A Thousand Unwritten Words. Flash fiction by Sam Windrim

The President of the United States has been talking non-stop on my television for 99 days straight. A strange stream-of-consciousness language, full of never-ending sneers and non-sequiturs. This is to be expected, for these are days of unprecedented events. A preternatural pause in the narrative of our existence.
And I’ve got Netflix playing in my teacup, WhatsApp’s chats on my mind. There’s a raindrop race along my window and Twitter storms tangled in all the blinds.
A fat Prime Minister splutters as though recently swallowed by some viscous marshmallow. He looks out through his one good eye and yells, ‘Tally-ho to the edge of the cliff, good fellows!’ This is to be tolerated, for these are unknown times. An outlandish hiccup in the timeline of our lives.
The Pope has decreed this ecclesiastical year shall consist of 1001 Good Fridays. All participants shall earn an indulgence in Heaven or any free self-flagellation device from the top shelf. This is to be celebrated, for these are days of unimaginable events. An outlandish test in our spiritual pilgrimage.
And I’ve got Instagram ops turning up in my ashtray but Spotify puts stretch marks on my soul. There’s paint drying on the closing-in walls and Facebook’s gone live up my hole.
A busy-busy Taoiseach took time out to berate low-income workers. ‘We’re all in this together,’ said the man on €95k per annum to the woman buttering his sandwich at a tenner an hour. This is to be applauded, for these are unexampled times. An unheard-of examination of our national character.
The Minister for Measuring Emergencies has measured this latest emergency. She’s recommended that a re-emerging economy will require further emergency measures. This must be accommodated for these are unparalleled days. An unspeakable plague upon our times.
And God knows PornHub won’t wank to itself today but too many pre-Zoom-days chats with nuns loom large on the hippocampus. Turns out the lawn’s growing up anxious while a thousand unwritten word frown down from unreachable shelves.

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Sam Windrim is from Ballynanty in Limerick. He compiled The Limerick Lexicon (the first-ever dictionary of Limerick slang) and co-authored Ammemorium – A Forgotten Rebel’s Tale (Manchester Metropolitan University) with John Hyatt. When he’s not fretting over Manchester City’s fortunes, he’s banging his head off a keyboard, trying to write a novel that way.