The ward has a chair
which wheels disinfectant. Pianissimo tires through suns that sink in hospital. The hospital wards off coughs and snot or any piano lessons.
0 Comments
She glared down at the phone screen as it went black, the logo briefly flashing feebly before disappearing. It was hard not to feel somewhat lost then – knowing that her only means of communication with people she knew was gone. By all means, as long as nothing went wrong, she needn’t worry – but she tensed nevertheless.
There was a soft parp in the distance, and she stood in anticipation, ticket in hand. She strolled towards the platform edge, hitching her bag up, and waited for a minute or so. The train was due now, and yet there was no sign of it. She leaned forward slightly, trying to get a glimpse into the tunnel just after the bend, to spot the headlights emerging from the tunnel like the eyes of some great beast emerging from its lair. She shuffled further forwards, and that’s when she stumbled. She expected the time it took to feel like an age – that’s what they always say in the movies, after all. But often, the more one compares an experience to the movies, the more different they seem to be. Especially the happy ending. The last thing she could clearly make out was the gravel rushing up to meet her like a wall, and then the beast, bellowing, swallowed her whole. To most, it might seem strange that there is such a vast abundance of Angels on Earth. Ask the average person about Angels, and the usual assumption is that they are watching over us from Heaven, dividing their time between that and serving the Almighty. This, like so many other beliefs regarding celestials, is wrong. Guardian Angels, of course, are obligated to remain around the mortal plane, so as to keep a better eye on their charges. But the others also spend a lot of their time on Earth.
My restless imagination
Is much more interesting than the real world. It distracts me from the troubles That this world presents. It gives me superpowers To make them all go away. My restless imagination Is my best friend. I can tell it anything. It won’t give an opinion, Because it already knows. It’ll listen for hours on end. It is so much better than a real person. The rain bounced outside my bedroom window. I could hear it hitting the ground with a thud. I shut the curtains and sat my bed. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to be but it wasn’t outside so I guess it was ok. I checked my phone to see when it was forecasted to stop raining. I had no signal. I was the only one home; I wished I wasn’t. I wished that someone would tell me that it’s all going to be alright and that we will all survive. But I knew every single word would be a lie. I stood up and began pacing up and down my room silently praying that I would make it through alive. I checked my phone again but this time to see if anyone had tried to call me. Nothing. Not even a text. I tried to ring them but there was still no signal. I peeked outside again. I could see someone. Someone caught up in the rain. I shut my eyes so I didn’t have to see what happened next. Shutting my curtains for a second time and leant back against the wall and curled up into tight, tight ball.
I don’t know how much time had passed but when I uncurled the rain had stopped. I stood up and ran down the stairs to see who was home. I went straight through to the kitchen but there was no one there. I looked in every room in our house but no one was there. No one at all. I checked my watch and then decided that I couldn’t stay here any longer. I’d always known that I’d have to leave sometime in the near future but it seemed too soon. I grabbed my rucksack that I’d had packed for days and I decided that I was to head to the capital city, Ottawa. From Montreal so it was about 37 hours by foot. Realistically, I would never make it. I could always die trying. I decided to set off; the worst thing that could happen would be death. I reach up to the molten sky. It is melting. Streaming down to the charred earth in fiery strands. This is the end, the once vibrant sky will fall, and then there will be nothing. There is nothing left anyway, it is gone, no life remains on this plagued land. Nothing but rubble now, a man made devastation that spread slowly like a disease, filthy and merciless. It is barren, desolate, dead. We destroyed it long ago, shattered the delicate ecosystems and torched what remained. Once a towering city, reduced to a pile of ash by the sheer power of man. A noxious wind blows across this barren wasteland, rising a small army of bone-coloured dust, bleached from warfare. There is a crumbling house on the crimson horizon, merely a house at all, just two walls and a pile of burgundy bricks. I sit idly on an austere tree trunk which has been thrown to the dusty ground amidst the chaos of war. My tired eyes close softly as I tenderly clutch a tattered Polaroid, it is old yet somehow survived long after the collapse of society. Amongst a vast amount of mud there is a face: inhuman but affectionate. A word is scrawled beneath the monochrome image and a jumble of numbers, ‘Missie - 2020’. My companion stares out at me through the paper, I can almost feel her doting gaze although I have not looked at the picture yet. I let out a long overdue sigh and let my eyes drift towards the paper. It is crumbling, soon it will be gone, nothing but fine dust in the breeze but it is not gone yet and I savour every precious moment with this cherished memory. The hazy picture brings back a vigorous memory...
Bristly strands of grass poke between my toes, the gentle heat of the sun lies on my back as I crouch down, making myself as close to the ground as possible. The bitter scent of soil drifts into my nose. I slam my hands down onto the grass playfully, and Missie - a black and white border collie with a vivid red collar copies me. She barks cheerfully, the coarse sound echoes around the garden, rebounding off of the freshly painted fence. I laugh and she bounds towards me, tongue out, slobber blowing in the wind. My arms outstretch, bracing for the impact of her ginormous body. The bundle of fur approaches.... I snap out of the lucid flashback. My breath becomes sharp and I choke back the heavy emotions, they weigh me down like a dumbbell. She was kind. She was obedient. She was a friend when no one else was there but she has been with the angels for a long time now, she was always beside me yet I’m the only one left now, abandoned as the world collapses on itself. I am alone. Origami I could feel the light breeze as the train passed under the bridge. The sun was sinking into the horizon as I contemplated my next move. Should I try it? Would it work? Cautiously, I took the card out of my pocket, flipping it over in my hand. It looked like any ordinary playing card, an ace, except lacing around the ace in detailed inky curls, was a dragon. Its black scales glimmering in the sunset.
I placed it down on the side of the bridge, dragon facing up, no trains were passing. I lifted my hand over the card and pinched down hard on my skin until a drop of blood sparked on the surface. I watched as it dripped down the curve of my hand and onto the centre of the ace. It pooled in the middle, for a second my heart came up to my throat, was my blood not compatible? But then it slowly dispersed the ink across the card in a flurry of spirals and complicated coils until the entire card was red and intricately patterned. Entwining itself in the air, a wisp of smoke escaped the card dragon’s nostrils. I wanted to write you a story, because you're so much like language itself that it makes sense for you to be immortalised in it. Sometimes, you're rolling consonants and gentle vowels, a siren-call to sleep or the state just before it. Sometimes, you're an expletive spat through the teeth, made up of harsh consonants with serrated edges and vowels that burst like cannon fire. Oftentimes, you're both. I get worried when you're neither.
Once I started writing, I realised that one story wasn't enough. So I wrote five. I
I spend my whole life standing in front of a door Watching the keyhole Holding a little, silver key And with shaking hands, I'll hold it against the keyhole Only to take it away again Behind it, Waits a torrent of guilt, past lives and sins A past that reaches and claws at my present. And if I dare open it- I know I'll drown in them. I slide down the door, Weak hands holding the same key And I turn from the truth It's ominous presence heavy at my back. "Not today." I breathe. "Not today." |