---

The day felt inside out. Stanley closed his eyes and nodded into his tie. Inside he spied a clear blue.

The bus rattled over a bump, its vibrations inside his teeth forced his eyes to the outside buzz.

Stanley breathed in, only to be distracted by the scent of the students and their unwashed clothes in the front seat. Hands gripped the edge of the seat. He stood, ready to fight the violent sea of commuters.

A clank. A judder. An aching screech. The vehicle halted. Doors ripped open to the grey. He squeezed out into concrete stiff air. His tired legs brought the workplace in view. He galloped through reception, wrestled the tangle of key fobs and the awkward nods of security guard eyes.

Stanley placed his coat on the back of his chair as he sipped the vending machine’s hot chocolate. Time ticked free moments before the lines opened.

Inside.

Stood waist-height in the expanse of a turquoise sea. Still. No sound, or ripple beneath a liquid sky. Electric without the zing.

A smile formed like a welcome splash…

Beep.

“Good morning, you’re through to Harrison and Hodge Home Insurance Claims Department. How can I help?”

The rush of transfers, twisted lines, looped spools of muzak tore the morning right up until lunch. He sighed as he clicked the button to signal his break had commenced, picked up his bag and trekked to the break room on the other side of the building. The one that was always empty. He stared out the windows at the carpark and longed for a car as a lunchtime escape. To stretch out in back-seat heaven. A suit passed by summoning an exchange of awkward nodding. Stanley entered the break room. Plonked his satchel at his side. Withdrew a ham and cheese baguette. Closed his eyes.

Hugged by blue sky clear. The sea beneath his waist. He ran his hand along the surface of the water. Sighted his island in the gentle distance and strode through vibrant seagrass towards its vanilla cream sands. A soft yelp drew his attention to the bouncing white and patchy brown figure of a sea lion.

“It’s the flappy ears of Jalfrezi Dan!”

Stanley rubbed his companion’s nose. Barks licked his ears as the sea lion rubbed against his enthusiastic legs. When the exuberant salutations ceased, they gazed together from the island over a stretch of the sea, no bigger than half a football pitch, no deeper than 8 feet, where the manatees grazed.

The breakroom door crashed open.

“Grade of service not up to scratch this morning,” said the voice of Miriam.

Stanley took another bite of the baguette.

May as well get a tea. Still time to waste.

His tobacco-stained fingers tapped the code on the vending machine ignorant of the eyes rolling at his presence. He could sense them. He just didn’t care.

Stanley failed to steal his mind away from the intrusive voices with their chatter of queues and grade of service. Instead, he concentrated on finishing his baguette with the wash of welcome tea. When the two invaders switched topic to the Christmas party – it was October – he grabbed his satchel and left the room.

He went to the toilet. Ignored the urinals and entered the stall. Closed himself behind the cubicle door. Took a long piss. Shook. Dabbed tissue to relieve the drips that seemed to have appeared since he hit 40 and closed his eyes.

Splash!

The ladies waved. Flotilla Jane Welmsley and Tiger Li Lambo, two of the oldest manatees, always so spritely. A silver wind caressed his face. With deliberation Stanley undid his laces, removed his shoes and socks and allowed his feet to sink into the sand. Then he sat on a comfortable deck chair and enjoyed the view of the manatees grazing in the turquoise crush beside his faithful sea lion dog.

Gentle Syd, the largest of the herd bobbed his head above water, mouth full of bright yellow seagrass. Soon, Rollo Bobsleigh, Battenburg and Flutterbee Lemonsky emerged to accompany the giant beast and join the choir of cud chewing.

Water rushed.

Jalfrezi Dan barked.

A toilet flushed.

The door of the next stall smacked open followed by the quick jet of washed hands dried with urgency under the hand dryer.

“Shit,” said Stanley, flushing his toilet.

He washed his hands in the unoffensive sink, dried them on his trousers and walked quickly to his desk in the Claims department.

“Come on Stanley, we need you on, lines are goin’ mental,” said his team leader.

He clicked the device, ready to take a call.

It beeped before he could breathe.

“Good afternoon, you’re through to Harrison and Hodge Home Insurance Claims Department. Stanley speaking, how can I help you?”

The day blurred and eventually dissipated.

At the bus stop he coughed out chalky air. Headphones stifled most of the painful squeals of wheels and brakes. None of the people mattered to him. Not even the girl with the luxurious black hair and almond skin. The heaving throng ushered his body onto the carriage like a tide. He tried to shut out the aroma of a fading tuna sandwich, coffee blends, and the slight tang of the committed addict among the usual filthy clog.

Jobo Yo tumbled underwater as Pattyrub Salad snorted above like a car tyre separating a puddle. Her eyes wide as she squeaked madly, drawing the attention of Pedro, Pancho and Mary who emitted similar joyful echoes. He scratched the obedient fur of Jalfrezi Dan.

“Time to start collecting,” he said.

He dived into the sea. The seagrass tickled his legs as he searched the seabed. Jalfrezi Dan flicked his nose. Stanley followed.

“Well done, lad,” mouthed Stanley as the sea lion led him to the manatee dropping.

A chunk of pink and white marshmallow laden with colourful jewels waited on the seabed. He scooped it in his hands and placed it inside his satchel. Dust trailed like dying stars.

Horns.

Stanley’s eyes adjusted to the fabric-like expression of lights splashing against the rain-soaked window of the bus. Dark like cola. He glazed over the tangy orange, the lemon green, the splash of vivid blue shop fronts. He reached for the bell but it dinged before he had a chance to make his impression on the driver. The aisle became a tumult of bodies that swept him out into the drenched air of punishing reality.

Finally, inside the pokey flat, he locked the door. Took off his coat and draped it over the radiator, ran the ropey water from the flaking tap and swilled then filled the kettle and clicked it on. He grabbed his favourite mug, a white tankard shape with the letter ‘S’ and dropped a tea bag into it. Whilst the kettle chugged, he changed out of his work clothes into tracksuit bottoms, the t-shirt that didn’t intrude on his neck, the warm – not itchy – cardigan and slippers. He stared out the window and zoned out inside colours and shadows like an abstract painting as the kettle rattled to its finish. He made his tea and poured a healthy shot of whiskey into the mix.

He placed his utensils onto the coffee table. He took a final slug from his mug and sat it down.

Inhaled.

Exhaled.

Inside the satchel he placed another cluster of manatee dung. He knew from the abundance of pink hue that this fine specimen belonged to Battenburg. She always made everything pinker. Jalfrezi Dan yapped acknowledgement and together they swam through the herd of manatees who made way for them with gentle rubs, tweets and warbles.

On the island, the old friends made straight towards the contraption. It resembled a giant windmill of ice cream scoops attached to a clunky purple engine box. He pushed down a chunky yellow switch and it churned, spluttered and rattled. There was a giant metallic yawn which then morphed into a soft thrumming blanket of white noise.

Jalfrezi Dan licked Stanley’s face. The whiskers tickled.

“Ready, my old pal?” said Stanley.

The sea lion rolled, jumped and barked.

“Okay, lift off.”

One by one Stanley filled each scooping apparatus with manatee droppings. The machine whirred as it fed the sweet-like excretions into a funnel, to traverse a ribbed luminous tube into the main body.

Jalfrezi Dan and the manatees lifted their heads in song. A cooing joy. Unity. Their vocal chorus harmonised with the white noise. It was interrupted by a snapping pulse as the machine’s protrusion on the opposite side, not unlike a gramophone horn, released a bouquet of bubbles into the turquoise sky.

Open mouths, crammed with wonder, watched as bubbles packed the sky, staining its washer fluid blue with an orchid magenta swirl. When the last bubble joined the upside-down carpet of bulbous globules, the machine’s rumble faded. The bulging sky now purple dark and rippled foam. The silver sea littered with fireflies.

Sat beneath the great expanse, warmed by a small fire, surrounded by manatees, heads towards the heavens, eyes riding the secrets of skies, Stanley and the sea lion enjoyed the fire’s soft crackle and the sea’s silky swells. Under that, imperceptible at first, a wet rubbery sound mumbled and squeaked until it grew into an awesome thundering.

Stanley inhaled.

The skies exploded.

Falling stars cascaded, coating the endless sea, the island, the manatees, the sea lion and Stanley in liquid light.

Stanley exhaled.

Then just darkness.

Outside.

An alarm.

---

Bio:

Michael Pollentine works outside. His poetry is mainly found on the net and occasionally in print. He lives in South Wales with his wife and their cat Gypsy.

---