Tag: prose

Day #20

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Planimeter: a measuring instrument used to determine the area of an arbitrary two-dimensional shape.

Infucation: The act of painting or staining especially of painting the face

Undergo: To go or move below or under

—–

Mr Wills hadn’t left his house for two decades after returning from the war. It was for this reason, along with the honeyed windows and the reams of cigarette butts that littered his garden, that most people assumed his house was abandoned. It was just another one of those buildings that the postman delivered leftover junk mail to, the council couldn’t care less about and whose neighbours were too busy collecting their weekly giro to really pay attention to anything outside of their taxpayer funded inner sanctum.

Truth be told, this suited Mr Wills perfectly well, for he had a task to complete. It was essential that he complete this task or He would not be happy.

The elderly man got by on very little, drinking only tap water and eating only egg and cress sandwiches, but without the bread. He kept several hens in his conservatory and grew cress in every available window, so he rarely went hungry. His appearance seemed unaffected by this curious diet and so he bore the same look of any man slightly past his prime –thinning hair and greying temples, skin slackening like worn jeans and a pair of rheumy eyes that were more at ease behind a set of strong lenses.

Mr Wills spent most of his time completing his task, rarely breaking for lunch. Instead he rose early for a snack at daybreak, then finished off any leftovers before he went to bed. Mr Wills didn’t particularly like sleeping, as this was when he had to undergo the nightly status report.

He would regularly berate the elderly man for his painful fastidiousness, asking why he couldn’t speed up and when did he think the task would be done. Mr Wills, who felt he lacked the authority to speak up and say that he had never actually been told how to complete his task, instead simply dreamed of nodding. It had taken many years to perfect, but Mr Wills now knew that to pacify the voices he simply had to nod and He would slowly dissipate into the recesses of his mind, like a sea mist under a midday sun.

Sitting at his desk one morning, Mr Wills was hard at work. He would scribble wildly on a piece of paper with a fountain pen, measure the area of this arbitrary, non-Euclidean shape with a planimeter, make a note of its area in a nearby ledger and then begin the tedious infucation process. He used paints made of crushed clay and dirt, mixed with water and then dabbed lightly into different sections of the scribble – any acrylics he’d once owned had been used up years ago. He then hung the final product on the wall with a pin in each corner, taut.

These strange paintings slithered over every inch of every wall of Mr Wills’ house like snakeskin, a haunting mural .

A short while later, with russet sludge dangling from the tip of a very fine paintbrush like snot from a nostril, Mr Wills was disturbed by a sudden buzzing. It buzzed twice then stopped, so he ignored it. When it buzzed again five minutes later, Mr Wills finally realized what it was. It was his doorbell.

Day #19

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Growler: One who growls

Theocracy: Government of a state by the immediate direction or administration of God hence the exercise of political authority by priests as representing the Deity

Necessitation: The act of making necessary or the state of being made necessary compulsion

—–

Hangdur slowed the geeter to a halt. The giant bird’s thick, muscular legs quickly disappeared amongst the heat haze that rippled on the ground, an invisible lake. Shouldn’t think about water, mused Hangdur wryly, stroking his steed’s neck, the hard feathers metallic to the touch. The geeter grunted; its call was guttural and raspy, definitely parched.

Holding onto the reigns, Hangdur jumped down and tentatively approached the stone archway that loomed ahead of him. Beyond the archway sat the mountain – the only thing for miles around – jutting out the ground like a giant, lone stalagmite amongst the scrub. If what the old man had said was true, then Hangdur had to pass through the stone archway if he ever wanted to find the Kophi Sphere.

The geeter seemed suddenly hesitant, digging its wide, webbed feet into the ground. The bird was similar to an old world ostrich, two legged and entirely flightless, built solely for running. The fallout had caused the geeters to grow larger, stronger and more aggressive. They were the new battle stallions, more vicious than horses and less prone to erratic behaviour too. Besides, when was the last time anyone had even seen a horse?

‘Come on, boy,’ said Hangdur softly, tugging the reigns to gently coax the geeter forward. The bird put up a brief struggle then resignedly acquiesced, each step long but tentative. As the bird and its rider approached the archway a throaty snarl snapped through the early evening quiet. It sounded close. Hangdur slipped a gun from the holster on his back – a piecemeal weapon, metallic pipes twisted and soldered together like an Escher sketch.

From behind a rock a growler slunk forward, ribs showing and a dead-eyed hunger etched into its face. It snarled again and brazenly stalked forward, caution cast aside by the necessitation of hunger. Its patchy, sandy fur bled into its surroundings rendering it almost invisible in the twilight, a living, breathing optical illusion.

Hangdur quickly fired a warning bolt that struck and clattered off a nearby rock. The growler stopped moving, contemplating and weighing up its options, eyes wide and watery. A few seconds later, its decision apparently made, the growler bolted into the encroaching darkness. Gone – for now, at least. Gonna have to keep an eye open out for that son of a bitch, noted Hangdur.

Free to pass, Hangdur and the geeter passed beneath the stone archway. It was an impressive structure – hewn from the mountain and standing almost 20 metres tall, every inch covered in ornate carvings. Who had done them and why was a mystery, and seeing them up close reminded Hangdur of tales he had been told as a child. He shivered involuntarily, slight doubts ominously massaging his conviction. To calm himself, Hangdur flicked on the flashlight that hung from a strap draped over his jacket then switched on his co-locator, fingers squashed into a pocket. At least if the growler got the better of him now, they’d still be able to find his body.

‘That’s the problem with theocracy, boy,’ said Hangdur absentmindedly, ‘they always want you to track down the damn relics and they don’t care what you gotta go through to get ’em…’

Hangdur’s voice trailed off in awe, echoing queerly on the rocks, as the pair emerged from the archway and into a steep sided canyon that shimmered like glass.

Day #18

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Despotism: The power spirit or principles of a despot absolute control over others tyrannical sway tyranny

Flatulently: In a flatulent manner with flatulence

Movie: A motion picture

—–

The cold light of early morning scatters through the blinds, zebra stripes that cast strange, abrupt shadows. Light and dark. The room is small, claustrophobic, and devoid of anything bar a table, a few seats and a tape recorder, which sits in the centre of the table ‘in case of disputes’ – well, that’s according to her lawyer at least.

She’s late – as usual. A typically arrogant move that means you’ll have to sit and enjoy the silent ménage a trois between yourself, your lawyer and her lawyer for a little bit longer yet. You wonder if whistling might lighten the mood, or humming. Instead you start preparing a long-winded and gregarious opening gambit, one that you’ll deliver so flatulently, that the vein in her neck will begin to pulse. You smile at the thought of it burrowing and bursting forth like a movie monster trying to escape. It would certainly solve a few problems.

She’s locked you up tightly in here, the stripes of light like prison cell bars, and you just sit silently obedient, showcasing the manners of an expensively trained dog. She always wanted a dog, but you said no. You argued the toss – who’d clean up the mess? Who’d stay at home to keep it company? This isn’t a fucking Scooby Doo movie, you shouted, it’s our fucking lives. No, you didn’t fancy a dog.

You look at your watch, time moving so slowly that even the imperceptible movement of the second hand feels like the aftershock of some seismic event. Tick, tick, tack… wait, did it just move backwards? You can’t be sure. It’s too early in the morning for this. You stifle a yawn. Her lawyer suddenly perks up, scrutinising this apparent sign of weakness. He looks as if he’s about to say something, a rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, but decides better of it and instead hurriedly scribbles something down.

The lawyer sitting next to you, a thin, balding man with an eagle’s beak of a nose, is engrossed in the documents before him. Sucking up all your dirty little secrets like a sponge. Sure, he’s defending you, looking out for your interests, but what’s stopping him from holding things over your head if it all goes tits up? She always did, why should he be any different? Maybe it was the weight of those expectations that eroded your self will, made you get drunk and want to explore new and exotic avenues. Yeah, you could blame her, you suppose, but you know that her lawyer has exactly the same notes and will shut down that play instantly.

She’s still not here – a classic case of female despotism syndrome. Always has to be centre of attention. Always has to be fashionably late. Always has to spend your money on whatever Vogue suggests. One pair of shoes the same as a deposit on a house. You hope the heels gave her blisters.

You check your watch again, a Pavlovian response to your own nerves, and notice how the black inlaid roman numerals look like the bars of a prison cell.

Day #17

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Peirastic: Fitted for trial; experimental; tentative

Catholicize: To make or to become catholic or Roman Catholic

Adrianople: a city in Northwest Turkey a Thracian town that was rebuilt and renamed by the Roman emperor Hadrian

—–

It was definitely the wet slurp followed by the smacking of lips. That was the only way to shut Beaver up; you had to show him you were busy drinking. Buck took another swig of his beer, amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the dirty glass. With each mouthful, the liquid sunk lower and the glass was raised higher, and at some point Buck had started likening the orangey distortion of Beaver’s face in the bottom of the glass to a strange insect stuck in amber. Both of ‘em bloodsuckers.

The two men were sat in the corner of a dive bar out on route 23, not their local haunt, but one that had been chosen for them. The beer tasted different and a dense hum of smoke hung in the rafters like bats. The locals were the dregs you’d expect to find in the bottom of a barrel, leftover flies on a spiderweb. The woman behind the bar, heavyset and stocky, was wearing a leather waistcoat she’d probably found ditched in the toilets; it had a faded motif on the back, a skull with a snake squirming through the eye.

Buck didn’t like the place, but Beaver, well he was happy anywhere he could sit and drink and talk. It didn’t matter who else was around, the man could talk to anyone; in fact it was because of Beaver’s big mouth they were here. Shouldn’t have listened to him, thought Buck glumly.

‘…So that’s why Hadrian didn’t just build walls,’ concluded Beaver. He produced a silver sheet of tablets from a jacket pocket, popped two of the caps and dropped them into his Whisky Sour, which fizzed angrily. Buck didn’t know exactly what the pills were, but Beaver had explained that they were some kind of peirastic benzodiazepine anticonvulsants – “experimental anti-anxiety pills” apparently.

Beaver chucked his head back and let the frothy orange liquid trickle down his throat. He flicked his tongue out, like a cat yawning, trying to get rid of the taste, then signalled to the bar for another round.

Buck’s attention was drawn to a crucifix hanging over the entrance. He hadn’t noticed it on the way in. How the fuck can you catholicize a place like this, he thought. He realised Beaver was staring at him, red-eyed.

‘Huh?’ asked Buck.

‘Adrianople, man! Fucking city named for Hadrian – he ain’t just been building walls. He’s been doing all sorts of shit, man.’

‘What the fuck are you on about Beaver?’ snapped Buck, beer foam glistening in his stubble. ‘I don’t give a shit what this Hadrian’s been doing or what he’s gonna do. You just keep that bag close, y’hear? That’s the reason we’re in this fucking mess.’

Beaver clammed up into a sullen silence and hugged the bag tightly to his chest. He looked like he was about to say something when the sudden eerie yawn of creaking joints made both men turn their heads toward the entrance. A man stood there, the briefcase in his hand stained red by an electric Budweiser sign.

‘I think this is our guy…’ said Buck, his voice tense.

Day #16

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Crenulation: A minute crenation – of a leaf or shell, as being round-toothed or having a scalloped edge

Rounder: One who comes about frequently or regularly

Excursionist: One who goes on an excursion or pleasure trip

—–

Over a scruffy, ripped shirt, red checks bleached pink, a beard hangs like a plume of grey smoke, a pile of ashes in which the veins of burnt leaves have tangled like wire wool. A mouth hides beneath the hairy crenulation, wise words waiting to pounce. Two small eyes watch the world like pebbles dropped in water, the ripples permanently etched on his face, as though at some point he’s been glued back together.

A cardboard sign leans against his crossed legs, the haggard jeans not fit for a scarecrow, yet thick enough to sleep in. They’re covered in a patchwork of colourful stains, comfy Dutch tulip fields. The yellow stain of a dogs urine; the flaky red of McDonald’s ketchup; the crisp maroon of blood. These are stains that imply character – a machine washable anthology of memories, blotchy runes.

On the sign he’s written:

Senseless Lamentations – 50p
Empty Platitudes – 100p

He caters for all types. He calls it ‘offering a service to the day-trippers’, those excursionists who only hit the boardwalk when the sun is out. A styrofoam cup nearby implies that neither offer has been well received today. Must be the weather. Besides, some of the coins have probably in there for weeks now. His only friends. Better than friends. Can’t spend friends on cigarettes.

Slumped in his archway, he acts as a way marker; once a human, now a sign post for those trying to find their way to the beach. A five-fingered constellation, daubed on the pavement like yesterday’s hopscotch. There’s a smell, always the same, that clings to him almost paternally, almost with form. It smells like spilt milk that’s gone bad in the heat. It cloaks him, aggressive as the sickly sweetness of burning rubber. He doesn’t notice it anymore, but it seems to keep the rats away.

A noise stirs him – sounds like the rounders are back again. The small coven of Romanian crones wander the boardwalk, squawking with empty hands outstretched, feeding invisible birds with invisible seed. Ignoring the rounder’s unintelligible babbling, he casts an eye over his styrofoam treasure chest, lazily like a sprawled dog eyeballing a chewed up toy.

Looking around, he sees a kid break away from holding his mother’s hand. A glacial calving in the mother-son dynamic. The kid seems embarrassed to have been spotted displaying weakness. The kid tugs his mother’s blouse, thin and splashed with leopard spots, and points at the man. She reprimands her son, rubs his hair, then acquiesces and reaches into her pocket.

He approaches tentatively, and drops two coins into the styrofoam cup. New friends, new cigarettes.

‘Why d’you sleep outside?’ Asks the kid curiously.

He grins – maybe – but the beard makes it hard to tell.

‘It’s way too hot to sleep inside this time of year.’

‘Oh,’ the boy looks confused for a moment, then laughs. Running back to his mother, the boy calls back ‘have a good day!’

‘Could be,’ he says, nodding. ‘Could be.’

Afterwards, he lies down on his cardboard mattress for the rest of the afternoon. Eventually the shadows of evening blossom and the furrows on his face ebb like waves on an ancient shore.

Day #15

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Intervisible: Mutually visible; each in sight of the other

Sister: A female who has the same parents with another person or who has one of them only

Accuser: One who accuses one who brings a charge of crime or fault

—–

‘So I put it to you Goodie Western, that you are a witch. A bride of Lucifer and weaver of sinister spells. The punishment for which, of course, is death.’

The Hunter raises his staff to the judge and takes a seat, thin wooden legs splaying under his weight, then slings an arm lazily onto the table before him. The cuffs of his jacket are an off white, greasy.

‘Yes, thank you Mr. Lancaster, your testimony has been noted.’

The Judge, old, chipped from wood and mossy. Hunched into the uncomfortable high chair behind the dais. It’s the law. He coughs gruffly, some kind of chest cold or some such. He begins speaking in reedy tones,

‘Goodie Western, your accuser stands before you, your contentions are intervisible betwixt you, and it is by the grace of God that I am required to hear your testimony – now in this court of fair and just law.’

The silence is thick, muggy, rife with peasants trying to work out what the word ‘intervisible’ means.

‘She’s a witch!’ calls a voice from the back of the room. The Judge roars to life instantly, a hawk grabbing a fish,

‘Silence! Silence Mr Robertson – Apprentice Tanner,’ he spits the words vilely, ‘remove him now!’

Mr Robertson, apprentice tanner, is removed from the room. A twinkle grins in The Hunter’s eye. It’s almost too easy. As she stands, the woman’s chains remind him of falling coins.

‘You may begin, Goodie Western,’ says The Judge, magnanimous once more, composed and gnarled as bark. The old woman nods, the folds of her skin scrunched up like paper and almost translucent.

‘I see here before me,’ her delivery is loud and crisp, intoxicating in its subliminal ferocity, ‘friends. And good people, but I don’t see no family. And why’s that? Because my sister is dead. And I stand here before you all, accused of her murder through witchcraft. You all knew her condition then. You all know me now. It were my medicines that made her better, you all know that.’ The old woman pauses, casts a bruised eye over the small crowd. ‘Goodie Meadows, who was it what delivered your three chillen?’

Goodie Meadows feels the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes boring into her, iron pokers, she shudders in her soul. Without saying a word, she nods. Several more white heads bob up and down of their own volition. Lot of chillen in this town here today because of Goodie Western. Lot of women too, come to think of it.

‘And what do we know about this man here?’ Goodie Western points at The Hunter, the glint in his eye slightly smaller, shrinking. ‘This man, who appears from nowhere last week, days before my sister was murdered, yes murdered! This man who calls himself a hunter of witches and decries me as a sibling killer and a bride of lucifer! Where were you that night Sir? Where were you?’

She spits on the ground, there’s blood in it. It was a rough night.

A single bead of sweat rolls down The Hunter’s temple, the glint in his eye just a flicker. The old woman is good, very good…but he’d come across better.

‘Mr Lancaster?’ says The Judge.

Tidying his cuffs, The Hunter stands, clears his throat and begins to speak, greasy fingers leaving their marks.

Day #14

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Celluliferous: Bearing or producing little cells

Yerba mate: is a species of the holly family. It is well known as the source of the beverage called mate (Portuguese: chimarrão), which is traditionally consumed in central and southern South America

Amigo: A friend – a Spanish term

—–

The bagualero wheels his horse to one side; its eyes are bulging with adrenaline, jelly quivering above nostrils flaring at the stench of blood. He yanks the bridle hard to stop it from bolting, his companion nearby starts to laugh. He is younger, more cocksure and with skin yet to be wrinkled by the weather, his baseball cap is tugged tightly onto his head.

Hey amigo, shut your mouth, shouts the older bagualero, you gotta stay fucking focused. You know what that thing can do to you? You ever seen a fucking horn sticking out the other fucking side of someone’s fucking leg?

The young bagualero’s smirk disappears. No, I ain’t seen that, he says quietly. He strokes the snout of his horse, soothing it, whispering sweet nothings into its ears. The horse is younger too. The younger bagualero looks off into the trees, nothing moves amongst the trees except the insects, buzzing lazily under the early morning heat, thick as honey.

The older man snorts with derision and wheels his horse left then right, bridle still clenched tightly in his hands whilst the fat, muscular head of the horse writhes like a serpent before him. It slows and paws nervously at the ground. The bagualero is a weather beaten sculpture of a man, might as well be hewn from rock; only his leather jacket, tatty and old, has taken more punishment from the elements than he has.

He slips a small cantina from an inside pocket, unscrews the cap quickly with a single twist; it’s all in the wrist, baby. He swigs the chimarrão, hot and tart to the taste, it keeps his head clear. The yerba mate leaves rustle against the metallic interior, imprisoned, trapped in a corner and desperate to escape. The old bagualero takes a second gulp, swills his mouth with the third and spits it on the ground.

I can hear the dogs, he says, suddenly alert. Listen.

The young bagualero strains forward, his ears drinking in sounds, now he hears it too. He nods.

Within seconds the dogs are there, barking, yapping, howling, all drunk on the adrenaline of the chase, their mouths frothy with spit. They spill into the clearing, like the breaking of a dam; footprints cover the ground, shallow hoofs splitting and expanding so celluliferously.

In the middle of the pack is the beast, a juggernaut intent on causing havoc, its baleful gaze falls squarely on the old man, a glimmer of recognition, defiance. My old friend, says the old bagualero, my old fucking friend.

The bull snorts, feet kicking dogs away like dust, flanks engorged, thick as armour. Its body is flecked by the blood of superfluous bite marks, the dogs too eager, starved for too long.

Ready your lasso, calls the older bagualero, we only got one shot, so don’t fuck it up.

The boy’s rope is in his hand already, spinning. The bull senses something, snaps its head around, the rippling crack of straining muscle fibres. It sees the boy with the rope. The bull is trapped in a corner, desperate to escape.

It charges. The dogs howl in delight.

Day #12

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Hadder: Heather, heath

Cerberean: Of or pertaining to or resembling Cerberus

Bazaar: In the East an exchange marketplace or assemblage of shops where goods are exposed for sale

—–

‘You there, stop!’

The soldier cantered forward, his stallion blazing a brilliant white matched only by the sheen of his brass chest plate. Plumes of ceremonial feathers sprung from his tightly fitted helmet, blowing like hadder in the early morning breeze. Slipping from the horse’s back, he gave his sword handle a quick half-tug to make sure it wouldn’t stick if he needed it. A deep breath helped muster a vague air of authority; the soldier approached the front of the caravan.

Immediately, he saw the two men leaning into each other, exchanging quick, secret whispers. Both were of swarthy, middle-eastern appearance, their dark hair thick as gorse, both beards immaculately oiled. They seemed nervous, but after all these were treacherous times.

The war had not long ended and it was uncommon to see men of a darker hue so far from home. Rumors of kidnappings were already rife and to make things worse a high-ranking official’s wife – a spoil of war, beautiful and exotic – had gone missing the night before, meaning patrols had been doubled.

‘Where are you going my friends?’ called the soldier, his voice loud and crisp, a deeply sonorous birdsong.

He had been patrolling the border since daybreak, cerberean in his duty yet encountering no one amongst the trickling, sandy hours. Boredom and youth had dulled the soldier’s sense of duty. He’d stopped the Arabs because it was simply something to pass the time with.

The whispering ceased and the two men peered inquisitively at the soldier, his pale skin and tight crop of blond hair a brutal reminder that they were far from home.

‘Salaam, friend,’ called one of the men, older and with thick, heavyset eyebrows. His companion was younger and had greasy, sweaty skin. The older man continued, his tone sharp, ‘why do you stop us?’

The soldier was taken aback by such directness. ‘What brings you this way, so early in the morning?’

The younger Arab looked quickly at his companion, nervous, eager to move on. A light sheen glistened on his face, as though he were a reflection; the tight curls of his beard, dark and foreboding ripples. The older Arab dismissed his apparent concerns with a hard look of annoyance.

‘My friend, we are simple traders seeking to reach the bazaar at Damascus by nightfall. We are spice merchants. Nothing more, nothing less.’

Damascus? The soldier knew the journey well, having made it many times as a child. There was no way in hell these traders would ever reach Damascus by nightfall on this route. If they were even going to Damascus…

‘You have a long…journey ahead of you – I would hate for your goods to spoil… May I take stock of your wares?’

‘Of course,’ replied the Arab, his voice now perfumed and cloying, intoxicatingly sickly and sprinkled with a hint of knowing malice. ‘Please sink your teeth into our forbidden fruits…’

The solider didn’t like the man’s tone. Something was off. He pulled back the caravan’s curtains to reveal a dark skinned woman, beautiful and exotic, teeth bared, eyes fearful and dagger drawn.

She hissed just four words, ‘I’m not going back…’

Day #11

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Panade: A dagger

Pericardium: The double baglike fold of serous membrane that encloses the heart

Cerebrifugal: The nerve fibers that go from the brain to the spinal cord and so transfer cerebral impulses; centrifugal impressions outwards

—–

You are a spasm on the face of the night; silently lithe, an oil slick seeping amongst rocks, ready to smother the wings of any birds you may encounter.

The guard’s cigarette burns brilliantly, a satirical star. You imagine the smoke curling in his lungs like old receipts in the bottom of a paper bag. A slow death. The light recedes, migrating, burning down until his lips are dully illuminated. You make sure the blood that spills from his lips extinguishes the nub. A gurgle of claret, a gushing waterfall, thick, sticky iron-rich plasma oozing like ketchup. You are the vampire bat; you are metal of fang.

Quick feet, a cat’s paws, every step a gracefully uncoiling spring. You ignore the paintings that hang from the walls, faces from history flashing past. You wonder if they approve of your task. They can’t judge you now. You melt into the shadows as two sets of footsteps stomp past. Right on time.

You know the floor plan; you know the number of steps on any given staircase; you know precisely where to stand in his room so that the silvery crescent of moonlight that slips between his curtains won’t fall on so much as a little toe.

Steady breaths, one staircase, then another, twisting, turning. You are Theseus pursuing the Minotaur, unspooling a reel of memorized directions.

Beneath the thin woolen mask that covers your face, beads of sweat start to form. You’re getting hot. You’re getting closer. You run over the plan once again…

Slip past the guards, removing their lives if necessary (you wonder whether any life is necessary, you chalk it up to collateral damage, you chalk it up to fun). Infiltrate his room, approach his bed then unsheathe your metal fang; the thin sliver of the panade, beautiful and deadly, a lone truth amongst the encroaching dark. You will slip the blade quickly into his pericardium – splitting the muscle in two. Then you will hold your hand over his mouth until the very last cerebrifugal pulse has faded from the spinal cord…

You’re standing outside his door, thick and wooden, a gloriously textured oak. The varnish stings your nostrils and your eyes spill a sudden film of tears that you quickly blink away.

You slip inside, an undetectable insect. Heavy breaths roll in like fog. You imagine the heady thud of your heartbeat acts like a bat’s squeals, your target caught amongst a net of sounds bouncing in the night.

Sleeping flags hang limply, the verdant reds, whites and blacks now a muted slurry of burgundy and grey, their iconography familiar, repellant.

You stand over his bed, his lumpy form already silent as a corpse, stiller than you expected. You unsheathe the panade and stab, stab, stab, stab, stab – all decorum consumed by a sudden intoxicating miasma. He doesn’t bleed at all…

And then, it is done.

Panting, you wipe a fleck of spittle from your lips, ‘Auf Wiedersehen Mein Fuhrer…’

You feel the cold, hard cigarette butt of a gun press into your back. You realize that, of course, he would have bled. Everyone bleeds. Even you. The gun dully illuminates and you melt into the shadows.

Day #10

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Dotard: One whose mind is impaired by age

Overprize: To prize excessively to overvalue

Dugway: A way or road dug through a hill or sunk below the surface of the land

—

Let me tell you about my strangest memory.

I keep it hidden away under lock and key somewhere in the back of my mind. Sometimes I close my eyes and watch it play on the curtain of my eyelids, hazy and noir, flickering like an old fashioned movie. I’ve only ever shared it with a handful of people…and now you.

***

The playground of my childhood school was a tarmac savannah, wrinkly like skin that’s been in the bath for too long and scribbled with the sun-bleached Nazca lines that denoted symbolic football pitches. Down the far end, under a large tree whose awning provided respite from the sun, were the badlands – a small scrubby patch of grass and dirt bordered by a wooden fence. Etched into this boundary was a permanently locked gate that led to our sports fields, but as we were a small, poor school, these fields were just public parks that we invaded once a year for sports day, tiny legs pumping whilst carrying eggs on spoons. A humpty-dumpy dystopia.

Anyway, somewhere between the ages of seven and ten my friends and I became fascinated with digging. Not just digging for the sake of slinging dirt, but real open cast excavations – our hands carving out deep holes and dugways amongst the tiny patch of dirt tacked onto our playground. Myself, Will, Tom and probably others who I can’t quite remember now, presided over our feats of engineering like Pharaohs watching the assembly of pyramids.

Looking back, perhaps we overprized our accomplishments. One time the council came and filled in a crater we had carved under some public stairs, as though it were a crème egg with a concrete center. We wore this like a badge of honor. But I digress…

Eventually, we decided to move on and excavate a new area, somewhere different in the myriad of playgrounds we had at our disposal. To test ourselves we chose a hedgerow in the middle playground. The thick, tangled roots seemed a suitable challenge for experienced diggers such as ourselves, finger nails crusty with dirt, rocks scraping as though we had discovered the very first tools.

One afternoon however something strange happened. Among the roots we unearthed a small black box. Then another. And another. And so on, until we had a stack of these small black boxes, each the shape and size of something a necklace may be displayed in. We couldn’t open them. Then our teacher appeared and she was angry with us. Then the men dressed in black came and took all our boxes away.

***

The memory fades toward the end, tapering off like a stuttering candle. I’ve managed to cling to the key points, to treasure them, as I know what happened to us was very significant, but I don’t know why. All I know is, we never dug another hole again.

Like I said, I’ve only ever told this to a handful of people…and I’m too scared to ask whether those involved remember or not, for fear of what it means for me if they don’t. I’m scared that I will begin to question my memories, fearing that I’m just another adult dotard, imagining things just to seem more interesting.

So, I think I’ll just keep it under lock and key for now.