Posted in Prose

#4

It takes a certain monumental courage, I think, to admit your own cowardice.

Advertisements
Posted in Prose

omega

When I think, I think of pain and tragedy. Whole empires rise and fall in my dreams. Every moment the impact plays over in my mind: the crash, the fall, the breathless moment of surprise, the first stab of pain.
Was it the same for you?
I am a shadow of a human, half-haunted by blood and glory. Sometimes I think they can all see through my veneer of concern and caution, to the writhing mass of wrong underneath. I conjure blood-stained battlefields as I daydream; I construct cities only to knock them down again. In my mind kings and queens die gruesome deaths. As much as I try to hide it, my imagination is a savage, feral thing, as beastly as the monsters in my head.

Posted in Prose

after

After, I would think too much. I do that often. But this, I would examine this in infinitesimal detail, right down to the crunch of gravel under my palms and the automatic O my mouth curved into. I would replay the memory in my head, again and again, trying to hold on to the blur of trees and road and sky around me as I fell. I would try to stop, freeze it – but it had been too fast for that. I would wonder if they had tried to yell, to say something. I would remember the thump of music in my ears – I would forget the song, too quickly – and the sudden rush of wind replacing it. I would wonder how it had looked, to everyone else. Did I spin? Was it graceful? A part of me would loudly point out the idiocy in that. This had not been a ballet. There was a term for my dissection of wispy memory. Morbid fascination. But I would think too much, knowing all of this. I would think and replay the rush, the collision, the shaky reassembling of limbs and mind after the sharp short-circuit. I had closed my eyes, I think. I would wish I hadn’t. I would wish I had seen it all.

Posted in Prose

Circle

“The fever might addle your mind,” they had told me. “Don’t be afraid of your dreams,” my sister had added, squeezing my hand. I am not afraid of dreams, I wanted to say. I am afraid of the fever, the disease, the dreaded desert plague. But the plague had swollen my tongue long ago to a useless lump of flesh in my mouth. Mute and half-blind and numb with the anaesthesia, I was little more than a carcass. But in dreams my world was vivid, sharp as the needles in my skin, and it was a mad world. Populated by pain and misery, brightened by my drugged state.

Continue reading “Circle”