Mo By Peter Calder

Mo lay in the middle of the street. He thought of his favourite word. His favourite word was apple. He didn’t know why.

Mo lay in the middle of the street. He used his tongue to check if all of his teeth were there. They mostly were. He couldn’t move his eyes. Without his front teeth, he couldn’t eat apples either.

Mo lay in the street. His legs made the most peculiar sound. It was like biting into a Braeburn. No. Granny Smith.

Mo lay in the street. He could taste copper. He couldn’t move his arms. There was a voice. His phone buzzed. For thematic reasons, it was an I-phone.

Mo Lay in the street. He saw the faces of everyone he knew. They told him to stand up. He struggled for a second. He straightened his legs and stood.

Mo lay in the street. Mo looked at himself. He didn’t recognise himself. He thought himself most peculiar with his legs at those angles.

Mo lay by the curb. He was outside Tesco. He hadn’t bought the shopping yet. His girlfriend wouldn’t be happy, he’d lost the list.

Mo lay by the curb. The automatic doors wouldn’t open for him. A blue light flashed on the entrance. A worker ran out. Milk, they needed milk.

Mo lay by the curb. The aisles were empty. His hand failed with a basket. A child cried to her mother. Mo smiled at her. A man outside looked at his watch and said the time. 9.42.

Mo lay on a stretcher. Original or reduced fat? He couldn’t remember if his girlfriend was still dieting. The security camera noted two soft cheeses falling off the shelves. He reached for his phone. His phone was in the middle of the road.

Mo lay on a stretcher. He waited in the queue for a minute. The cashier never said ‘next.’ She was pale, eyes on the window. He looked at the floor. He didn’t have feet.

Mo lay in the ambulance. He didn’t have a body either. A policeman wheeled off his bicycle. That was theft. He thought of Robin Hood. He wanted his bike back. It was a long walk home and he couldn’t remember the way.

Mo Lay in the mortuary. He was just a head now. He was still thinking of a man in tights. He couldn’t remember his name. He remembered apples though. Apples. A bow. An arrow.

Mo lay in the crematorium. As a brain, he struggled for words.

Mo lay in the fire. Tights. He remembered tights but he didn’t know why. He wished he could ask his girlfriend, she would know. That was why he loved her.

Mo rested in his urn. His last thought was Kevin Costner firing a bow and arrow. Into what, he didn’t know.

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