Simon King
Bio
I don't know what to write. That seems like it might be a problem in a place like this.
Stories (12/0)
The Uncle, An Owl, and The Lunatic Child
Before I turned twelve years old my parents were in the throes of what may indeed go down as the messiest divorce in history. It was chaos and it would last for some years before the blitz finally ended. Like most warzones though even as the buildings were rebuilt and life moved on the scars on the ground remain. To this day occasionally I’ll be doing something and the disruption of those years will surface. Not as bad now of course and when a memory like that pops in I treat it much like a tour guide would when leading people about London or some such historic battlefield. A point of mild interest or curiosity but with a background of gravitas that cannot go unfelt.
By Simon King 2 years ago in Fiction
As Long As I Remember
It’s not like it was unexpected. I saw it coming a mile away. Hell, ten miles if I’m honest. There was some shock of course. A loss like that will always flatten everything around it but to say I wasn’t prepared and waiting for it would be completely untrue.
By Simon King 3 years ago in Families
Netta and the Marigolds
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever talked to one of them, have you?” I asked with more than a little interest in my voice. She looked at me and then cast her eyes down slowly to her tea. She had been stirring it none stop since I found my way to the patio and sat at our table. Not quickly at all but a slow paddling as though it was ritual more than taste that motivated her. If the stirring was about mixing the tea and milk so that they blended well she had long since accomplished her goal and was now well into Dr Moreau territory. Milk and tea had become one and were indistinguishable.
By Simon King 3 years ago in Fiction
Built by six hands
You know they say you have to learn people's love language. It's how they communicate their feelings. Born in 1945 in England, my father may have never quite been given the tools to share his emotions in a conventional way. It's not that I don't know he loves me, of that I am absolutley assured. It's that he has never said it. It's like a speech impediment. I know he wants to. I know how proud of me he is. I feel that. I see it in his face. Telling me though? That's a hurdle too high.
By Simon King 3 years ago in Humans
It's Dark Enough For Chores
The barn itself isn’t all that peculiar. Pretty standard as barns go. Big, musty and partially filled with hay and broken tools. It should be noted that it is brown, not red. That is something I’ve noticed having lived in the country all these years. The barns aren’t usually red. Some are, of course. Probably painted by those so desperately trying to live a nostalgic fantasy they must surround themselves with the trappings of times gone bye. Jesus, just buy a painting.
By Simon King 3 years ago in Fiction
Wake Up Call
It was close to five in the morning when Jacob finally woke up. His head still ringing from the alcohol. Oh what a concoction it was. They say not to mix grape and grain but you never really know what they're talking about until the morning after. The very early morning in this case.
By Simon King 3 years ago in Fiction
Wake Up Call
It was close to five in the morning when Jacob finally woke up. His head still ringing from the alcohol. Oh what a concoction it was. They say not to mix grape and grain but you never really know what they're talking about until the morning after. The very early morning in this case.
By Simon King 3 years ago in Fiction
We Shall Swim Together Again
She lay flat but arched her neck. Looking up she covered her eyes in a vain attempt to protect them from the sun's daggers. The sand on her belly and her legs had dried and now fell away like cookie crumbs when she moved. She would try to lie still. It comforted her to have those little passengers on board. A thin cloak to cover skin that may not be ready to be so bare as she thought it was. She could make out his shape now, standing proudly over her. The drops of water as he waved his hands kept threatening to hit her when they fell but she did not think this would be unwelcome at all.
By Simon King 3 years ago in Fiction
Old is an inevitable privilege
He took the razor in his hands, shaking ever so slightly with wear and age. There were easier ways to do this and although this may be a mistake he knew it needed to be real. Anyway, it wouldn't be hard like it used to be. The years had seen to that. His frailty did frustrate him somewhat though. Although he may no longer be the strapping young man he once was on the outside, his soul was still acid inside.
By Simon King 3 years ago in Fiction
The Details
She looked up at the heavy clouds. They were dark and ever so full. The downpour was coming. Of that she had no doubt now. It looked kind of sad. Tears about to burst. That moment of crying before the flood comes, right after a heavy inhale and just before the damn breaks. That's what the sky looked like. Sad and somewhat dangerous. Ugh. She wiggled her freshly painted toes. Just a small act in defiance of the sky. The sun had felt so good only a little while ago. Now her toes were a bit naked against the new chill in the air. She felt a little bit betrayed by all of this. Then again, she knew she shouldn't have trusted it to stay nice. It never stays nice. Sandals probably weren't the best idea but something in her always made her try to squeeze the very last out of everything. One more day of sandals. It's never enough just to enjoy what was there and let it go, she had to find the absolute most she could. Take everything.
By Simon King 3 years ago in Fiction
Rewound
Her hands, soft and clean of any blemishes, covered her mouth as she laughed. The kind of laugh that only love can bring. Her eyes scrunched to halfmoons and glistened as they reflected the light from the video on the screen. In such a black hole of a room, with only the off blue drench of a monitor to cheat the dark, she seemed to be another source of light in and of herself. As she spoke she continued the near obsessive fiddling with the small, heart-shaped, locket around her neck. It hung there as it had every moment since her mother had given it to her. The sliver also caught the light of the screen but only for the few moments she was not holding it tightly. It was as though it was a way for her to touch her own heart outside her chest. Since it was given with the love only a parent can feel, that warmth lingered no matter how many years had passed.
By Simon King 3 years ago in Fiction
Rewound
Her hands, soft and clean of any blemishes, covered her mouth as she laughed. The kind of laugh that only love can bring. Her eyes scrunched to halfmoons and glistened as they reflected the light from the video on the screen. In such a black hole of a room, with only the off blue drench of a monitor to cheat the dark, she seemed to be another source of light in and of herself. As she spoke she continued the near obsessive fiddling with the small, heart-shaped, locket around her neck. It hung there as it had every moment since her mother had given it to her. The sliver also caught the light of the screen but only for the few moments she was not holding it tightly. It was as though it was a way for her to touch her own heart outside her chest. Since it was given with the love only a parent can feel, that warmth lingered no matter how many years had passed.
By Simon King 3 years ago in Fiction
