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Could Be Worse

Creative writing submission


By Megan Macdonald

Image by r d h on flickr

I find myself transfixed on the way that the blu tack from posters past creeps up my bedroom wall. Each piece is looking back at me. Smugly. I urge myself to remove it, and fast. I didn’t notice five seconds ago but now it perverts my peace. It clings to the wall like a desperate sleaze, it knows it doesn’t belong there. Entitled fucking blu tak. It’s practically parasitic. 


Poor wall. 


Are you even listening, he said loud enough for me to take notice. A half nod seem to convince him because his low steady drone resumes. My eyes don't leave the blu tack, even for a second. I focus on it so hard, I hope that it might fall off the wall and I won’t have to touch it. More than anything, though, I want and will the wall to know that I’m here. It’s been seen now, and the blu tack won’t get away with this. 


I see you, wall. 


The blu tack clinging so desperately suddenly seems pathetic, and I wonder if it’s aware of my loathing and for a second, just a second, I feel bad. 


That's all it takes.


It’s okay, I say, not sounding okay. Though I’m not sure what he’s been saying. I guess it was something like sorry. By the relief in his eyes as I turn to look, I know that it was. 


So, like the blu tack, I let him stay a while.

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