The Softness

by John Davies

While I’m stirring too much honey into the porridge, The Softness lulls: Don’t worry, give up, the time for senseless adventure is over. The post drops through the letterbox: mortgage interest on the rise; the bill for my father’s headstone; flyers for cut-price lawn equipment; Make your Will now and receive a free fountain pen; 3-for-2 offer on grout; Municipal Golf Course Seeks New Members: Your game won’t improve with rusty clubs.

A bumper day for The Softness. Deposit down on an Adriatic cruise – pay the balance in easy installments. The Softness coos at two hours’ free time in Venice or Trieste, souvenir opportunities, Segway rides for the thrill-seekers. Go on, The Softness urges, You only live once. Oats swell and the porridge bubbles, spitting milk.

Only believing in what they can taste, the cat and dog lick each other’s empty bowls, then sit and stare expectantly: What next? Are there enough unpainted fences and unmowed lawns to last your remaining years? A 45 minute Youtube tutorial on toilet cisterns beckons. That’s the stuff, The Softness moans. No longer feel a DIY failure – Like our channel and Subscribe.

But beneath the back garden decking, patio furniture, fire pit and netted trampoline,

the deep roots stir. An underground rumbling causes The Softness to whimper, to drop the latest Aldi brochure. Crows swivel necks to peer into the kitchen window where the porridge is beginning to burn. In their quickshot eye, you are archived with all prior residents. The crows speculate as to who will come next, change the colour of the fence to their taste, pebble-dash the walls, plant plum trees but never really make a dent.

Groggy children surface one-by-one, grumble at the ruined porridge, are bundled into uniform and pointed in the direction of school, careers, certain death. The Softness swells to room-size, restored by the numb joy of routine. Go out and make a living – Celebrity Surgical Disasters and a glass of discounted wine your reward. You’ve earned this.

Outside the living room windows, panes flickering ghost-characters of streamed box-sets, the roots of the ancient oak flex. The river has always made this sound. The standing stone in the far field absorbs the dying rays, eyes the encroaching moon, waits for the house to crumble, return to earth. As distraction, The Softness drills you for tomorrow’s job interview: What are your strengths and weaknesses? Where do you see yourself in five, ten years, in millennia? Name your favourite team-building exercise. What is music for?

You’ve got this. Floss, double Windsor your tie, act confident. Practice in the mirror. Between the leaking taps and toothpaste spatter, your lips twitch, try to remember. The Softness whispers into your ear: A fake smile’s as good for you as the real thing.

The toilet still refuses to flush, but The Softness knows an excellent plumber.

Born in Birkenhead, UK, John has lived in Navan, Ireland since 2013. A former winner of the Penguin Ireland Short Story Award, and the Letheon Poetry Prize, his work appears in journals including Vastarien, Banshee, Southword, Manchester Review, Maine Review, Apex, Pseudopod and Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. He co-runs The Bull’s Arse Creative Writing Group based in Navan (Twitter @Bulls_Arse).

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What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “xxx”?

The Softness (A.K.A. The Softness of the Suburbs) was inspired by what dropped through the letterbox that day. By almost forgetting what Ray Bradbury said, that you must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. A fight against the numbness of routine, this piece concerns someone artistically sobered up by mortgage rates, lulled by modern comforts, the falsehood that such sheltered existence is not temporary. The Softness takes almost a physical, doppelganger form, whispering in their ear, demeaning all creative impulse.

No actual porridge was harmed during the drafting of this poem.

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