Never met

Kernels of hope lost in the warren open ended and blind alleyed. Would I wish it again? would I tread in the faint washed out prints almost taken by the sea, Will I step from the twisted metal? a catastrophists fall and miraculous conclusion? I fear not, for it is not the flesh that disappoints me this time, but plot-less lines that mock me, the circles of possibility and impossibility that run concentrically around my thoughts, that penetrate their fibre and threaten to twist my body in turn; all the while dancing to the tune of my dying. Our penance is shared in our silent pact; forever wondering never concluding. Only through our death can this equation be balanced, can the sum be squared and each of us carry the burden of love like a dead bird in our breast pocket.

The Stranger

The pain is suspended like a coloured swirl of paint within a marble, the cold vitreous smoothness petrifying the tumult beneath. We are all strangers beneath the surface; even to ourselves.

Silent city

The gulls traverse the desolate streets as dawn breaks across the city, like white ghosts silently following the street grids in funereal succession. It was Christmas day, and the streets were graced only by morning frost and the detritus of the previous night’s festivities. I was enthralled by this perfect solitude and the blinding brilliance of sun on ice: sullied by none, I its chosen trespasser. I walk past George square and follow St Vincent Street to its crest. Looking westwards and down I see another figure shuffling on a treacherous slippery path towards the Clyde, occasionally loosing their traction, arms flailing and then finding their balance again, only to repeat the cycle moments later.

I, spectator

My attention is caught by a commotion to the west of Jamaica Street Bridge; curious, I carefully navigate between the lanes of cars and reach the ornate metal balustrade which spans its length. Several individuals have already gathered and are craning over the railing to peer into dark water below; I look down to see a young man struggling in the river beneath me and in that moment I am overwhelmed by a deluge of thoughts and emotions. I glance at the others on the bridge, but they are already consumed by the horror of the spectacle; transfixed in macabre curiosity.
The month was October and the river was swollen with the autumn rains, its insuperable power thrashing the muddy waters to a frisson of white. A life buoy had been thrown out of reach; frantic rescuers could be seen shouting instructions which quickly disappeared into the roar of the water. It was not long before he was at the mercy of the river, pulling him ever further from shore, his efforts in vain. We watch him clinging to life, strength waning. He disappears beneath the dark surface; moments later to be returned frightened and flailing to continue his fight. Those moments beneath become longer, his struggle more futile; guttering, choking, the freezing water tasting his last seconds. I can feel him gasp for breath and he disappears beneath the surface again, the seconds creep by; but this time he does not return. I stand in silence with the others on the bridge. Reluctant to abandon hope, rescuers continue to sweep the river; we continue to watch their frenetic activities, the dinghies and divers; the police and ambulance crews scattered along the waterfront in contrast to our mournful stance. Then one by one, with tacit acceptance, the other spectators slowly begin to drift away to their respective lives, as though they were caught in the current of their own river; one which flows from birth till death.

The traveller

A traveller could dissolve into the cities serpentine streets, winding intestines emptying into plazas and precincts; they empty and fill with a circadian pulse all their own. I watch as the rain falls obliquely on the grey wasted facades of anonymous buildings. A droplet of moisture condenses on the cold glass of a shop front; the drops coalesce, forming tributaries, which empty into streams that follow the cracks in the paving stones, paths that have been worn by the constant ebb and flow of the cities inhabitants. The souls that have passed here have left this indelible mark on the vacuum; I take a moment to commune with the spectral crowds, I imagine those I will never know, distinct and individual as I, yet on a busy street we slip past each other like grains of sand, for we are no more than inert elements in this dark ether.

To the nameless

She was aged between twenty and forty; it was difficult to be sure, a hard life on the streets had taken its toll. At one time she would have been beautiful, but the once strong features had sunken beneath a tangle of broken veins and bruises, as though she was being reclaimed by the wilderness. Her eyes pleaded a singular infinite pain, her mouth a toothless gape, slumped in rags these are lives not yet lost, and in forsaking them we become lost ourselves. As children they too may have laughed from the boughs of trees, or painted joy through seasons of snow or gilded everlasting summers, perhaps they were beaten by merciless fists, or were loved immeasurably, or were hated without reason; a million forgotten moments, a thousand dreams lost in a city of discarded souls.

Venus insufficiency

To explore the labyrinthine interiors, to somehow peer through the clouding flesh and see whether the words chalked at the back of her mind were "I love you".
The machine lay before him on the turquoise rug; it was an ageing Underwood, its beautiful black carcass breaking into rust where life had left its mark. The ink reels sat exposed on two parallel pins like the turrets of a mechanical castle, the red and black ribbon drawn taut before the waiting hammers; some never returning fully to their rest, sitting proud within the interior of the mechanism. The reels were simple to remove; slipping over the pins the ribbon pulled free from the body of the typewriter. He carefully unrolled the largest reel and examined the ribbon carefully against a sheet of A4. He could read fragments of words, sometimes whole sentences; slowly, laboriously, he could distill some part of her interior through the words she had rendered in type; words petrified in the ribbon like insects in amber. He spent long nights trying to break the cipher of the ribbon; but like her, the closer he looked the more questions arose, infinite meanings, conjecture given life through his own imagination. Over the years he gradually became disconnected from living, lost in these wanderings; analysis taking root where love had once stood.

Rene Char...

"No bird has the heart to sing in a thicket of questions"

Speaking parts?

Yesterday I went to my local supermarket to purchase some basic nutritional necessities( as I was approaching the point where entire meals were prepared from seasoning alone). First I encounter the peppers sold in their triplet packs, as bright as traffic lights, I check for signs of crush, inspecting them one by one through the noisy cellophane; when my eyes check the last and am satisfied they are free of imperfections, I glance at the green pepper and as though given the signal to "go", I move on to my next item. Next is Ice Berg lettuce they are sealed in plastic which clings tightly to their green bodies, restraining their natural urge towards a more casual leaf policy. Two tall young men are also purusing the lettuces, acting as competition for me, the pressure is on to find the most supreme specimen before my rivals. They speak in an unknown tongue and my ear wrestles to elucidate the assortment of consonants and vowels, I detect a heavy bias towards "o", "s" and "n". Phonetically it sounds as follows: "snorla snorba osna snorly snorna snorb snorb". I fail to identify it definitively and prefer to invent their nationality as "Snorlanders", I concoct a vision of Snorland; a land divided in two, half its residents live in the forest, half in the desert. In order to generate harmony in Snorland and eliminate the divisions that arise though physical segregation, a tradition arose of socially "binding" every new born of the desert people with one of the forest. The children would grow up separately but would always be two halves of the same, and value in each other what they did not possess themselves. Difference is the thread that unites and that which they all share. During their rite of passage into adulthood they pair up for the first time, meeting on the point where the forest turns to desert; from there they journey to distant lands to receive what is best from others, and share with others what is best of themselves....My reverie is interrupted by an old woman in a head scarf asking me about the cucumbers, in confusion I pick one up and hand it to her before realising she only wished to know the price, her eyesight not being what it once was.

space

My colleague sits to my left; I can see him struggle to concentrate, for his mind is elsewhere. He unlike me has an added burden. The story is familiar; his relationship had become tired and has reached its end, and the union was dissolved through mutual consent, at least so I'm told. At first he relished his new freedom, however the departure has left a space, a space which must be filled with riches or it will remain empty. I remember I had such a space, and it took many years to fill it. Now there is so little room, yet I have more freedom than ever.

submariner

I work in an office. I could supply you with my job description, but that would not elucidate the real subject matter of my work. I am an explorer of sorts and although I am employed under contract to carry out a task that has been clearly defined (through protocols and procedures), the true nature of my work lies beneath this veneer. I am a traveller, and although I rarely leave this desk, I will journey further than ever. I have a craft designed for my journey, it is called reverie. It resides inside me, inside this office, located in this city; where I sit at my desk. From my chair I can see the window, from the window I know a river lies just out of sight, a river that connects me to the ocean.