Right two three, turn two three, up.., behind and front.
It’s that time again – to forget all worries and concentrate on folk dancing.
What bliss!
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Author: Miriam Drori
Author, editor, attempter of this thing called life. Social anxiety warrior. Re-Connections, a collection of short stories, published with Ocelot Press, 15/10/2025.
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Small Stone 11/1/11
All Ones 11/1/11 11:11
All ones in the date today.
All ones in the time of this post (I hope).
All ones at the play reading I attended yesterday.
All ones in this town, in this country, in this world.
Together, they have a purpose.
Alone, no use at all.
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Small Stone 10/1/11
Overheard Conversation
Two old women shrouded in coats, scarves, gloves and hats amble along the path to the park bench and sit down. Their conversation doesn’t stop for a moment.
“So I told him he has to leave her.”
“Quite right.”
“I said, ‘You can’t go on like this getting beaten night after night.’ Do you know, his body is full of cuts and bruises and he still won’t leave her.”
“I suppose he’s worried about the children.”
“You’re darned right he is. I said, ‘I’m sure you can find a time to slip out when the children aren’t watching.'”
Well, they might have said all that. Actually, I don’t understand Russian.
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Small Stone 9/1/11
Fan Heater
You bask in the stream of hot air.
I’m hot and sweaty. It gives me a headache.
Maybe that’s because your warmth radiates out from you, while I keep the heat locked inside.
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Small Stone 8/1/11
You wake to hear it hammering on the window like an unwelcome guest.
You think, “Oh dear, I won’t be able to hang the washing outside.”
You don’t think, “Oh good, it’s providing water that enables me to do the washing.”
Perhaps you should.
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Small Stone 7/1/11
Supermarket Underground Car Park
7:20
Only three cars on the whole floor.
I get out, click the button. The beep echoes.
I walk to the trolleys in the semi-dark, trying to ignore the smell, or at least to pretend I don’t recognise it.
8:30
Same semi-dark area.
I guide a heavy trolley between the cars to the boot of mine.
I smell car fumes. It seems better than what I smelled before.
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Small Stone 6/1/11
Compost Heap
Lettuce leaves, still green, no longer edible.
Grapefruit peel, still yellow.
Orange peel, still orange.
Broccoli stalk, still green.
Onion peel, still identifiable.
What lies underneath is no longer identifiable. It has metamorphosed into something else – something that can be useful again.
What about us? We have no use below ground, but we can make a huge difference above. Most of us don’t. What a shame!
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Small Stone 5/1/11
Six steps descend to the small, empty café. Four round tables with chairs. Large windows through which diners can watch passers by and passers by can watch diners. One long table with a high bench, covered with a material that’s patterned and colourful – reds, greens. The counter is bare except for a coffee machine and a till.
“Small stones,” she says. “It’s a lovely way of helping you to notice things around you, but I notice too much.”
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Small Stone 4/1/11
Eyes drooping.
Brain wandering.
Trying to write, but…..
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Small Stone 3/1/11
Clothes hanging on clothes horse on balcony.
Trousers, shirts, socks, pants, sheets.
Greens, blues, whites, blacks, reds.
Gently swaying as they dry.
What if it was raining? Would they get wet?
No, silly. If it was raining, they wouldn’t be there.
But what if…
Miriam Drori, Author 