Assail

,so I cradled my broken arm and ran as fast as I could using my shoulders. I could hear those dreadful footsteps slobbering behind me, tripping in hunger and desperation. The sound brought cold tears to my eyes. The insides of my cheeks famished and swelled from the constant, burning hyper-breathing.

I could not decipher which way to go, how to get away. So I just carried on, jarring myself against the thick parallel concrete walls that surrounded me. I prayed for relief.

I suddenly snagged on a creeping root and my entire body weight landed on my arm. With a terrible snack, and a pain that felt like someone had placed my arm on kerb and then jumped on it, came a horrifying, wet moan from just behind me. I scrambled to my feet and continued my agonising run. Every step I took stabbed me, and I could feel a juggle inside as my completely shattered bones shook from movement. I could hear those awful steps plummeting…

Closing in… Hot breath on my neck… I took the next left sprinting so hard that I sprung into the adjacent wall. This time my arm let out a falling-tree creak, but I didn’t have time to notice the blood that then started spitting. The impact surprised the thing and it hurtled forwards, being slapped by that long enclosure that kept us both trapped here. It gave me seconds.

But then it got faster.

I heaved everywhere, my life was just ache, my arm bleeding heavily through my white fleece. My legs fidgeted on each step I took. I was giving in. The thing had me. I was hopeless, my pace slowing, each turn and each shoulder against the wall knocking more from me than the last..

With pride, I snapped around, ready for a defeated dog fight. I was already dead.

But then it all glistened away in grey fog. The stone walls burning softly, their new state of matter drifting up slowly, in circles and bending lines. I watched, gently holding my broken arm as the sky formed into grey, and the walls came loose, and I could nearly see the shape of the maze I had bashed through now broke in suspension. Light as air it left me. With my broken arm I stretched, painfully, stained with blood on my clothes and my beaten hand that poked from the darkened sleeve, and felt the mist that rose from the wall beside me. It felt…slender on my damaged body. Healing almost, like deer tears roaming along the pain.

I turned to meet my chaser and found it lying in a massy mass. It was limp and fallen, just letting itself cloud. Its thick blackness eroded into grey too, it lightened as it flew.

The effervescence felt like home.

And then I realised, my devastated hand was dissipating too

Advertisements

‘An Envelope Popped Through The Door’ Prompt

She hand-closed the door softly behind her, to keep it from falling to pieces. She let her strict ponytail loose. She took a well earned deep breath and her insides were treated with the taste of fresh-on-old mildew. “Home”, she whispered. She waltzed then through the dainty hallway, allowing her finger to trace along the many semi-circular hanging tears of wallpaper, like child-drawn waves. There remained only few doors in this framed rubble of a building, and none that separated the hallway from the kitchen. She descended from the pale beige glow of the hall into the skeleton light.

Everything in this home was devastated, but she kept it neat. Closed drawers, levelled and stacked books.. She was an organised woman, now that she had the freedom to be. What satisfied her about this place was her feeling of control. She would leave for weeks to come back and find everything as only a dustier form of its previous self. She felt powerful, finally safe in her own clay-stained hands. It was a rather new feeling of assurance, something she had not been familiar with most of her life. With no mother, she was hastily forced to be wed when she was still a girl.. to a man much stronger than her. And older, too.

But that was past her now. She gazed through the window above the sink, into an abyss of ash. For miles, there was nothing salvageable, and the rest was swept from an orange drift of wind, seemingly like a sandstorm, that hid the rest of the world. She was grateful for whichever bomb that had hit this place, leaving a piles of embers, and erratic poles dotted around. But she most loved that she could feel the mush of compressed ash as she walked.

On the sill. A dead spider. She gasped. It’s legs crooked in agony. She examined closer. It’s face was smushed, as if from weight. It reminded her of him, how he would kill everything in his house, break objects, leave things open and messy but never allow her to clean. Or to leave. She was to rot, as he trumped all over, just to see her squirm.

She cupped the spider, and dropped him into the sink and ran the tap. Brown water came and washed the spider down. Gone. Forever. She wiped the sill clean. Her brief moment of fear had been cleared. She was alone here, in control here, and safe here.

She began her ritual of cleaning. She had brought a purse full of Wypall wipes and a multitude of business-marketed cleaning sprays. She wiped the damaged counters of the kitchen, the frames with no doors, the old mahogany counter-piece in the hall, all along the bannister, up the stairs…

A noise. Right as she ascended the final step. As of a knock. On the door. Behind her. But there was nobody there. She could see through the frosted glass in the middle of the door. Nothing. She gave a plain smile. All but the sound of a footstep.

And so she carried on her cleaning upstairs, and she made everything in every room glean. Her last mission, was to batter the dust of the duvet in the only bedroom. And so she grabbed two corners of it, and slid it off the bed. And screamed.

On the bed. A stain. An ink stain. A lidless pen lay leaked. Permanent black. Her first thought was not to question its presence but to get rid of it. She went to rub at it with her wipe but the ink licked it. And stuck. She dropped it then, and backed away in horror. She had now realised. Someone had been here. Recently. They had stained the bed and killed a spider.

She ran. Down the stairs. Not safe anymore. But there. The frosted glass was no longer clear. 

A shadow. Something. With a top hat. Mad hair underneath. At the door.

“It’s not real…” Perhaps just a gathering of dark dust. It was quite probable. The wind could’ve placed it. She stood frozen on the second bottom stair for minutes, her heart rate slowly averaging as the something showed no form of life. It wasn’t real. She was not in danger, or in the presence of something else. She gave another plain smile. Just a trick of nature. She slumped down the last step.

An envelope popped through the door.

Dillon #2

His skin is cold to touch. Colder than The Grey. His teeth are icicles. His tongue is vanilla ice-cream. His favourite colours are white and blue but he pretends they are red and black. When kissing his lips it feels like eating snow. His breath is always foggy. His blood has frozen, so he moves with stiff legs and turns slowly. He gleams with brilliance and cleanliness. He is immaculate and pure and those of wicked and wretched sin, those like me, are hurt to look upon his white statue. The light cuts the black of our eyes like a needle.

Nothing penetrates his glacier exterior. The pools of emotions inside him are never rippled. They are steady and lonely and never overflow and they are a young blue atop and embowled by a flawless white.

He deflects weapons and blocks punches. He is a white barrier. He is physically unbreakable. He doesn’t crack. He glows – a strict, skinny, skeleton glow that radiates from his skin. He is intimate with his surroundings and can surge them with confidence to withstand the wildest of winds and strongest of storms.

When he walks through empty corridors he glides his finger along the wall emitting little flakes from the contact that melt to a tear of water before they reach the ground.

I think he lives like he’s made of glass. Perhaps porcelain. A cold porcelain vase that doesn’t home flowers and acts as just an eye pleaser, a decoration on a marble mantlepiece. And so, he feels cold and worthless and looked at but not looked in, not studied, just passed, his existence fragile and unmendable once it shatters into fragments; picked up with delicate hands and let fall again. And again. And again. 

We could combine, little Dillon. You and I, the frost and the fog could attach and produce a new world. An illusionist and a shapeshifter. Who’s who?

Galaxy Goo

I could crack you open and galaxy goo would slime through the fissures, thick and dark purple and full of little stars.

You don’t even know that.

You have no idea what’s inside of you. What you’re made of. I guess that’s because you can’t see your eyes. Unless you look through mirror. But you and I both know, mirrors only reflect colours. Cosmic magic gets lost in translation.

I have seen your eyes. The first time I met with them, my lonely mind took their picture and replayed them to me – over and over. It connected us in that infinite land of dream and magic and imagination, where we will breathe and fly and implode even after this world has let us go.

You’re heavy. You carry yourself around and you tire yourself out.

Gravity despises you. You’re too hard to hold down. Gravity told Love to break you, so you chained canon balls around your ankles and kept yourself grounded.

That was bad.

You see, dreaming is flying, flying is rising above,out of reach from Shadow, the snappy-stick wetness that moves at night. We sleep to escape it. That’s why we sleep at night.

But you don’t sleep. Do you?

No. You shiver and stare at the stars and wonder.

Oh. Galaxy Goo! That’s us up there! Far from the ground claimed by malice!

I feared for your safety.

But you were safe.

When I turned and found myself deep within Grey depth and not alone, I found you! Oh, wicked truth! Beyond imagination! You are of Grey as I am, as she is! And I pondered just HOW A being of the Grey could survive the darkness without dreaming! Without sleep!

And so I realised,

At night as we leapt to Earths beloved universe and hid in a galaxy, you turned into your galaxy. The darkness couldn’t collect you because you collected yourself.

And so, you could survive the night. And, the night became your dream. And, you lived amongst devils and demons and were immune to their wickedness.

And then came the Grey…

Discord

The man of heaven lifted his hand so delicately so; and with a force, lashed it down toward the being underneath

and the being, a boy, hurtled into a windy curse, a curse of discord, and gravity became an anchor on his ankle

never to fly; to stay away from the man of heaven for all days. But the boy being smart, learned to run instead;

and he ran over the land twice million, until he knew it better than it’s maker – the man of heaven;

and so the boy took his curse and turned it into power; as he became the man of the land, a God too.

Numbers

A kingdom awaits. A kingdom stands.

The lone renegade wanders endlessly through the empty violet streets. Traffic lights flicker, neon signs buzz, as he steps slowly, with a sad beat of his feet softly pounding the ground.

There are no remnants of other life. The road is clean and wet with a rain that has fallen long ago, but never dried.

Static screeches in his eyes. He sees another, one other, a boy. Eyes a colour he hasn’t seen for ages. The boy waits for him at the long end of the road, where it meets a dumb hillside and slants smoothly.

Dead electric blue numbers develop along the boring brown building walls, in random patterns. They are cracked and illuminate at a great speed and follow the renegade.

The beautiful renegade, a cloud ready to implode wanders on, not oblivious but accustomed to the appearing numbers. He is following the boy.

He is nearly there. There is an echoing feeling of distance reverberating off the hollowness of his kingdom.

The bad renegade needs mending.

His soft hood is not threatened by wind. Wind does not blow. He does not allow it. His complexion is complete. It does not change. His head is down. He breathes steadily. His face is but a black shadow. But until..

The boy is an intruder. He does not belong. His belief is misplaced. He deserves to be punished. He was warned. ‘Beware the broken.’

The renegade lets loose his fist. His finger tips brush the polished brick pavement of the hindmost building. He feels nothing with his dented sense. The numbers shock at the close touch, pulsating harshly, but still silent as the emptiness that they act as counterpoint to.

There they bump. The two do not touch physically but bump elements. It is a bold idea. Two kings stood in front the other. Their bodies face but their heads are stooped. Neither move.

The boy awaits. The boy’s hands are cold, his body is stiff, he smells the old petrichor. The renegade does not.

Two kings bouncing power. It’s a subtle bargain, it’s a number.

“I feel numb”, breathes the renegade. The male planets are not far from each other. The boy picks up the whisper.

The scratches on the renegades waist itch beneath his clothing. Only but for a moment.

He moves closer.

The boy then glides over to the renegade, for this is no human boy. This is a shadow of a boy with no features – only an outline, and a black cesspool of undetermined body. Burning white eyes.

They stop directly in front of one another. The boy returns. His bare feet patter to the floor. He is blood and bone again. He is grateful but ever fearful.

Now, the renegade looks at him. Those eyes… They see the boy. They allow the boy. But they hold no promise. They betray the boy. They burn the boy. They burst the boy.

The renegade’s lips preform again. In his dull, doped voice, he speaks again.

“I feel numb.

I feel numb.

I feel numb in this kingdom.

I feel numb, make me better.”

The renegade reaches out to the boys lips. He can barely feel them but there is a touch. The renegade frowns. His eyes turn red.

You better make me better.

You better make me better.

You better make me better.

You better make me better.

You better make me better.

You better make me better.”

The boy accepts the energy sizzling from the renegade, he breathes the sparkling snatches down into his lungs, and breathes them back out, turned from blue to white and the Renegade is thrown back. Mix-matched numbers flicker through his eyes, counting to infinity but in no order. They increase in speed and the boy can smell the friction of connection as the renegade faces the empty sky, his body agape. There comes a low murmur from the streets. The murmur picks up into a mumble, a mumble into a groan, a groan into a shout, a shout into a yell and a yell into a whistle and the whistle SCREAMS and the Renegade pushes his hands through his face as he vibrates relentlessly and then the renegade throws his hands down in an outright power burst, and the noise quits and numbers are sent slashing over the surface of everything as they redo and disintegrate and redintegrate.