The Rent
August 24th, 2019The Rent
The spire rose high into the cloudless sky. This was a dagger puncturing the vault of the heavens and sometimes on stormy nights you could see the life blood of the universe bleed in, trickling both down and up the spire.
This was the gateway but as of no-one knew – no-one saw the rent that sucked the joy from the world.
But soon they would.
Jamie had been watching the spire for years, he seemed to be the only one who sensed that there was something wrong. As a toddler he would scream and scream as they walked past it, now as an adult he stood and stared at it, day in day out reguardless of the weather.
Today was one of those days when it was bleeding, dark congealed pain seemed to wash over the honey coloured stone, it would have been more dramatic if it had been the bone grey of other churches in the area. And he was the crazy man who stood in the grave yard cackling to himself.
No one listened, and today the congealed clots of existence seemed to be rearing up, becoming creatures struggling in the half light. Jamie liked them even less and took a step back. He did not want to be here watching this, it felt somehow dangerous now. He fled to his hovel, a basement flat with slime mould on the wall, pitted and brown and shiny. You never wanted to touch it.
One wall was tins and another water. He checked his torches and candles and put a chair to the door. Something was coming. As if he were still a small boy he hide under the blanket, and whispered on repeat “Deamontide”. Outside the sky turned a smoked red and for once Jamie was not the only one who could see the rent. Screams filtered down to him in his nest and he shivered.
Dino Dig – Picture a Story
July 28th, 2019The Bee Shed – Picture a Story
June 28th, 2019Take off – Picture a Story
May 28th, 2019Yellow Water Lilies – Picture a Story
April 28th, 2019Metal Sheep – Picture a Story
March 28th, 2019Milk Flowers – Picture a Story
February 28th, 2019This is not Love
February 14th, 2019What we have, this burning of spirits and need for each other, this wonderous thing is not love. Love the insipid, love the overly kind and love the blinder. We are not bound by each other.
No what this is is something more than that and never – less – but it is not all pervading or clinging.
We do not drown in each other, we are not smothered.
Instead we are amplified and carried on waves of self discovery mutual and beautiful.
This is not Love, it is something Truer.