I’m walking down this dead end street.  The memories of massive spiders crawling over my hands as I reach in for my gift are strong, so I keep them inside my pockets and I jump at every piece of thread or thin fabric that brushes my knuckles.  I can smell the burning and the beer from the previous week.  Dismembered hands and feet still lurk in the privet hedges that border those grey houses with black windows.  In the dim light of evening I can see jagged, white bones protruding from the stumps of wrists and ankles like accusing fingers.  Gravel and molars crunch under my feet against the broken glass.

Poor Mark never had one chance to blow.  Not even one opportunity to fuck up.  Hoisted aloft by the deranged and the hopeless, they threw him on the bonfire and danced around his agonised thrashing, imitating his moves into a dreadful ballet.  Tea and sandwiches for the nearby elderly ghetto count for nothing in this town.  He had to burn because the locals wanted to see if purity could be ignited.  They wanted to pinch marble, to crush diamonds, to punch through the face of a cliff and look for the bones beyond the slimy rocks.

The locals dreamed of impossible things for sure, except they dreamed of the wrong impossible things.  Why dream of spending hours trying to save a wounded butterfly when you can dream of ending its misery with a rock and two seconds of violence?


Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

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