How many hours until the world changes again? I spin the globe in a graceful movement and watch the people scream as they spin out of control. Running and crawling over bodies in an apocalyptic city, watching the Empire States building collapse and spread it’s cloud, blinding and cloaking those near by. Fire is in my eyes and so it reflects off of theirs. An army of glowing eyes forced into fear, happy to fight, happy to destroy.
I feel like dancing. I grab my partner and sweep across the marble surface like it were an ice rink. My feet lead her like she were a kite floating so beautifully, her dress swishing with the wind. I hold her close to my face and breath warmth. She jolts with passion.
I wipe my tears away as the black car pulls out of my drive, churning the gravel as it goes. I remember all that she gave me. I frown and scream and cry and laugh, I forget the subtleties. ‘What took you so long?’ she says as I open the door stealthily at two in the morning. ‘If you don’t like it we can always take it back.’ I was always careful to save the paper.
Me and a friend hold a camera with grins on our faces. ‘Ok your really weird and you have to start shouting about stuff!’ We prop the camera on a table and have an argument about the suitable colour of an orange juice carton. Later he murders me with an orange, thrown with such ninja like abilities I die. We decide the film is poor and leave it forgotten.
I sit for hours scooping the sand with my hands, feeling the grit irritate beneath my finger nails. A vast empire slowly emerges with turrets and tunnels leading to a place I will grow too old to reach. The hours are forgotten and I build a mote around my castle which will fill up as the army approaches. I frown as it floats away but even then I knew it didn’t matter.
I sit next to a girl in history. We sit frozen staring forward but really we see each other through the corner of our eyes. It never happens so many times.
“How do ya like that, huh?”
He didn’t look so smart sprawled like a crushed ant on the floor like that. I could almost imagine the foot prints pressed into his face, like a violent memories tattoo. I see him wriggle out of his sub-conscious. I kick him onto his back to be illuminated by the horrors he forgot in his blackened state.
He sort of splutters out, in a replacement of a scream for help. It’s funny how even the most atheist of people call out to something that’s not there. A desperate little mutter between coughs of blood, they want so much to be out, but lets be honest, that stuffs all about desperation.
I smile inside at this sorrowful sight but to remain mean I hold a solid lipped face. My Dad taught me that one.
I like it when little beads of spit shoot out when I shout. For a moment those spheres of surface tension catch the suns needy glow and float through an unimaginable universe. A miracle even God couldn’t have predicted.
I pounded at his face like drum skins. My instrument of choice holds the audience in a trance like state, Mozart has nothing on this.
What’s he gonna do next? The audience holds its breath.
I hop on the spot shaking my hands loose and to get my shoulders working. My own little interval, a chance to unwind for the next performance.
Not to get carried away as the boss reminds to a point of nagging. I spit in the victims woeful pointless expression.
“Money makes the world go round” I sing, “Talking of ****in’ money where the **** is that ****in’ money?” I stop with deliberate furrows and that geezer-gone-mad expression I pull off so beautifully.
Christ I feel like a God.
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