Posted on April 14, 2011
Darkness
At the top of the stairs, there is a door. It is my door. Behind the door lies a room so dark that no light can illuminate it. I tried, with a candle, and then with two candles, and then with a battery-powered “maglite” torch. Nothing! I wasn’t prepared to give up, though. This was MY house, after all – why should I be beaten by the most intense darkness? I pretended I was wearing a blindfold. That I could pull it away from my eyes any moment and emerge into light and vision. This kept me sane and sensible as I stepped into the room, one leg at a time.
I didn’t feel it straight away, but as I strode into the darkness it became more and more obvious that the floor was beginning to pulse and oscillate; just slightly at first, but as I reached what I estimated to be the centre of the room – based on the dimensions of the rest of the house, and the desperate hope that the laws of space applied here – I felt like I was in the middle of an earthquake. Panicked, I reached for my blindfold, only to realise that there was no blindfold… just the darkness. Turning wildly for the door, I saw it. Glowing in the darkness, and blocking my path.
“Hello”, it said. I screamed, and that is the last thing that I remember. Where am I now?
Posted on April 13, 2011
The Hedge
She was small but heavy, and she had a problem with perspiration. I liked her, but not too much. We wrote each other letters on whatever came to hand; used envelopes, receipts, wrappers from food products. I left my letters stuffed into the hedge at the bottom of the hill, then watched from my window until she came to pick them up. The secrecy wasn’t really necessary, but it made us smile.
Every couple of days I would thrust my hand into the branches to see if she had written back. Her childlike scrawl was difficult to comprehend, and the words generally weren’t worth reading. It was something to do, I suppose. My music wasn’t selling, and all she did was walk from her home to the shops, over and over. She sometimes came back carrying a bag; I don’t know what it was that she bought. I asked once, in one of my letters, but a week later I found it stuffed back into the hedge, stained with tears.
She was small, but heavy, and I’m glad I never got close to her than I did.
Posted on April 11, 2011
Moanday.
The sky was burgundy, and I was sweating. Big fat salty globules that appeared on my forehead and ran into my eyes, temporarily blinding me and forcing me to stop running every few steps to clear my vision and shake my head, splattering the trees with run-off from my bedraggled hair. I knew I should have worn a headband. They always reminded me of Argentinian footballers.
I wasn’t sure how I had found trouble again. Or even if it had found me – what was the difference? Either way, I was running for my life. I picked up a pebble and hurled it into the darkness; it crashed to earth with no sign of the accompanying yelp of pain or grunted slump into unconsciousness that I had hoped for. He was still out there, somewhere. And I’m pretty sure he was still angry.
Posted on April 6, 2011
Welcome.
I have just woken up inside a machine. There is a keyboard, and when I type, it comes out here.