press

Gentle tap to the side of your own face

yes, you’re back in the room

tap, tap

keep it steady

like typing on a keyboard, or a pianist

learning notes

note the slight shift in reality

shifting into focus

with nothing to do with vision

lenses changing

lungfuls and pinched abrasions

 

grit your teeth and try hard to be heavy

choice is

float, or swim

sink into the cushions

if you can

 

tap the back of your hand

Day 2.

Again, this beginning of a piece of fiction was written on the allocated day, but I am only getting around to publishing now.

There is no time for riddles. Even if there was, I have no patience for them. A murder has been committed. We know the culprit. We know the outcome. That is what the believer of natural order requires. The human requires reasons, explanations, long, drawn-out extrapolations of the facts. So, natural law requires a clean shot to the head. Result, removal of the threat, grief, certainly, but, ultimately, closure.

Human law puts the safety on the trigger and, quite often, empties the cylinder before the gun can reach your hand. We have evolved in a search for answers and we continue to claw at the mud for them. “Why” becomes so irrelevant when the act is over, but these are the states of things. I have to ask, and ask as though it matters.

Day 1. (First Line Prompt)

I did write this on the first day of NaNoWriMo, but am disorganised. May miss the odd day, but my aim is to write the beginning of a new piece every day this month, so that I can go back to an with potential afterwards. 

I am telling you this because you are the only person who will not judge me.

Do believe me when I tell you that I would much rather tell this story to no one. As it is, however, I find that I must confide my sins in someone and, as you must know, that person could only ever be you.

I could not tell you where it began. Perhaps it has been since the loss of my mother. Perhaps it began long ago, in the house to which I was born. A household to which I am still a pariah, an embarrassment, at best.

Many, upon hearing my situation and believing themselves to know its facts, would certainly be inclined to blame my predicament on my mother. Since her passing, I have often found myself traversing the Limehouse streets again, and, as you are one of the few who know of her origins, and consequently my own, perhaps you can understand that such a practice has brought me some small comfort. As you are the sole bearer, aside from myself, of the true nature of my inheritance, please allow me to make certain things clear.

The popular fiction of many of our writers may show Limehouse to be a source of mystery, but I can assure you that no cunning villain, nor fierce creature, nor exotic spell has ever presented itself to me outside of such paper fantasies. These alleyways offer me peace acceptance, no more, no less, until I must once again emerge into the larger, louder city and remove myself from the distractions of my grief.

Alas, friend, I could not tell you what has changed to cause such an outcome in me, but the consequences of the change are, without question, the strangest that I have ever heard of in the papers of science, or of fiction. I will explain as best I can. All I ask is your trust in me, to tell you the truth in its entirety. After everything, I could do you no greater disservice than to lie.

And so, I offer my truth.

 

Death is like this. It is a wave, not the crashing flood-waves of the Old Testament, but a gentle ebb and flow, engulfing our city, then releasing it again. It sweeps away the souls of the lost, their abandoned bodies mere shells on the shore of greater things than we. Invisible, the tide folds around us every day, stretching into eternity.

The unlikely truth of the matter, my friend, is that I can see it, and see it all.

The gentleman on his bicycle, his heart weak and approaching failure. The expectant mother who shall not survive childbirth. I see them, see through them, to their end.

You may fear me to be hysterical, made ridiculous by my recent grief, but I assure you, I am quite sane. Understanding that those words would likely be the first defense of the insane, please allow me to outline my actions of the past few weeks, in order to persuade you, I pray, of the soundness of my mind.

Upon first experiencing my – we shall call it “condition”- I was taken quite ill, and, shamed though I am to admit it, succumbed to unconsciousness right there in the busy high street. Returning to awareness in a busy infirmary, surrounded by those who’s sicknesses played out before my eyes like the acts of a play, was a highly unsettling experience and, after diagnosing my attending physician with the fatal beginnings of an illness of the blood, I fled. I have since learned to contain myself, and ceased to share my visions. The clear play of fear, emerging from the disbelief on the good doctors face, is one that I should not wish to inspire in my fellow man again.

Games.

My subconscious is more my conscious of late

My dreams roll into my days

There is no great mystery

In where my thoughts are leading

They fall in patterns at my feet

And trip me

 

And when you’re asking me

Why I’m always early and you’re late

We find ourselves on our feet

And echoes of our shouting lasts for days

But it’s not as though I didn’t know where this was leading

But to you it seems it was a mystery

 

Loving a good murder mystery

I laugh when you say you’ll kill me

Because you’re joking and leading

The way when the bulbs have blown and it’s late

And in a few days

We will sit together smiling again, with restless feet

 

It’s quite the feat

To keep up the mystery

And after days

The clues that you leave are still unclear to me

Think, isn’t it rather late

In the game for all this following and leading?

 

 

I thought you were leading

So I followed the imprints of your feet

But, rather too late

I solved a mystery

And found there was no foothold here, for me

Even after having wasted so many days

 

But we’ll give it a few days

To settle like sand, and see where it’s leading

Whether or not it’s leading to me

Where I fall at your feet

Is no mystery

But we’re both tired, and it’s late

 

Turning to me you mention that you’re not a fan of mystery

And I see I’ve been dreaming days too often, swan-diving into reality too late

So I fall over my own feet and land on where they were leading