Monthly Archives: November 2013

Meating

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“Pleased to meet you, do come in! You must be my eleven thirty, about young Thomas? Great potential in the boy, nice brains behind his attitude. Very, very nice brains…”
It stood up, hobbling on mismatched legs. Limping, it approached the concerned couple, one arm outstretched, looking for a handshake. The other arm lay lifeless on the desk.
“Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Mr – and I’m…”, it mumbled something that sounded very much like, but not quite, teacher. “Yes, I was part of a new positive discrimination scheme to allow even more under-represented communities to contribute and take part in academia”, it said, smiling. Though it was getting weary.
The job could take its toll, being so lively and warm-hearted all the time. It was constantly afraid about falling apart under too much pressure. And it could sense what was in their minds. It could smell it.
“I do, yes”, it replied, “I understand that there are rules against beating, but no one mentioned tastin– testing what the pupils are made of. In fact, I make them run… classes on their own, once in a while. See how they’ll work in a challenging environment, prove their leadership skills, savour their… their…” It could smell them. Terribly distracting. It was getting hungry.
It picked up the arm from the desk, and glanced at the wrist watch – the next appointment wasn’t until noon. It looked back at the couple, and smiled.
Lunch time.

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Drifting

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Time and space don’t matter
here, as she walks along the brink
cautiously slipping into
and onto the shimmering page.

Time and space don’t bother
her, she looks upon the spine
slicing through light and beams
as the universe supports her.

Time does not envelop her
as she finds her space
an innermost inch, a room
to call her own, at last.

Space does not contain her
for yes, there will be time
reflected and refracted through
the chapters in her life.

Time flows and space constricts
but she, modern Promethea,
is unbound, the fallen chains
spark on weatherworn rock.

Space is fluid and time congealed
as an ice-cube washed ashore
that she may or may not pick up
take home and place on a pile

of unread pages, unfinished sketches
of a blind seer’s book.
As she steps out back into the cold
she’ll forget about it. It will melt.
Become one with the books
bleed into pages, blur the images
blend the lines, push the boundaries
and time and space won’t matter.

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Quest

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You seek that one word
a brief cluster of wit.
You want it to convey
the entire cosmos of the text
its spiralling worlds
in a single, dynamic particle.

You search for the
ultimate starting point
the liberating bracket
the line to be crossed
but it eludes you.

You think of games
and nobility, mysteries
and systems, that’ll-do
and that’s-not-right,
sleeplessness, frustration
climbing, digging, clutching
at the dregs of inspiration
for one more drop.

You sigh, sit back, and shrug.
Fuck it. It’s just a title.

Tunnel

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She wasn’t claustrophobic, she just didn’t like the idea of the entirety of the Thames pressing down upon her head. Squeezing the tunnel, pushing at its round edges, clasping it in a slimy polluted cold grip. Still, all trains were delayed, too late for the ferry, walking was the only way across. She could hear someone else’s steps from below, it gave her courage. She headed not too quickly down the spiralling stairs, counting each step under her breath, and reached the beginning of the tunnel. She started to walk.

An overhead light flickered. As she stopped walking, so did the sound of footsteps from the other side of the tunnel. She noticed she had been alone for a while now. Alone, in dim light, in a tunnel under a river. She felt something gripping at her chest, and made to sprint toward the exit. A sudden gurgling sound startled her, making her stop. As she caught her breath again, she kept hearing the same, repetitive sound coming from somewhere above her. Panic quickly crept its way in as she realised what it was: the slow, regular drip of water, trickling in from the tunnel’s ceiling. She could no longer hear herself breathing, or her heart beating in her chest. All she could hear now was a soft, terrifying drip, drip, drip.