble.

            She might have said, 'I'm a koi mistress' or 'I am your mistress'. Her face was mostly obscured by the water due to the way she pressed up against the tank.

            He definitely asked, 'why are you kissing the fish tank?'

            She definitely answered, 'I'm not'. My guess was she was mimicking the koi fish.

            He laid a hand on her, saying either 'then you're leading them on' or 'then you're leaving me'.

            She touched his hand, saying either 'not just them' or 'not right now'. The refraction caused by the ripples of the koi fish's movements made it almost impossible to tell.
            I never once moved from my seat. I couldn't.

RICH WHITEHEAD IS A TWAT (a.k.a. The High Art of Circumstantial Graffiti Meets the Low Art of My Poetic Interpretation)

I despair but I'm not Rich.

Not Richard.

Not Dick.

How could you miss Dick?

Or zit?

A white head's a zit,

basically you missed zit dick

or rather dick zit.

A twat's far too lovely.

Lady genitalia.

You though,

wall scribbler,

graffiti person,

chalk mis-handler;

you're something else.

SITCOM CITY (a.k.a. A Poem I Wrote Over the Course of Months - Still Not Happy)

I know a guy
in Sitcom City.
He knows bookshops,
coffee shops,
clean bars
where single women congregate
alone, free and
hot.

I knew him from his laughter
that follows him, swallows him.
He never learns 
but that's the line,
ratings are high
in the limits.

He can't guarantee much,
he might even ruin you.
Your chances are weak
while the writing is kind.

It's this city, he'll tell you,
this rosy city
with its made-up figures
that dance among the arcs
of men like him
and some women too
though he's never met them.

I'm not sure if he cares about
the cigars he can
always afford or
the friends he
often fails.
The rain comes out through nozzles.

Everyone's open
while the city is clear.
The women smile,
await their cue
and go.
He sets them off.
We watch.
We've seen them.
We've seen this one.

The titles.
The laughter.
Run it or can it.
He's smoking jokes
and here we are
only listening,
listening hard.

THE BRANCH AND THE BABY BOOTIE (a.k.a. An Image from a Dog Walk)

          The hedge was messy at the bottom: twigs and leaves nuzzled into the cracks on the pavement. There was even an overgrown branch, curved and upturned, that hooked on to people's trouser legs as they passed by.
          One day a pink baby bootie slid out from one of those trouser legs. The branch was almost ripped apart. It fell limply on top of the fallen item until another leg snapped the branch clean off at the end and kicked it into the road.
          The branch continued to grow. It gouged its way into the bootie then slowly retracted, footwear still attached. In the wind, it kicks.

SHE COMPOSED HER OWN EPITAPH (a.k.a. A Rather Bleak Cut-and-Stick Poem I Made to Stem off Boredom)

She composed her own epitaph
to 'Black Los Angeles'
before the judge,
that child,
used her rage to seize
the endless hours.

Slickness,
he says,
is art.
Compose and you
kill it.

BOTTOM OF THE ATTENDANCE SHEET (a.k.a. An Exaggeration of Things I've Actually Written as an Exam Invigilator)

Tom arrived five minutes into the exam -
he had no extra time.

Corin turned up half an hour late -
she had no pen, black or otherwise.

Rufus went to the toilet for fifteen minutes -
he came back with a limp.

Corin asked for a calculator -
she was doing the history paper.

Emma was called out of the exam -
the man said he was a teacher.

I stepped outside the room briefly -
noisy hallways - adults this time.

Corin tried to trip me up -
she still had her bag beside her.

They all finished ten minutes early.