04-03-18 #3

No comment
No comment
No thank you
Speak to my secretary
I’m sure I have said all I have to say on the matter

I won’t give them even a scrap of it,
That darkness belongs to me and I won’t let go of it no matter what they come at me with
Sacred and locked up, only I get to feed it
And I am sure that it is best that way

Untitled 2-2-17

A group of men are chasing a little girl down a street. It is night.
They are fast. They are frantic.
She is small.

She turns and blows a cloud of bubbles which
stretch and push into the markings of a cheetah
formidable muscle forming around them
not solidifying but preserving their energy
for the moment they will need so strike.

‘The Giant’: a little bit of prose

A part of her, at least, became conscious again. Thankfully, not any part of her that could suffer from pain or sickness; a graceful mercy by the universe. That is to say that she, the ‘she’ that she was now, could still house those feelings; or rather, provide them with temporary shelter. But they would no longer damage her, fill her, consume her. No, she could never again be consumed.

Instead she was suspended, supported. Cushioned and floating. Her skin was now translucent, freely giving and receiving all matter around it, without either control or injury, in contrast to her cautious life before. She watched as pink and purple lava flowed in, around, and out of her body. Fluid jellied shapes continued their steady journeys like working ants, without awaiting her permission. Nothing was considered, it simply was happening.

She titled her head upwards, slowly, as if on the edge of a bath. Comfortable enough not to be moved by anything she saw, but curious enough to look. She watched her hair swim after the previous moment’s urge of her neck. Everything was happening at a speed that meant you could continue acting in the present, while still watching the recent past happening at your side. Living, breathing nostalgia.

She felt nothing of the previous night, though. Nothing of the alcohol, the exhaustion, of the drugs that she had been unaware she was putting into herself. The giant had found her, filled her, and finally, consumed her.

She was now a part of him, and instead of all these muscle memories fizzing inside her, they passed idly through and around her, swimming with those jellied shapes, as if forming a jigsaw of a time past. Except that they were not building anything.

The giant had not accounted for this, and he was not built for such things. His chest was cavernous, but it would never be strong enough to house what he had put there. He was full, cramped, heavy, his body strapped into a thick decline.

Trapped inside him, the girl was freer than she had ever been. She was now nothing more than a sentient membrane of a soul, but she was there, and one day, she would finally consume him.

‘Teapig’: a little bit of prose

The teapig has evolved to understand her position in the office. It is a position of tea-maker, but not tea-drinker. She knows how to create the perfect medicine for every situation. Monday Morning, Broken Heart, Last Minute Late Finish Disappointment.

Her name is Mills.

She passes unnoticed behind desks that are taller than her stout mass unfit for digesting the refined delights that that which she creates has to offer.

Greg-in-booth-29 is the only person there who feels a pang of conscience at his lack of attempts to socialise with her. The rest of them are indifferent.

Except for Annie.

Ever since Mills set trot in the office, Annie has been watching her. She leans over from her booth to breathe through the hairs on Mills’ back, rustling the fibres of her self-consciousness like the wind pushes dry leaves from their settlements. On one occasion, she held Mills’ gaze as she poured one of the teapig’s cups of perfection very steadily onto the carpet. No one else bore witness to the incident, but the stain remains, undiscussed, but scuffed at by the feet and furrowed brows of all who pass.

Annie has been known to move booths.

Mills has accepted Annie’s alpha status over her and the other females in the office, if there are any. All that can be seen on the route to the kitchen is mostly the tips of black shiny shoes and sparse bits of hair from men’s heads poking out from the booth boards. Sometimes a pair of glasses will also emerge, and then snap back out of sight.

Where others plug in ipods or swing pens through their fingers, Mills needs no distraction from the miniature boredoms occurring on small routine commutes. She is aware of her surroundings, of her connection to the universe, and the acute tragedy of everything. She made this decision herself, long ago, and, as she concocts her perfect medicines, she knows that she is truly living life to the full.

‘Commitment’: a little bit of prose

The cream in the fridge is a slight way off from its usual, acceptable scent, but that does not matter to them. It is slid out from the beginnings of crust on the middle shelf of the fridge, and onto the counter where it waits as they turn to each other. This was never supposed to last.

Apologetic-looking fruit is taken from a plastic bag. Only one bag. The words ‘bare minimum’ are reigning this household. A receipt is crumpled and slipped under the lid of the bin. This was never supposed to be thorough. Or perhaps it was, just not… So serious. So right. So completely fine.

Back in the Habit #7 : Rachel’s Biscuits

Rachel stands at the window, looking out. She munches widely, jowls giving way and crunching back in, folding in on the half-wet biscuit matter between her teeth. Compressing. She watches the nothing; the driveway of the multi-storey car park next opposite her side-street window. There had been a noise, a siren or a brief wail or something, demanding her inspection.

Her laugh is part guttural windedness, part disapproving groan. But it is a laugh. It trickles out and down when things aren’t funny to me, but seemingly awkward, not satisfactory. I avoid the collective gaze of the room. I glance up sometimes to smile at her simply because she has continued to laugh. Infectious.

We all enjoy the treats. The cultural microcosm of cakes and sugar gathered on snatched trips outside; on holidays, lunch breaks and weekends. We all reach, sometimes self-consciously, for the red box with but one finger-aiding opening dent. We smile at ourselves (but for the benefit and audience of each other) as we give in to the game, accept the exposure of our weakness – once one has started, we can all play.

Rachel reaches without qualm, without hesitation. She raises her eyebrows, she inspects the contents of the box, she carefully selects her prize. We all find something in that box, but we know in our hearts that they are all really Rachel’s biscuits.

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