Moon Dust


I heard footsteps… mingled with the steady drip from the broken ceilings.  In silence I strain to hear more but they hide like midday shadows in the trees.  Back against cold concrete, I peer towards a doorless opening, looking for the steam of your breath.  Dripdripdrip, drip, drip, it continues, in jazz rhythms.

Time slows and I sense an object…. then a puff of dust close to my eye and a metallic ringing in my ears.  I curl back around the wall, laughing.  You fucker!  You nearly blinded me! 

Shrinking to the floor, I get on my hands and knees, crawling away.  I round another low wall, thinking that I am flanking you, and as I look up you’re crouched on your haunches, pressing the pistol barrel into my forehead.

Hey sweety. 

(Ah fuck.) 

And then we’re running.  Tearing through the old factory, leaping the remains of workshops; just the noise of footsteps, whooping, laughing, the pop-pop-pop of BB guns, deaf to everything but the moment.  Shots burn into my thigh, my shoulder and then two hit my face – grazing my chin and flicking my cheekbone.  Instinctively, one eye closes.

We crash into the main hall, the rusted yellow remains of a conveyor between us.  I’m half blind, but I can see your mane of brown hair shaken loose from its ties.  Jumping onto the belt, I hit the switch – just like in the movies!  But there’s no power, and you laugh as you plug me full of little holes.



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.

3 thoughts on “Moon Dust”

  1. Everything you write (yes, everything) completely enchants me. It draws me in and I’m kinda lost in it, whether it’s about love or death or murder…lost in it.

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