Hana Gubrická writes a flash fiction piece to the theme of ‘Spring’.
I feel a tiny bit of jitter in my stomach when I think about the Spring. This has nothing to do with Saint Paddy´s Day and my functional alcoholism. As usual, I tread my way down through Harcourt, entering the soon-to-be-busy Grafton Street in order to check out the new arrivals in the shops. The smell of Butlers mingles with the pungent odour of the Greyhound truck, now adorned in rainbow. Maybe the Rolling Donut will have some sakura themed donuts; not that I would buy them. The city mosaic is tastefully detailed with yesterday's vomit and who-knows-what's smeared on the pathwalks. I breathe in the crisp morning air and my nostrils fill with the stench of weed. Who the hell is smoking pot in the morning?
The morning chill is lifting, the ascending glow is colouring my cheek with peach.
Escapism, my beloved, I need you now. Spring, spring, think....what does it mean? The city's response to the season´s changing is nothing but a new fashion collection and sales sales sales sales. It makes one´s head ache. Pivot to the park. That's what most people do, they turn to nature, right? Hug a tree or two, feed the birds, tuppence a bag....unless a seagull yanks it out of your hands....sit on a bench and watch the sunrise, now early and brisk....if you had such motivation for doing homework....close my eyes and breathe in the new, the unstained....if only you – shut up. I might look like a fool now. Whatever. Whatever the Spring means, I don´t care, I want to be left alone, thoughtless.
As I stumble down the street, carrying an empty bag or baggage, I jump on a bus going Somewhere, as if it mattered. The mellow emptiness in my mind allows me to relax. The morning chill is lifting, the ascending glow is colouring my cheek with peach. The jitter transforms to flutter.