#flashnificent7

[hierarchyofone]

Placebo

We troop in dutifully, softened and prepared by weeks of carefully planned and placed material.  There is shuffling and coughing and a hundred different hands reach for their mobile phones.  Whispered conversations are brought to a premature close by the dimming lights and the opening curtain. Silent in the darkness, we bask in the light reflecting from projector, to screen, to eye.  Invited to sit in shadow, and be overwhelmed by an experience that is overwhelming by design, we become receptive and passive.  There is a tendency to relax our critical faculties, to allow images and sound to flow through us.  Value judgements are suspended; scenes and dialogue are stored for further processing and discussion.  We may say we hated a film afterwards, but we tend to see each through to the finale. It is at the end, when rising lights and rolling credits inform us that our presence is no longer required, that we resume our lives.  Our aching backs are stretched and our tired eyes readjust to the bright lights of the foyer. Is anything else happening?  The walk to the exit seems heavy-footed and unnatural and our responses to each other seem slow.    Is there more?  Is it possible that over the coming days the fresh cultural references we have absorbed will be regurgitated into our everyday lives, and a desire to be ‘in the know’ will drive our peers to undergo the same painless procedure we have just experienced ourselves.  We have not been harmed, and yet we have been changed.  We have exchanged time in our lives for a shared entertainment experience, and this perhaps is a pleasurable diversion, because looking at what is around us too closely can raise feelings of uncertainty or helplessness.  There is medicine to prevent feelings like this.  There is medicine for everybody, and near infinite methods of delivery.  Our power and control in our lives is that we choose our medicines and dosages.  Neither of us is certain that this is a true representation of freedom, but there is a tacit understanding that to discuss this openly is more than we can bear.  As we stumble unsteadily from the cinema, arm in arm, we avoid making eye contact with those that we pass on the journey home.

[hierarchyofone]

What The Paramedic Whispered In His Ear

Ripped apart, fucked beyond understanding.  Crumpled on the floor, surrounded by fragments of glass and hypotheses.  A physical manifestation of a lack of structure.  There’s a fragility here that has wider implications when viewed via the geometric patterns of molecular biology, but is neither detectable nor comprehensible when magnified more closely, or viewed from far distance. 'Before you try to speak sir, are you certain that you speak with the agreement and authority of every cell?  We replace many of the cells in our bodies over time.  Are they vetted for their political views, or potential for cruelty to animals?  Is a discarded cell from Fidel Castro finding its way into an elderly Republican the true definition of cancer?’

He coughs and tries to speak, but is unable to articulate beyond a groan. ‘There are a number of ways this could go.  You could persist sir, you could sit in meditation and heal, while a succession of moulds and parasites make your body home.  You could even give yourself up to a higher power, a third-party of your choice.  Your triumphs and tragedies would no longer be your own, but you would have an idea to talk to in the dark.’

An eyelid flickers, an abortive attempt to move. ‘You know your own mind sir, even now, which is a great comfort.  There’s little more we can do for you. Baby steps sir, we wish you every success.'

The paramedic’s footsteps recede, and an ambulance door slams.  The engine fires up, and its sonorous note recedes into the distance.

[hierarchyofone]

That's Not Me

It started during the heatwave, in the days of melting roads and burning skin.  I was out on the grass verge, staring at the asphalt as small slow bubbles crept upward and popped in their own time.  My shadow was cast into the road, it bubbled along with the liquefied street surface in a malicious harmony.  As I watched, the road decomposed and the heat twisted the light. I re-entered the house, fuzzy-headed and faint, you caught sight of me, sweating and greasy and insisted I head straight for the shower.  I thought it strange that although I acquiesced, the voice that spoke seemed to project from slightly in front of me. In the shower, spotlit from above, I set the temperature to cool, and had no words when my shadow reached across and turned the control back to hot.  My fuzzy-headedness increased and I felt myself melting in the now boiling water.  I stumbled frantically from the shower cubicle, switched off the lights and drew the blind down across the window with the last of my strength. 'There's no shadow without light.'  I thought, slumping against the wall below the window. 'ACTUALLY, THIS IS ALL SHADOW.' came a voice like a thunderclap, from all directions at once. The light flicked on, I was silent, painted to the floor and featureless. 'Are you all right in there?' came your voice through the door. 'I'm fine honey, out in a minute,' it said, in a voice that oozed with the luxury of flesh, in three dimensions, in my voice. It opened the bathroom door, and stepped through into my life.

[hierarchyofone]

Hey, You Awake?

There are whispers, I am guided from my bed toward the sea.  Every step feels leaden.  The whisperers are blaming the moon.  They hiss and shake their fists in fear and baffled fury. An old house perched on a clifftop, architecture by Escher.  It is a displaced, misremembered imitation of the house of my grandparents.  A midnight path leads past the twisted re-enactment of mock-tudor suburbia to a stone tower, where a fire has been lit beneath the moon. I can hear it scream as mercury drips from the burning globe into the seawater.  Something is happening behind me, but I am unable to turn or investigate.  I remain focused on the scene put in front of me.  'You see!  You see!' they cry, as the mercury floats in the seawater. The execution is soon over, but there is no lessening of the dead-weight..  When there is nothing left of the moon, the stars begin to drip down the night sky like rain against a window.  They join the body of the moon in the sea, which is now a bright silver, while the sky and land are dark.  The silver surface is dotted with the carcasses of creatures poisoned by the mercury. The whisperers are frightened and retreat, breathing rumours against the sun and plotting a dawn raid.  They mutter of nets and ambush. I seem alone, but there is still something behind me that I am not permitted to see.  I lumber along the cliff-top, fighting the weight and hoping to reach the crooked facsimile of my grandparents home.  There is a laugh somewhere in the darkness, and the landscape tips and throws me down the cliff face. Treachery.  I expected the shock to wake me, but tonight there's a horrible red trail from the cliff face to here.  I lie on my back with my breath frosting in the air and wait.  Caught between unforgiving stone and a poisonous sea.

[hierarchyofone]

The House Of The Moon

The door and ground floor windows were boarded up, high branches grazed the roof.   Each fresh movement in the air caused wooden fingers to scrape across the tiles and tap upon the upper windows. We stared in fear and awe at the majesty of the abandoned house. It was best there at night, the darkness of the surrounding street allowed the moonlight to frame the scene perfectly.  If the wind blew, and an errant cloud passed across the moon’s face, the whole scene would be plunged into darkness.  As the cloud passed the house would reappear, seemingly brighter than before. It became addictive, this short pilgrimage just a few minutes from our home.  It seemed to us that the character of the house changed dependent on the moonlight.  On the night of a new moon nothing was visible, the house did not seem to exist.  As the moon waxed, the house would increase in stature.  By full moon, the house seemed complete.  Happy voices and light seemed to echo from within. As the moon waned, the voices became argumentative, then quieter and melancholy.   Eventually, in the waning crescent moon, the house seemed desolate and silent.  It was in daylight that we became brave enough to explore what lay behind the house.  We were not prepared for the immaculately striped lawn, neat flowerbeds and tranquil fountain flowing gently into a stone pond.    Unnerved we fled, and for a while we abandoned our moonlit vigils.  Neither of us wished to discuss what we had seen or felt. Some weeks later I returned alone, insomniac and restless, seeking respite from buzzing thoughts that had left me unable to sleep.  A full moon shone cold against the stone. I did not register the difference at first.  Tired and distracted, I stared numbly at the blue-white façade.  Then, as the wind died, I became aware of the absence of noise.  It was several minutes before I noticed that the front door was no longer boarded. It was impossible for me to refrain from knocking. The door was opened by a smiling round-headed man with a twinkle in his cold blue eyes.  I was ushered into a cavernous candlelit reception room.  The room was full of pale, dark eyed people in immaculate evening dress.  They stood idly in groups, while fish-faced footmen provided champagne on silver trays and delicately wrapped packets of cocaine.  The crowded room was silent, and the guests parted to make way for me. I was handed a glass of champagne. The far end of the room led out into the garden via French doors, I was guided out into the night by a footman.  The rest of the household followed in single file. The lawn was crisp underfoot and the perfectly maintained flowerbeds presented row after row of white lilies, laying a heavy perfume over the garden.  I watched the behaviour of the other guests with a mixture of fear and bemusement.  Each filed left and right in turn and hauled themselves up into the branches of the trees that fringed the garden.   They sat there silently, like dumb theatregoers awaiting an opening curtain. The man who had answered the door re-appeared and took my glass, holding it up to the moonlight so each bubble shone like a star.  Then he kissed my hand and returned the glass to me.  I was shocked, finding myself unprepared for unprompted hand-kissing.  I sipped the champagne to try and hide my confusion. He made a deep bow and backed away from me, I did not have time to cry out before the splash, his ample bulk descending into the water of the pond.  I rushed forward to help him but there was nobody there.  The pond was still, with small transparent fish darting aimlessly across it and the moon’s reflection sat silently above.

[hierarchyofone]

Mind The Gap

The underground is crammed; it is the middle of summer.  Each person's face rammed into the next person's sweaty armpit as the carriages lurch sickeningly from side to side.  I love this time of year, it is cool down here and I have my own air-conditioned cabin. On the cameras I can see the carriages, a claustrophobe's nightmare.  I can stretch out and read the paper.  I have no fear of enclosed spaces, but I don't like people.  I'm quite happy up here in my private box thank you very much, even if the train can drive itself. This job has its benefits.  For example, I can no longer recognise faces.  To somebody who enjoyed socialising that might be a problem.  To me, it's a bonus.  I no longer worry about the possibility of offending somebody by blanking them, I'd go mad if I did.  It happens all the time.  It also means that I no longer get called as a witness when something nasty happens on the train. That used to happen all too frequently. I've also lost any real sense of time.  I just keep 'driving' the train until somebody appears to replace me.  Some shifts feel longer than others.  This one has dragged. I look again at the carriages, today there are lots of people wearing 'London 2012' t-shirts.  What's that all about?  London's always been London.  Is it going to somehow become even more 'London' in 2012?  I scan through the paper looking for clues, but it's still full of rumours that Prince Charles and Princess Diana's marriage may be in trouble.  Ah well, as long as the passengers bought their tickets, they can put whatever they want on their t-shirts. I push the smooth bone of my finger down on the plastic 'Doors Closing' button, and hear the whine of the motor pick up as we head round to Edgeware Road.  Again.

[hierarchyofone]

Chipped Teeth, Blunt Claws

I can hear you padding up and down the carpeted floor above me.  Occasionally the pacing stops and your vintage typewriter clatters into action, beating out symmetrical looking poems on the care of vintage typewriters.  I ascend the spiral staircase toward you, a repetitive visual of my feet entering and leaving the frame as I gaze down, not wanting to miss my step.  I leave the food I have prepared on your dresser; the sun is shining in through the window and you look sick.  The edges of your fur are transparent. I watch from the doorway as you sniff at the food, picking listlessly at morsels before dropping them back onto the plate.  I retrace my steps and return with a glass of water.  Your nose is dry and you are breathing through your mouth, tongue lolling helplessly over your lower teeth. You sip at the water, but growl at my insistence that you should drink more.  I retreat, the dizzying staircase carrying me back to the kitchen where I sit and drink tea.  My ears twitch like a dreaming dog’s as I listen for your movements upstairs.  I measure time by the staccato bursts of energy that you expend on your typewriter.  They become less frequent as afternoon turns into evening.  The sunlight becomes a battle of pink and dark gold. Once more I ascend the stairs. The entrance to the room half-blocked with typewritten paper; I push open the door.  You are sat, helpless, at the desk.  You accept my hand, rise, and shamble across the carpet, collapsing into bed and rolling weakly under the covers.  I place my hand on your forehead, it is burning hot, and your intended protest is too weak to be heeded. I sleepwalk through the house, closing curtains and switching off lights before returning and clambering clumsily into the other side of the bed.  Your breath rattles in your throat.  Our eyes meet and our arms close around each other.  We have been here a long time. I hold on until your body is cold.  Open the curtains, allow the moonlight in. When feeling catches up with me, I run, bursting out the front door with such violence that it splinters back against the wall.  Lights come on in the neighbouring houses.  My pace does not slow until I reach the woods where I howl, and I howl, and I howl.

[hierarchyofone]

Tooth and Claw

You call me and ask me to meet you at seven, on the roof of the school.  As I clamber upwards onto the tar-paper surface, I notice a trail of damp muddy footprints.  You are already there, wearing a tiger mask and clutching a reporter’s notebook.  You look epic silhouetted against the sky, your shadow stretching out past me across the length of the flat-roofed platform. Turning to look at me, you give a lazy salute and then jump.  By the time I reach the edge you’re gone.  I look at the muddy footprints on the edge of the roof, then see the notebook on the ground below. I could climb down the way I came, but your absence suggests you made it.  I jump, nearly forgetting to roll as I land.  I'm sure there are going to be bruises, but we both like bruises.  You are nowhere to be seen.  I pick up the notebook.  It is full of half-finished poems describing the pages of the notebook itself.  I can’t find your footprints to track the trail of where you’ve gone, so I retrace my steps and track the footprints that will tell me where you've been. Out of the school, past the little parade of shops and into the quiet suburban street that has the little abandoned house on it.  I know immediately that the house is where you’ve been, for we know nobody on this road, and it does not lead to another. I duck down the cracked concrete steps, then cut across the muddy flowerbeds to the front door, aware that the neighbouring houses are occupied and not wanting to be seen.  The door is ajar. I open it slowly and slide cautiously through.  The place is silent.  There is a large cardboard box in the entrance hall, it contains an assortment of animal masks. I rummage through until I find one I like.  I put it on. My vision is restricted slightly, as is my breathing which seems louder.  I pad through the entrance hall into what would have been a living room.  It is musty with disuse, and the last rays of the sun reflect off the dust motes that hang lazily by the windows. I return to the entrance hall and sniff around the other doorways.  There is a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom all accessible from here.  I decide that I would like to see what I look like in my mask.  I enter the bathroom.  Out of curiosity I turn on the taps and am surprised when stagnant water rushes out.  The pipes whine and judder.  Scared by the noise they make I turn them off, though the cold tap leaks and spits a thin dribble of water into the sink.  I am absorbed with staring at myself in the huge mirror above the sink when I become aware that I am no longer alone.  A tiger is standing behind me and its arms encircle my waist.  My rubber wolf-face fails to respond to my surprise. You are gently insistent.  Tugging on my clothes until they come away, then guiding my hands onto your own garments.  We take it in turns to explore each other.  There is no shock and no pain when we realise that we are growling and hissing, nipping and clawing, and our assumed faces have become our own. When finished we wordlessly lap water from the leaky tap in the darkened bathroom.  There is no sound at all from the world outside.