Momentarily blinded by warped colour and sick illusion, drifting into the shadowy fog, mourning what never was or ever could be, waiting in an unknown sentence, sinking in the final resentment broken by bittersweet consolation, knowing only this, stupidly wondering if there could have been more.

Professor Marsh huddles over a set of slides of his most recent subject. The slides are translucent save for the data that represent the subject. They are viewed by being fastened over a florescent light.

Second Technician Franks gently slides open the laboratory door. The sound of which is just loud enough for Professor Marsh to momentarily break concentration. The professor is also eager to inform his protégé of the scanning techniques that are used in the institute.

“Ah, Technician Franks, I’ve just pinned a Z-slide for us to peruse.”

Technician Franks is intrigued by the shapes on the slide which are sharply defined by the bright light behind them. The shapes are circular and repeat in ripple effect, broken on the outer edges.

He notices that there are two additional slides lying on the professor’s bench. They both have the same code as the slide pinned over the florescent light, except each has a differing suffix.

“Professor,” the Technician asks, “I see that these slides belong to the same subject yet they have an X and Y suffix, what is the difference?”

“Call me Spencer,” the professor kindly offers, “I think you know what XYZ means.”

“It’s a 3-D image,” Franks astutely states, “How does one combine the slides?”

The professor explains that each slide is scanned and saved onto the database. “Once the slides are processed we are able to build a unique profile of the subject. All manner of information may be extrapolated from this juncture.”

Spellbound and intoxicated by a dream, fading into another, wondering if I am awake. Is this real?

I am hungover by images and feelings. What do they mean? Is it some sort of premonition? What I do know is that I can no longer deny the answer to the question that I ask myself.

The Rock stays the same
The Hard Place is change

Nothing Left
To this life
Familiar paths
Beaten
I've been here before
I am sure
Of this
But the sign says
"New road"
I know that tree
That puddle is
The same shape
Those footprints
Are mine

"New pictures"
The book proclaims
The cover
Looks the same
I might as well look
It's more entertaining
Than the faded portrait
Straining to stare
From my prison wall

The Endless Void

Existential torment

Thrust into this life

Kicking and screaming

I appear to become

Quiet

He seems peaceful

Kind

I am still

Kicking and screaming

Rage burning

Hotter and hotter

Because of existing

In this world

Where there is nothing

Nothing left

For me

Inside of me

Things

Used to make me happy

Happiness is gone

I am writhing

Inside

A meaningless existence

There is no

Meaning

In life

There is

Just joy

In being

There is

Only love

What happens

When love is gone?

Flight

This bird in a cage, the door is open, too scared to venture out. The steel bars comfort, the cold, scratched floor protects me from falling. I remember yesterday, taking a tentative flutter outside. There I was, naturally guiding myself through the sky and trees, effortlessly exploring, touching on confidence.

I become tired and the fear returns, it is all I can do to fly with all my might to my cage. My sanctuary, before I fall, before I am attacked, before I have to fend off anything real or imaginary.

And I hold onto the bars, firmly steadying my claws, tying myself into elaborate knots of fear. Tangling and untangling in understanding and confusion. Until the next brief flight I search for courage.

I close my eyes and hold my breath. For a moment I hear myself breathe deep and soft and I hear the other birds in the trees sing their sweet song.

Mask

He is the type of person who believes talking to himself to be less dangerous than conversing with others. Through this mistaken belief he creates a dialogue that bears him little respect. He does not know this though. This form of self-torture he practices is so subtle that it is beyond his capacity to comprehend. Habitually he constantly insults himself this way. He sentences himself to live alone and unhappy.

This young man, in his practices is rapidly becoming less young by doing so, in a way that is tragic in its wastefulness. He may eat healthy meals. He may walk and bike frequently. He may offer himself to others. He may take certain pride in his appearance. He may be tidy and meticulous with his home and possessions. But he is killing himself.

The frame of his life is minute. With ingenious creativity he fashions himself into this shrinking frame. Until now, he has been able to fit inside. But now, he realises his quandary and starts to devise a scheme that is (to him) intricate and liberating.

He will create a new self. Not as he has done before, where he changes patterns one by one. This kind of evolution is unjustly cruel in its snail pace. But he will do something altogether different. He will destroy himself, utterly, completely. He will turn off his projected image and a supposedly identical replacement will appear.

It will be simple. All he will need to do is will himself out of existence and his replacement will take over. The replacement will be a vibrant, happy young man. People will marvel at the transformation. They will wonder after many years how he changed so suddenly into the person they always wanted. Of course, to this man’s knowledge only, there will be no transformation at all. He will be replaced by an imposter.

The imposter will be a very convincing replica of the old man. A doppelganger so joyous to witness that it wouldn’t bear considering how it came to be. It would be inconceivable to anyone but him that such a thing could happen anyway.

His death and switch to new life takes an instant…

The young man wills his new-self into being, beckoning him to step outside of the old man’s form, leaving him invisible.

The young man watches his new-self walk back down the path from where he came. The old-self feels his presence quickly fade.

Pinch in the Sky

    I

Stretching high they look down with intense alien eyes – the few lights that follow the road to the summit of the reserve.  The skyscrapers and houses below collectively make a soft, humble connection with the black sky.  A small fountain is a prominent feature of the reserve.  Water trickles from its top level into the pool.  Drips and drops tap-dance in perfect choreography.

     Below the northern side of the reserve is the city.  In the centre an ominous looking tower – a bastard child of the city, out of place in this environment.  Volatile in nature, it contrasts with the carefully contained power of the efficient network that surrounds it.

     Inside, loathsome and tragic creatures abound.  There is Nev, the remorseless entrepreneur who resembles an unhealthy Chihuahua, and his dim girlfriend he affectionately calls Dogface.  These are just two of the human-animals who reside in the tower, which is known to its residents as ‘The Castle.’  They are indicative of the tension that pulses within its walls.  A dynamic arranged dominant and submissive characters.

     The Castle is the home of Arnold.  It has been for most of his life, though he knows just one of its rooms.  It is a warm, well air-conditioned room, but the décor, bed and chair are all clinical white.  Here, Arnold is tied to a bed.  And a zombie tickles him with a feather, which is passed, zombie to zombie, like in a relay.

     The number of zombies participating in Arnold’s torture is difficult to determine.  They are all very similar and there has been too many to make an accurate tally.  Hundreds of zombies probably have passed through his room by now.  All of them are soulless and sexless.  They are human-like in physical form, but lack particular human features such as genitalia and nipples.  Also lacking are eyes, a mouth, nostrils and open ears.

     While one of the zombies tickles Arnold with a feather, another sits freely on a chair, by his bedside.  This cold companion shows him photos albums containing happy snapshots – pictures that show the wonders of nature and ‘the joys of the human experience.’

     One would think viewing these pictures would be a relief in Arnold’s situation.  This is not so, because these albums have been shown to him for the past twenty-seven years.  Each album contains the same pictures as any other, but at different angles.  The supposedly new angles he fails to determine as any different from the confusing myriad of ones before.  The similarity of the barrage of photos tortures him, making his mind spin.

     These albums are the only mental stimulation available to Arnold.  They are the only part of the outside world shared with him, and are shown to him time and time again.  To him, they have no value as worthy objects.

     If Arnold had a choice to look at something else, he surely would not hesitate to do so.  If he had a choice, he would gladly send these albums to a furnace and watch them burn until they are ash, NEVER to ridicule him again.  Arnold sometimes imagines he has a pen and the photos are blank pieces of paper.  These items would serve no practical purpose however.  For his hands are tied to his bed, thus preventing him from writing a desperate note for help…

     II

Arnold has come to expect that nothing would any be different after so many years.  But one particular day, he has a surprise greater than any other surprise – a fully formed human female enters the room.  She has beautiful human holes.  Vivid clothing adorns her body.  He admires her flesh that is real in colour.  The visitor is a complete human!  Arnold knows the difference between male and female – that he is male and she female.  He feels an urge to touch her.  This is his first experience with an adult female since being cast aside twenty-seven years ago.  This makes the encounter even more poignant.

     After the necessary introductions and confirmation of Arnold’s identity, the visitor declares, “…Well, Arnold, there seems to be an error in administration.  You are free to go.  I can only offer apologies for the mistake.  There is no compensation for errors such as these, but I’m sure being free to explore life outside is compensation enough.”

     She moves towards Arnold’s bed and crouches to untie his hands and feet.  Patiently she waits as he pushes himself upwards, into a sitting position.  He rotates his body and drops his feet onto the floor.  Arnold slowly tries to stand.  After several attempts, he considers that his wasted muscles may not be capable of the task.  His purpose, however, gives him strength, enabling him to stand despite his weakness.  He follows his saviour out of the room – still in a state of shock.

      Upon exiting the room, Arnold finds himself in a corridor and looks back.  He sees an orange brick wall with no door from where he came.  Staring at the wall, he wonders, “How did I get through?  Did I go through a door that suddenly disappeared once I got through?  Or did I actually walk through a wall?

     He turns to find his rescuer gone.  Without any door in sight, she seemingly had vanished.  Arnold is momentarily stunned and stays there, standing completely still.  He then snaps out of his wonder and proceeds to walk down an apparently infinitely long corridor.  As he walks, two images become more defined with each step.  It is a shady looking couple hanging around, ready for a hustle.  “Hey baby, I’ll show you a good time,” the female offers to Arnold, with distinctly cheap decadence.

      Arnold walks onwards displaying no interest.  Behind him, her male companion brands her.  “Nobody is interested anymore, you dismal slut.  Just look at yerself.”  The intimidating display causes a sense of fear to enter and envelop Arnold.  This throws him into a panic.  His walking pace becomes ever more frantic.  Fear fuelling every step, he moves with increasing speed.  He begins to run.

      With reality and illusion clashing, the brick walls to either side turn into mirrors.  Black lines, like ink being sprayed by water pistols, shoot across them, ever faster.  Colours emerge from the mirrors.  The coloured oily shapes unsuccessfully fight to blend with each other, causing them to constantly mutate.  The tension heightens.  White hologrammatic balls enter the chaos.  Chasing Arnold, firing through him and penetrating the walls with piercing electric noise.  Suddenly it all stops…

     Arnold makes a fall of several metres to land in an indoor pool.  He is in a cavern, obviously still within the bounds of the Castle.  The cavern, lit by florescent tubes is filled with beautiful, well-tendered shrubs.  Almost covering the walls, the plants allow for a few brick to be visible.

      Spotting an inviting corner, Arnold paddles to the opposite end of the pool.  He sits on a ledge just under the water surface.  A man appears from behind a bush and swims over to Arnold.  He places himself next to him.  Arnold lifts his head to make eye contact.  He sees no life inside of the man’s eyes and a sense of dread creeps into him.

     III

Back in his white room of twenty-seven years, Arnold sometimes looks at his hosts.  Is there anything different this time?  Yes - but only just.  Occasionally, bright pinks, yellows and greens appear over the pallid shells of the pitiful entertainers.  This happens though very rarely and for just a few holy moments.  Arnold wonders… what could happen.

The Silent Bird

A large flock of birds gather at land's end. One is scared and stands near the edge of the cliff. Another bird nearby tells him, "You are a bird, you can fly. Fly high over the land and the sea." The other birds stare at the scared bird while the words are spoken. As the scared bird stands still without response, the others wait. And wait. One lets out a painful cry. One by one all of the birds start crying. The cries become louder and louder and together the piercing sounds gives way to a deep lament. The flock becomes quieter and quieter and a silent mourn ensues.

A bird lifts its wings, ready for flight and takes a last look at the scared bird. He turns his focus to the eyes of the birds to signal he is going. He takes off, over the sea and the others follow. The flock forms an arrow and soon curves its shape to head back to the land. As the birds fly, they each take a glimpse of the scared bird.

He flutters his wings, pushes his body upwards and lifts himself off the ground. He hovers over a small area, around and around he flies. He raises his altitude slightly in order to fly into a tree and rest.

To this day, the scared bird sits in a tree near the edge of the cliff. He grows old sitting there, withering, waiting to die.

"I cannot fly high over the land and sea. I will fall to my death."