Gros grain d'orge...

« Ton thé t'a-t-il ôté ta toux ? »
La question me désarçonna. Je venais de finir ma cinquième tasse de café noir et n'avais plus toussé depuis 1954.
Elle continua dans l'improbable en ajoutant, ne s'adressant à personne en particulier :
« Tes laitues naissent-elles ? Car si tes laitues naissent, mes laitues naitront. »
« Tu sors toujours avec cet orthophoniste ? », m'enquis-je.

The Land of the tiny zombies

I was trapped.
The second I passed that door, I knew I was trapped.
Behind me, the combination lock resetted itself with the most definite 'click'.

In the violently bright coloured room, under the crude neon light, I lowered my eyes and... I saw them.
There were five or six of them, it was hard to tell. Some were walking and hobbling in that fashion made famous by the undead of the cinema, some crawling, dragging their bodies on the ground with their small claw like hands. All their eyes riveted on me, their arms outstretched to grab my legs. All moving, ever so slowly, moaning and dribbling, towards me.
I realised that my son was still clinging to me and... that he was one of them, ready to rip any trace of affection out of me.
I passed him to the lady standing there and I wondered.
I wondered if they reacted in the same way when a mum entered their kingdom... because, for a dad, the crèche was a very strange universe.