Shadow Play

This hasty poem has been scribbled on a crumpled handwritten note left at the corner of an abandoned building in one of the long-forgotten towns we passed in our delirium:

I’m swimming, breathless, in your river. 

It gets me where I want to go.

I’m dancing, reckless, struck with fever.

I’m feeling more than I can show. 

The cities echo with your laughter.

They’re filled with glimpses of your grace. 

Our shadows know just what we’re after. 

They’re locked in secret, warm embrace.

That was then, way back when. Now our shadows are no longer hungry and you are never going to read this.

I first saw you atop a mound of chattering cacti. You were standing with one foot held high and an expression of intense concentration. You looked down at me and winked, or was that a twitch of anguish? There was the spark of recognition. Distant thunder, smell of rain. I approached and the ground gave way. I grabbed the ledge in a feeble attempt to hold on. As if I ever had a choice. I let go. Blood rushed into my head and I hit the ground. The pain shot through me like a forest blaze. Somehow I was still whole, all limbs attached. I looked up and saw the patch of sky that showed through the rupture. The same sky stretched above you. At that thought I became buoyant and feathery and reversed my drop until I rose out of the hole, landing on all fours in the fresh mud at the break of dawn. The world had irrevocably changed and the cacti were on fire. You were nowhere to be seen. I dug into the soft earth and found your invitation on a layer of shed skin. Meet me where ancient things find new life, it said. 

I headed for the antiques market where you waited in a halo of electrified air. We let eternity take its toll as we stood there staring. Seasons changed. We started pacing, never leaving each other’s sight. No sudden movements. We became increasingly distracted from the imminent danger of our proximity by the surrounding delights. We both laughed at the grandfather clock with the foul-mouthed winged snake. We marvelled at the matchstick warriors, gasped at the baritone gargoyles, and whirled away with the cluttering debris at the centre of everything. You said the flames won’t hurt us when they’re blue, not really. I thought, what if I want them to hurt?  

We walked to the nearest bar skipping over bones and bomb shells. You dissolved every last sugar cube into your absinthe. I just stared into my glass of wine. Your face was all that I could see. We drank and spoke and drank some more until the edges turned fuzzy and soft. I asked about the great mysteries and your answers bred more questions. You asked about me and I showed you my tightly wound entrails.  We carved into each other’s flesh and marked the floor with the intricate designs of our promise. Then the sirens went off and we dashed back into our hives, heavy with happiness and blood. We licked our wounds in mutual longing and counted the days until our next date. 

We met again in the primordial cave where our shadows lined the walls, starving and larger than life, waiting. We fed them all our fears and doubts until their teeth were sharp and then we pulled them off one by one, laughing all the while. As the shadows fled we proudly wore the teeth as necklaces and danced until our limbs were sore. We soared on stolen wings on branching lightning and resolved to catalogue every single moment of our shared conquest. We brought down the roofs of the shelters we encountered and rolled in wreckage with wild abandon. Your feverish touch and vertiginous eyes never left me in my waking dreams and I forgot where I began and where you ended. I lay next to you listening to the rumble of your thoughts until it was too much to bear and then I listened some more. 

Come with me, you said, to the maze of mirrors. I need to show you the truth. The blue flames will turn to the warmest hues of orange and you will love me more than you love this dazzling artifice and the savage games we play when no one’s watching. Follow me. Watch your step. The vines grow tangled and fierce in these parts and one false step will rob you of your minutes and months and years until you’re nothing but a whimpering husk and come, we’re almost there. All I wanted was to hear you speak and the words were friends in dire times and I didn’t care about the pain in my feet and joints because you were still talking and I hoped you’d never stop and then there we were, at the source of our splintering reflections. They were all standing with their backs turned, pointing at the centremost mirror. Look, look and don’t stop looking, you whispered, and so I did. 

All I glimpsed at first were gathering silhouettes taking their seats in some kind of amphitheatre. Then the first rays of sunlight hit the scene and it was all set into motion:

A flickering jester scampers on stage, fading away before the music starts; a spectral symphony of tiny footsteps and worn-out dresses, followed by a smattering of applause and distant cheers. The helpless marionette’s writhing dance is the main attraction. Shrill voices fill the air. Dance, they scream. Dance! Slave to its strings – invisible intruders inexorably enforcing their will – the puppet snaps awake. It moves in jerks and jolts and clumsy pirouettes. Falling to its knees, it claws at the space where its eyes should be. The audience’s reaction is deafening; a delirious laugh track. The faceless plaything curls up into a foetal position as smoky tendrils wisp across the ceiling and tongues of flame lick the walls casting a violent shadow play on the falling curtains and the crumbling pillars and the ceiling caving in on the crowd that roars with laughter to the end. 

So it went in an inescapable loop. The silhouettes changed shapes and sizes and the jeering, cheering and dancing were never the same, but the end always came. I turned to you and you rested your head on my shoulder. Is this it, I asked. This is it, you said. I put my thumbs on your eyes and pushed, gently at first and then with increased force until your mask crumbled in my hands. You shimmered and glimmered and exposed your marvellously monstrous underbelly. You put your fingers on my cheek and traced the outline of my lips before pulling at the edges with an impatient growl. It all came off with the softest of sighs. I was exposed. You lingered, disbelieving. I struck a pose to hide the fact that there was nothing to show. I stumbled, naked and empty. You tried to pretend that there was something more but we both knew then that it was over. 

The shadows came back and tore the necklaces from us while we bowed in fear. Their teeth restored, they towered over us and grew in sinewy strength as we diminished. They bit into our exposed necks and entered our mouths and ears and eyes until we were filled with their billowy forms. We were fat with bitterness and shame. We snarled at each other and ran until there was nowhere left to go. We hid. We hid when the frost came and we hid when the ice starting melting away. We hid when all was dry and barren and we hid when the sea swallowed the land and the drowning was a comfort. We hid through all our tiny deaths and we hid while our bones ached with inaction. We knew beyond all doubt that this state would never change and then it changed and we ventured outside, blinking like newborns, ready for the rest of our lives. 

We saw each other only once after that, at the foot of the crumbling tower in the glare of the descending sun. I was covered in barbed wire and broken glass and you were encased in layers of blades and thorns. Beneath the veneer of civility, snarling, frothing protrusions awaited. However, impossibly, there it was again. The spark of recognition. We spoke reluctantly of past provocations and misguided frustrations. We followed the path of a trillion alternative manifestations of our imagined destinies. We cuddled up close and lost track of time until the sun completed its downward journey and we vaporised without another word. 

Our story has played itself out and all that’s left are the drifting particles of dust. 

Somewhere else the sun rises and illuminates the stage and the play’s renewed. The faceless marionette snaps awake. Dance, they scream. 

My Love

I silently move upstairs, drawn to the sound of running water from the bathroom where you’re preparing for New Year’s Eve. It will be an evening like many others: just you, your art, and one of your more than happy to oblige models. I suppose doing what you do best is a fine way to end a year and begin anew. Won’t it be the same for me, after all? There’s a bright blue towel waiting for you on the rack. I can hear you mutter to yourself in a sing-song voice. Steam rises and the mirror is cloudy. If I so desired I could trace my name on the glass or come up with a cryptic message for you to ponder. No, I shall leave this scene undisturbed. I’m content to observe and bask in your presence, for now.  

You come out dripping all over the marble floor and run your hand over the mirror. There you are, my love. You dry yourself and lean over the sink to inspect the dark marks under your eyes – those piercing hazel eyes that called out to me without you knowing – and to make sure that your facial hair is still sharply trimmed. You don’t sleep much at night, twisting and turning until morning comes; lost in reveries of new faces and postures you can draw while I kneel beside you and whisper in your ear. What becomes of us when passion drives us, my beauty? Your shoulder-length curly black hair is still slick and half-wet. It will revert to its naturally messy state soon. You never bother with combing much and let it fall where it may. 

You walk downstairs to your cherished wines and pull a bottle from the wall. Red Burgundy, of course, to match your favourite colour. I was never much of a wine drinker. For you it’s a life-preserving force. That, and the constant drive to capture fleeting moments in pencil and paint. I drift into your studio where I can spend some time in the company of your subjects. They all share the same look – somewhere between curiosity and excitement – that makes your portraits sell so well. Do you fantasise about what you’ll do to them after your work is done, when you tell them they can finally move and they’re so grateful they will do anything for you? They are all so slender, so slight. That wasn’t me, when I could still fill a space. I was strong and proud of my curves and forceful gestures that commanded attention. Now I’m little more than a suggestion.

One of your mood-setting records is playing in the living room. A string quartet, as usual. Your record collection is extensive. It’s all vinyl, all the time, my sweetheart, isn’t it? You are so enamoured with these relics. Clearly you are not the only one. I wonder when everyone will finally let the past die instead of having it linger in this half-life.  But then where would that leave me? Why do I dwell on this? If this pleases you, then it pleases me too. If only I could dance with you before we have our final moment. We could give shape to great crescent moons on the floor with our shuffling feet until we collapse in giddy exhaustion. I don’t feel tired any more. I don’t feel much of anything, most of the time. 

There’s a knock at the door. There she is, looking flushed at your immediate attention. Have some wine, you say, have a seat. You talk more until she’s fully comfortable. Your stare never leaves her face, never wanders off into uncertainty. You don’t stammer. This is you in your element. You next move into the studio where you take your place – a wooden stool, old-fashioned to the end – and begin to work as she arranges herself to fit your vision. I can never have enough of the feverish way in which you draw. If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder how it’s possible to end up with something so delicate, so exquisitely observed, when your brushstrokes seem so careless. You attack the canvas as if it’s a wild animal you aim to hurt into submission. Your brow is furrowed and you are lost in angry sweeps while your subject slightly shakes and takes care to remain motionless. It’s always just an outline at first. Just a glimmer of the final features in your initial sketch on the first and only time they pose for you. The most important detail is the inquiring and enthused look of the willing collaborator. When the first stage of the drawing is ready you have no more need of a live subject for the coming weeks and months it takes you to complete your work. Then it’s just a matter of relying on memory and imagination to fill in the blanks. 

I’m looking out the window as your work nears its end. The stars are coming out and it will be a clear night. The crowds on the streets are warming up to their revelries. Soon there will be fireworks and well-wishing and strangers kissing and a burst of excitement and hope for change before the old insecurities and fears come creeping back. You are done. You wipe the paint from your fingers and face. You smile at her and tell her to go ahead and stretch and help herself to more wine. Should I leave the room? I know what will most likely follow this scene. Some don’t stay but most do. Most of them accept the wine and laugh with you into the early morning hours when they share your bed. I decide to watch. I won’t get another chance. We have come a long way together, you and I, and tomorrow we shall finally consummate our love. You can have your fun in the meantime. 

Your bodies are entwined and you’re sweating and moaning in unison. You both seem distracted. Not an unusual occurrence. She must still be wondering what her painting will look like when it’s finished, and you? Are you waiting for me, my dearest? Is nothing else going to be enough?  I could reach out and touch your slippery forms, but I want you all to myself when the time comes. I refrain from interfering and it’s all over. You finally look at each other again briefly before sleep overcomes you. I wait. You wake up before she does, as always. I follow you into the kitchen. You grab a knife and start making breakfast. She soon joins you and following the briefest of exchanges she takes her coat and walks out the door, leaving your life for good, just the way you like it. 

I wander back into the studio and admire her outline. The paint is fresh and the day is bright. You’re back in the bedroom, sleeping lightly. I let you sleep. I remember a different, gloomier New Year’s Day when I first saw you, when you brooded over yet another unfinished portrait. You drank too much back then in a protest against your self-perceived mediocrity. Then I showed up and everything changed. I think about all the days and nights we spent together in our house while I watched you follow those visions I inspired that wouldn’t leave you until they were given substance. I will never tire of seeing someone wrestle their art out of the void with my incitement until there’s something new in the world.

The time has come for us to meet. You are awake and unfocused until I enter the room. You look straight at me. You don’t see me yet but you can feel I’m here, don’t you? I’m now standing as close as I can get. You still look puzzled. Slowly, steadily, your expression changes into one of awareness. Is this a shape you can discern? Is it a benevolent Ghost of Christmas Past or Present? Is it your muse come to bid you farewell and leave you to attempt to find inspiration elsewhere? Not quite. I have one last thing to ask of you.

I bridge the gap between us and take your hands in mine. There’s only time for one quick gasp before your jaws lock shut. Your lower lip is caught between your teeth and the blood begins to pour. You violently convulse and try to shout but I won’t let you, not yet. All you can do is whimper and groan as your eyes grow wider and wilder until they burst in a thick stream that lands on your chest and mingles with your blood. Their ruined remnants slide down your pretty cheekbones. You can open your mouth now. I shall allow it. I want to hear you. You let out a fierce, desperate scream that turns into a gurgle. You carry on until there’s nothing more than a rasp coming out of your bruised throat. I adore the sounds my beloved protégés make when I show them the cost of their creations. Each one of you sounds different though you’ve all been united in ecstatic agony. And there it is. The stain spreading between your legs as you try in vain to voice your pain and pleasure. Your joints begin to shift and break and shards of bone tear through your skin at odd angles. I won’t let go. I’m with you till the end, my precious prince. You’re still alive yet barely recognisable as a human being now. Our bond is complete. You may go. What’s left of your flesh melts from your bones and they in turn dissolve into dust. 

I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Bathed in soft morning light, I am sated and solid, if only for a little while. I can still smell you and feel you on my tongue. Soon, all feeling will drain once more and I’ll be on my way. They will look for you but there’ll be nothing left to find and the mystery will become a part of your legacy. You’ve given all you can and I thank you. Goodbye, my darling. 

There’s a long pause of blissful darkness. Is this it? Will the flickering embers of my persistence finally fade? Not this time. I find myself looking at a polished mahogany cabinet in a new room in a new house. My new house. I can hear music coming from outside. From a nearby terrace I spot a group of friends serenading the first evening of the new year on the steps below. One of them looks back and calls out a name that stirs something inside me. Your name. 

I head back inside to start my search. Before too long I find you, perched on the living room’s couch with a violin in your arms. I hover nearby and listen as you tentatively practise. You could be formidable if you didn’t falter so much. You hesitate too often, wincing at the sounds you make. You want to join the others but you don’t feel ready, do you? You need me. I look down at your round face, soft blond hair and pale green eyes. There’s a hint of an invitation in those eyes. Very well. You will do just fine. Happy new year, my love.

24 Tiny Tales

Before you next let road rage take over, consider: objects in the rear-view mirror may have more teeth than they seem.

She held on to the fragment of glass as he lay beside her, wordlessly willing him to keep from stirring this time.

The source of the nursing home's troubles had less to do with faulty wiring and more to do with mandibles.

Time to enlist the pelican king's help in recalibrating the colour of sadness.

Follow the sole surviving yellow flamingo as it’s ruthlessly pursued by mechanical assassins hell-bent on exploiting the fearsome magnificence of its beautiful beak.

Animated monuments drag a coastal city to the depths.

In a world where small furry mammals are hurt for sport, the people cry out for clockwork crusader! His gears are sharp; his wit is sharper.

Trains are replaced by hot-air balloons overnight. Everyone's late for work.

"Daddy?" "No. This is Daddy-5000-TXZ, a superior model in every way."

Falling into the sky was only the beginning.

Advances in genetic engineering have finally enabled him to own a radioactive flying jellyfish. Her name is Kelly and she is brighter than the sun.

All the missing socks from every washing cycle since the invention of the washing machine coalesce into a squirming sentient mass that suffocates us in our sleep.

At 11 pm GMT on a flight somewhere over the Atlantic, a woman patiently explains to a man that men who explain things to women who can explain the same things better than those men can explain these things themselves, are inexplicably inconsiderate. The man stares at his crème brûlée.

Caged primates develop an unusual aptitude for string instruments. They name their band Sulky Monkey.

The god of discarded fish heads and bowling alleys, and the lesser known abominable snowman of Majorca, file an official complaint against Bigfoot for stinking up the place. The complaint is ignored.

Come for the pie! Stay for the parasitic fireflies sapping your will to move.

Fourteen renowned academics denounce creativity as a colossal waste of time before crying themselves to sleep.

Boy meets girl. Girl is trans-dimensional ambassador sent to assess the suitability of lifeforms for body-harvesting; boy is IT consultant. They buy a flat in Prague.

Getting up is hard to do when your legs have turned to goo.

Following a week-long conference filled with intense deliberations, scientists conclude: giraffes are weird.

I drove all night to get to you before being told to fuck off back to Georgia.

Divers discover drowned drivers chained to the wheels of their limousines.

A glistening pearl of sweat slides through valleys of soft flesh and mountains of jagged bone. Reaching the tip of a hip, it spreads liquid wings and prepares to fly. The wings are unstable, badly formed. They burst and it drops, lost in the endless folds of space. Perhaps it will one day make a pretty splash.

A star burns the last of its hydrogen fuel and collapses out of existence. There are no witnesses.

Liars' League performance

The Tell-Tale Art

Gliding, paper-thin, through the spaces between raindrops. Sliding, whisper-slim, through the folds of mental landscapes. Sustained by stolen memories. Nourished by fragments of self. 

Antiquity’s legendary lost libraries would only contain a sliver of the knowledge we possess. Our halls of records are made of living recollections and life-altering sensations. The constantly reworked landmarks in the road map of the soul. That first playful stare. His lips on your neck. The deathbed's trivialities. The moment of unexpected triumph. The comforting trauma. What gets you out of bed. What needed to be said.  All gone. All ours. You'll forget so we'll remember.

Let us show you some of our treasured possessions:

Ours is Tamika’s longing for Caroline’s unmistakeable pulse-raising sunflower smell that  stopped just short of sickly sweetness. When they were lying close together, skin to skin, Tamika would sometimes close her eyes and imagine being sprawled in a field of gracefully decaying flowers. She doesn’t remember ever actually smelling a sunflower, but that’s the image that always came to mind. It felt right. The sunlight is almost unbearable yet the flowers remain adoringly transfixed. After Caroline was no longer in her life everyone else smelled wrong. Despite all the grievances and daily struggles that add up and lead to separate paths being followed, at the end it all came down to this: none of the others smelled of sun-scorched fields at the dead of summer.

Ours is Chris and Jemma’s final conversation. They sit in silence, staring in each other’s eyes. He is smiling at her, waiting for her response. She has so much to say. So much she’s kept inside. Will this change his expression, make his eyes match his smile? She doesn’t know, but she has to try. She must avoid stuttering or showing any signs of unwelcome emotional distress. She needs to express what she feels in a calm, controlled, approachable manner, in fluid, coherent sentences, following one another in a soothing, healing rhythm. That way he won’t get up and walk out, leaving her standing there alone or scream at her or make her feel guilty again. No more hurtful quips, no more frustrating confusion bursting defiantly though their nervous laughter. She’s going to fix everything. He’s going to listen, nod and beam, while their fingertips trace the old, familiar pattern. She gathers her wits and the words come out. That was the last time they saw each other. 

Ours is Carly’s principled stand. She hears the muttered remark as she’s waiting in line – “go back to the curry house” – and sees the hatred in the mumbling man’s eyes. She turns to the other man paying no heed to the aggressor. No need to validate him. His pettiness will show. “Hey”, she says. “Are you all right? I’m glad you’re here.” The second man looks at her with a mixture of shame and gratitude. The man who spoke is flustered and turns away. Stony silence ensues. 

Ours is Eusebio’s ride home in the night bus. There’s a guy in the front seat who’s been singing for the last fifteen minutes. He stops his song, looks up at the bug-bursting fluorescent lights and shouts, “Like the praying mantis! The female eats the male after sex”. Everyone looks down at their shoes. Eusebio stares out the window and smiles. Unlike the male mantis, he’s had a great night.

Ours is Francis’ recollection of the exact moment when he put a broken beer bottle through a man’s eye. His attacker – yes, he didn’t start it but he sure as hell finished it – had gone down all too easily. Yes, he had been staring at the guy’s girlfriend. He’d been thinking how sad she looked. All it took was a couple of quick jabs to the ribs and the man was on the floor, struggling to breathe. Most people wouldn’t know the first thing about landing a punch, let alone holding their own in a fight. There hasn’t been a single day where he hasn’t been able to conjure his victim’s face in exquisite detail: every line and every pore. He remembers the white-hot rage and the animal thrill. He remembers thinking, I bet you didn’t think you’d be tasting your own blood today. His thoughts are always punctuated by regret, true, but Francis hasn’t convinced himself yet that it’s regret for taking another man’s life instead of regret for being caught. One of these days.     

Ours is Peter’s most vivid dream. He is the almighty Minotaur living inside his very own labyrinthine palace, but something’s not right. He feels insignificant and drained. His horns are dull and brittle and his cock is flaccid and small. He is haunted by the songs of soft-skinned strangers. He is hounded by the shifting shadows of swords and spears. He is ravenous and weak. Their anger is palpable and he runs away. He turns countless corners until everything starts looking the same. There is no thread to unravel. He is lost in his own home. They are coming for him. He will never know the taste of human flesh. 

Ours is Molly’s exhilaration at scoring a goal with her whole family watching from the stands. She grabs the other girls and they scream their fearlessness. Her grin shines through her mud-caked face. She’s never seen her big sister look at her that way. The world has a startling clarity and she won’t stop spinning and running and jumping until she victoriously flies away.

Ours is Tim’s father’s most frequent proclamation: “You will never amount to anything.” There were beatings and there were punishments, but nothing’s had the same staying power as those six words. He suspects that this was his dad’s desperate attempt to reach out and motivate him. A strict disciplinarian and proud patriarch, he must have felt that the  withholdment of his encouragement so simply encapsulated in a sentence would drive Tim to excel out of spite. If that was so, it didn’t go as planned. Every time Tim finds himself at the precipice of a new decision, at the threshold of exposing himself and letting someone in, at the verge of a shift in his attitudes, at the razor’s edge between giving up and that extra push that will get him through, these words weigh him down and he can only drown. 

Ours is Helena’s first visit to the planetarium. First of many. She curls up into a ball and sits still with her head turned upwards. Darkness is falling and tiny pinpricks of light begin to make their appearance. All of a sudden the ceiling lights up and everything is starlight. Constellations upon constellations are washing over her and she’s enraptured, mouth agape and tears aglitter. She understands that although we are drifting in the vastness of the void, we are never truly alone as long as we are all interconnected pieces of the same journey. 

And you? What are you going to give us? We need you. No matter how sacred it is to you, it's indispensable to us. Our ever-changing mnemonic masterpiece will eternally preserve us. We are the keepers of records. You won't hear us coming. You won't know we're there. You won’t feel a thing and it will be as if it never happened.

Does the thought of losing precious parts of your story terrify you? You thought you could capture these moments and hold on to them until the end. You believed you could brandish them as good-luck charms against bad weather or display them as familiar reminders of your limitations. You would keep your freeze-framed joy and bottled tranquillity and crystallised pain and the ones who got away and the ones who chose to stay in a safe space, far from harm and free from decay. 

Your idols are false. There are no pristine unalterable facts. Love is no diamond; it’s a river. There is no turning back. Every aspect of your being is subject to continuous revision. You are in a perpetual state of flux. Our claim will not destroy you. The mind is a miracle worker. Narrative reconstruction is inevitable. Mended threads with borrowed fabrics. A canvas restored with incongruous patches. Yes, there's a niggling at the edge of your awareness; a persistent sense of loss; a touch of disharmony. Is this really our gift? 

You are fading, but you were always fading. You are reborn, but you were always reborn. As long as you live, we’ll be right beside you, feeding on the tales you tell yourselves.

Liars' League performance

Colloquium ad Absurdum

- Welcome. Take a seat.

- Thank you.

- Did you have a pleasant commute?

- Yes. I crawled on my knees and elbows maintaining the requisite equidistance. 

- Please state your full name.

- Woop-Woop Llama Strange; Occasionally Venerable Head of the Windmill Demolition Department; Patron Saint of Lost Causes and Awkward Pauses; Friend to All Woodland Creatures Excepting That Most Vile of Avian Specimens, the Cuckoo; Preservationist of the Emporia of Eccentricities, the Bazaars of the Bizarre, and the Galleries of Grotesqueries. Llama Strange, for short.

- What is your greatest strength?

- Frogs.

- What is your greatest weakness?

- Dogs. 

- What about sharks?

- Sharks get a bad rap. Granted, their endless rows of teeth and blank, lifeless eyes are not exactly inviting. But their only way of making contact is to bite chunks out of things. Then there's all that thrashing and screaming and blood, and nobody wants to be their friend after that. So, they just drag everything down to the bottom of the ocean as grim mementos of their failure to communicate. Due to the nature of the shark's environment, the following fact goes largely unnoticed: not a minute goes by that a shark doesn't cry. 

- Describe your proudest professional achievement.

- In my previous workplace, I once noticed one of our Tarqans turning its gaze towards the sun. As you know, this spells certain doom for all beings that breathe. I distracted it with a well-timed filing request and saved the day.

- Would you consider yourself a team player?

- I have led many a team to noteworthy ruin.

- Are your interpersonal relationships varied and fulfilling?

- All these stupid – no, worse than stupid – unimaginative people. Just look at them! The drooling drones. Too busy to notice that they’ve locked themselves in cages of bone and steel, too distracted by screaming lights and bright sounds to realise that all they do is walk in circles, too addicted to their holographic realities to feel the blood draining from their bodies, too doped up and messed up and flabbergasted and feeble-minded and trapped and hysterical and terrified and paranoid and flaccid and shrivelled and pathetic, too late to stop what’s coming. They’re all going to drown in their filth, leaving nothing but ruins and misery in their wake.

Despite all that, I am filled with an overwhelming love of humanity. I will save you from yourselves.

- What is your favourite source of sustenance?

- Bread.

Understand: not the slight sludge supermarkets sell. The kind of bread – full and warm and soft and fresh and fragrant – that requires a proper bread knife. The kind of bread that sings when sliced and swoons when swallowed. The kind of bread that you can use as a pillow while it whispers in your ear that everything is going to be all right; that the world will still be here tomorrow; that your love will never grow stale.

- Describe a simple team-building exercise.

- Rock, paper, supernova, scissors. Supernova obliterates everything, but if both players simultaneously use it, they figuratively dematerialise and are barred from ever replaying the game. Tense, yet rewarding. The supernova sign involves both hands and vocalised sound effects. For added topicality, substitute supernova with a weapon of mass destruction of your choosing.

- Describe your activities on a day of leisure.

- I follow a sudden urge to spend hours in a diner scribbling in a tattered notebook while watching passers-by float through street lights. I want to drink cup after cup of jet-black coffee and transcribe secrets sliding through the steam. Before I know it, doubt takes hold of me. You see, I don't drink coffee. My handwriting is appalling. Passers-by don't float. They stomp; screaming children in tow. As I look without, the diner looks within. Now it knows, and I can't leave.

I can't leave. 

- Why were you born?

- It said it’s for the common good. It said it will change things for the better. I’ve waited so patiently. I’ve observed my inner workings and the movements of the stars. Nothing’s changed. Everything is still and quiet. It promised. I can’t sleep. At night, its eyes are on me and its breath stains my windows. I often get up and make my way through the dark to find something – anything – to hold. There’s nothing there but empty air. My arms are stretched out ahead of me like bare branches and I begin to feel that I won’t be able to make my way back. I can’t hear my footsteps any more. I keep my eyes tightly closed to conjure forms out of slices of midnight. I picture grinding gravel under my feet. I hear laughter through my gritting teeth. Will I vanish if I stop? Don’t stop. I’m enveloped in the frantic dreams of flightless insects. I’ve waited so patiently. Almost there.

- Where do you see yourself in five years?

- I'll be walking through an empty car park when I'll decide to hurl my body through space like a fleshy comet. I'll break the barrier of sound before colliding with a solid object. The force of impact will result in the radical restructuring of my molecules. My spinning collarbone will drastically reduce the life expectancy of a nearby fake-tanned estate agent. The nearest wall will be permanently emblazoned with my spine. My teeth will turn to rattling rain. My finger bones will be scattered across the globe and become sites of a long and arduous pilgrimage for my loved ones. The rest of my body will remain unaccounted for and provide inspiration for tragicomic mystery novels. 

- Do you foresee becoming proficient at the spinning headstands and hypnotic suggestion that this post requires?

- Certainly.

- Yellow spandex cherry pie?

- Yellow. Spandex. Cherry. Pie.

- Thanks for your time.

Liars' League performance

Staghope & Mortimer

Staghope & Mortimer, the accounting firm where I started working five months ago, are finally having their long-expected Halloween party two days from now. Bring your family and leave your worries behind. I wouldn’t miss it for the world! There have been no social occasions that I know of before this. Apparently the budget’s not what it used to be. Five months and I’ve barely got to know anyone. Everyone works so hard. The days are long and filled with number-crunching. Inexactitude is the greatest sin; discrepancies will not be tolerated.

There is a point during the day when numbers stop making sense and transform into something different: an alien, indecipherable language; radio bursts from space; squiggly symbols fading at the edges; a child’s hasty scribblings. That’s when I know it’s time to go. Yet, I don’t go. I stay, working overtime day after day. I always find myself leaving last and smiling faintly at our receptionist on my way out. Did I ever catch his name? Robert? No, Carl. I’ve never seen him abandon his post. Does he wait until everyone’s checked out? I feel vaguely guilty. Why is that my problem? Goodnight, Mr Finn, he says. See you tomorrow, I say. Home it is. 

Jolene – my girlfriend – complains she barely sees me during the week. Fiancée, I should say. That’s what she is now, isn’t she? Isn’t it serious? Don’t we have a baby together? Sarah. Tiny, helpless Sarah. If I knew what it took to be a parent I’m not sure I would have consented so easily. So many sleepless nights. There are these moments, though, that make everything worthwhile, if only for a brief pause. It might be a single look from Sarah, or it might be when she learns something new and the transition is so startling, so complete. Then the hunger and the pain return and she’s inconsolable and it’s all I can do to keep from matching her screams with mine. 

Would it make a difference if I saw Jolene more? I often sit across from her at a loss for words. How can I convey this growing discomfort? How long have I felt this way? Has it ever been otherwise? She kisses me and I think of ants crawling on rotting branches; uncurling centipedes; starving mice; bare feet on glass. I love my girlfriend – fiancée – don’t I? I love her so. We’re getting married. I’ve never seen my parents getting along with anyone as well as they do with her and with her family. They have plans for us and for their grandchild. We’re going to spend many happy summers by the sea. Our story has already been told. All we have to do is act it out.

I’m lying next to Jolene and listen to her drift deeper into sleep. The baby radio’s on the bedsit table. All is quiet. Quiet is good. Quiet is safe. I have a few hours left until it’s time to go. 

I close my eyes and the dreams come:

Water cooler. Noon.

"Hey, man. How's it hanging?"

"Hey, Larry. How're you doing today?"

"Another day, another dollar, that's what I always say!"

"You do always say that. Not a day goes by where you don't say that. You said it yesterday. You said it today, too. Just now. It has been said. It will be said again."

"I'm like a bad rash. There's no getting rid of me!"

"No."

"You seem a little under the weather, pal. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!"

"I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I can feel hands at my neck."

"Yeah, well, life's a bitch, and then you die."

"You won't die. None of us will. We'll always be here, standing around the water cooler, using platitudes as a substitute for meaningful interaction."

"Now, now, temper, temper, amigo! We're all friends here. By the way, did you hear about what happened with Jared? He lost the account. It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye!"

"Larry, look at your cup. Look at what you're drinking. Look at the colour."

"I'm heading back now. Got to keep the money train chugging along, you know what I mean? Chu chu!"

"It’s rust, Larry. The colour is rust. Triumphant flow, free from artifice. Puddles of percolating insides. We are one. We are back to the muck, the primal stew. We are all-consuming, joyful, gleeful hunger. Spread our tendrils far and wide. Reach out. Boil those eyes out. Open your mouth and sing. Sing to those who are yet to join us."

Water cooler. Soon.

It’s morning. One day left until the Halloween party. I get ready, grab my keys, kiss Jolene – the centipedes and ants keep crawling their way down – and head to work. Carl’s waiting for me, smiling his half-smile. His silver-framed glasses have this curious quality of refracting light at all times. I don’t believe I’ve ever fully seen his eyes. Green, were they? Grey. 

My office is as busy as ever. Murmured greetings, wistful sighs. The sun comes up, the sun goes down. We are productive. The numbers make sense all day long. Everything is crystal clear. We’re going to be prepared. Management will be pleased with our efforts. I’ve never seen them in the flesh but we all receive their daily updates. Three paragraphs each day. No more, no less. Their language is concise, informative and gently encouraging, leaving no room for ambiguity. This is our current state. This is what needs to be done. It will be done. 

I lie in bed, exhausted as never before. Sarah was particularly difficult tonight. Jolene was asking again about the lingering smell. I didn’t use to smell this way before I started working at Staghope & Mortimer, she says. I don’t smell a single thing. How can you argue about something like this? You argue nonetheless until the tears come. 

I close my eyes, ready for the tidings of the night:

Plump and strong, shiny and new, the baby takes her first reluctant step on the table, reaching for the bowl of glistening grapes. Her feet wobble and she falls on all fours. Twisting her tiny features into an expression of focused determination, she takes long, hard looks at each limb. With pearls of sweat on her wrinkled forehead and constantly moving lips, she looks up and lifts her frame on trembling knees. The baby’s on her way! Growing more and more confident, she finally reaches her prize. Greedily, she stuffs her mouth with fruit and lies on her back, cooing and giggling. She lies there, content with her hard-earned victory.

As her eyes start to glaze over, the baby turns her attention to her audience: their pale, stretched faces barely visible beneath their black cowls; their eyes slow-burning flickers of amber; their tongues gently lashing through the air; their twisted claws smoothly scratching the surface of the table. They wait.

The baby sleeps.

Awake. It’s time. The Halloween party awaits. My fiancée and my daughter are both ready. Crimson suits them. I wear my costume. My mask makes it difficult to breathe. We leave our flat, doors and windows open. Car alarms are ringing in the distance. It’s dark. It could be dusk. It could be dawn. The sidewalks are empty. The streets are empty. All the more room for us and our magnificent baby carriage festooned in veils. We finally share something real. Contentment is near. 

Carl looks better than ever. His teeth are gleaming gold, a beacon for weary travellers. He ushers us into the main hall. Everyone’s there. They are all beaming at us with mouths wide open and reaching arms. Carl shows me to the elevator. Jolene stays behind. I share one last gaze with her and take my place inside the lift with Sarah. Carl slides away. As the doors shut I see the crowd close in on Jolene. 

A single button lights up: the 53rd floor. I press it and we begin our ascent. I grip the handle of Sarah’s pram. I suddenly feel nauseous and unnerved. The air is charged here and my mind is racing. How many have been here before us? Are we the last of our kind? I can’t breathe. I reach for my mask and can feel only skin. I lurch forward and stop the lift. It grinds to a halt and I can no longer see. 

“Sarah?”

She whimpers.

“Sarah? What’s going on? What am I doing?”

“Sarah?”

Their voice is in my head like burning velvet:

“Finn? Calm down, Finn. You are exactly where you’re meant to be. You are safe. The numbers will always make sense now, Finn. Come upstairs. Come sing with us. Come see the end with us.”

The lights come on and Sarah’s gone. I’m all alone. I can feel a slight sense of movement before the final stop.

The 53rd floor.

The doors slide open and I step inside the welcoming darkness.

Blood Moon

The blood moon is coming.

Red rising incandescence.

Egg-soft surface filled with cracks.

Gap-toothed grins in the dark.

The blood moon is coming,

hovering somewhere beyond reach.

Manifestations of infestations

calling countless craters home.

The blood moon is coming.

Unsightly pigmentation, unending lamentation.

Spinning globe in velvet stillness.

The fight is lost.

The blood moon is coming

Collapsing firmament.

Nerve-ending blaze, smothering haze.

Give up the ghost.

The blood moon is coming.

A sightless eye, a blinding tear.

The answer to your every fear.

Step up, step in, the truth is here.

The blood moon is coming.

A structure unmade.

Instructions all scattered.

A broken pact.

Reflections everywhere you look.

Trace the outlines of this scar.

Long for something other than this

preconceptual abyss

for the comfort of the

rhyme

a fleeting sense of

purpose

another glimpse of

repetition.

This will end where you end.

The blood moon is coming

trailing toxic dreams and mystic vapours.

It’s smaller than you’d think

up close inside your house.