The Short Story
Entry by: Rob Lang
18th May 2015
Out I struggled. Sick, bloodied and exhausted. Terrified by the red bright, stunned by the rasp of my own discordance and heaving with all my instinct. Then mummified in the coarse dry and held against the weeping joy; a warm familiar peach scent to yawn toward and suckle.
I thrashed. Reaching beyond the punching bag and out toward merging shapes of light and dark. Peach and musk movements shrink away with their chittering noise. And quiet. I thrash. No peach, no noise. I thrash. I panic, screams for an eternity and then warm and peach and calm.
This is mine. That is mine. You are mine. What is this in my mouth? Don't do that. Do that more. No, not you, go get the peachy one. What's over there? I'll find out myself.
Confused, haggard faces peered down. Their tethers depleted, I acted and assigned each a single role. The peach one provided comfort. The other: entertainment. I spat rivers of syllables out of necessity, they coalesced for efficiency.
With sideways stares, the miniature cohort mentally organised itself, we each chose ourself as Centurion. The conductor, peach surrogate in pastel, coaxed amongst the chaos. Lava lamp relationships, television slang lexicons and bellowed secrets. One thousand negotiations a day.
I command icy velocity, certain to escape. The peach left behind. I have come so very far in just five years.
I thrashed. Reaching beyond the punching bag and out toward merging shapes of light and dark. Peach and musk movements shrink away with their chittering noise. And quiet. I thrash. No peach, no noise. I thrash. I panic, screams for an eternity and then warm and peach and calm.
This is mine. That is mine. You are mine. What is this in my mouth? Don't do that. Do that more. No, not you, go get the peachy one. What's over there? I'll find out myself.
Confused, haggard faces peered down. Their tethers depleted, I acted and assigned each a single role. The peach one provided comfort. The other: entertainment. I spat rivers of syllables out of necessity, they coalesced for efficiency.
With sideways stares, the miniature cohort mentally organised itself, we each chose ourself as Centurion. The conductor, peach surrogate in pastel, coaxed amongst the chaos. Lava lamp relationships, television slang lexicons and bellowed secrets. One thousand negotiations a day.
I command icy velocity, certain to escape. The peach left behind. I have come so very far in just five years.