happy.
The light in the house became less and less; the shadows darker and darker.
Still we waited for the disaster.
*
And when I looked, when people moved in front of the windows in the grey light, their shadows cast quickly clattering dark talons across the floor. This only became worse as the light faded.
I forbade them from moving, as it had become impossible to tell shadow from shadow. Or shadow from human.
Mine was a necessary act, an act that intended to prove that we had to be strong and united against the looming disaster.
The man had always been unreliable, but certain events had proved to me that he was a liability. If it had not been me it would have been another who would have had to take that awful decision.
Nobody witnessed anything; not that it would have made any difference if they had.
I was not ashamed, and after a certain amount of uproar I explained my reasoning and my actions to the others. But I did not go into the details; if I had told them about his struggling, and how long it took, there would undoubtedly have been problems.
We carried his carcass beyond the perimeter wire and left it in a ditch.
Inevitably, there were people who objected, and they were next.
When disaster is coming it is difficult to see clearly, but somehow I could see through the shadows to the light.
A long period of unpleasantness followed.
*
As the people in the house became fewer the shadows seemed to increase in number and in density. Often I perused my fading bank statements, lost in a reverie of long-gone financial transactions. I disliked being disturbed. Yes. I disliked that.
The disaster was coming. That was clear.
There were shadows everywhere.
When I was at last alone, when the people were all gone, I waited for the disaster on my own.
On my own.
My Giro
I was in a dreadful situation. The Department had got me. Usually I had been able to avoid these situations by earnestly prevaricating, feigning excitement at a new ‘project’ that I was certain would lead me to a paradise in which my Giro would be nothing but a faint memory. Never before had they tricked me into actually accepting a position of work.
Looking back, I should have known it. The man smiled at me, allowing no ambiguity about the way the corners of his eyes crinkled. I was ready for the usual questions, but I hesitated when he asked me if he was right in thinking I was an artist. I made an almost silent flopping noise with my tongue as he went on to tell me that he had ‘just the thing’ for me.
I had the horrible sensation that I was taking part in the tortured dream of some sort of prisoner. I felt a morbid chill low in my insides.
The man was almost gleeful as he opened a file and passed a piece of A4 paper into my hand. I listened to him saying something, but his words had no meaning. He may as well have been speaking Latin. I looked at the piece of paper. I was led to a small room. Somehow there was a biro, and somehow I was sitting down signing the piece of A4 paper, and my mind seemed very far away, and Ilistened to the crackle and fizz of the static that erupted from the carpet.
And suddenly I was walking down the concrete steps to the street and I was employed. I had a job.
The job was, apparently, in a tattoo shop in a surprisingly smart part of the town. There were people, employed people, everywhere, all looking as if they needed to be somewhere other than where they were at that instant, apart from those who sat in the many restaurants that lined the streets. They looked as if they had been born to dine in precisely those restaurants. A wave of nausea coursed through me.
I sat on a bench between two saplings, and stared at the dust between my feet. I sank my face into my hands and began to moan quietly.
What was I going to do? I had to take the job. If I didn’t take the job, or if I got the sack, or if I left, I was fucked. The Department wouldn’t give me any more money. I either had to be
The light in the house became less and less; the shadows darker and darker.
Still we waited for the disaster.
*
And when I looked, when people moved in front of the windows in the grey light, their shadows cast quickly clattering dark talons across the floor. This only became worse as the light faded.
I forbade them from moving, as it had become impossible to tell shadow from shadow. Or shadow from human.
Mine was a necessary act, an act that intended to prove that we had to be strong and united against the looming disaster.
The man had always been unreliable, but certain events had proved to me that he was a liability. If it had not been me it would have been another who would have had to take that awful decision.
Nobody witnessed anything; not that it would have made any difference if they had.
I was not ashamed, and after a certain amount of uproar I explained my reasoning and my actions to the others. But I did not go into the details; if I had told them about his struggling, and how long it took, there would undoubtedly have been problems.
We carried his carcass beyond the perimeter wire and left it in a ditch.
Inevitably, there were people who objected, and they were next.
When disaster is coming it is difficult to see clearly, but somehow I could see through the shadows to the light.
A long period of unpleasantness followed.
*
As the people in the house became fewer the shadows seemed to increase in number and in density. Often I perused my fading bank statements, lost in a reverie of long-gone financial transactions. I disliked being disturbed. Yes. I disliked that.
The disaster was coming. That was clear.
There were shadows everywhere.
When I was at last alone, when the people were all gone, I waited for the disaster on my own.
On my own.
My Giro
I was in a dreadful situation. The Department had got me. Usually I had been able to avoid these situations by earnestly prevaricating, feigning excitement at a new ‘project’ that I was certain would lead me to a paradise in which my Giro would be nothing but a faint memory. Never before had they tricked me into actually accepting a position of work.
Looking back, I should have known it. The man smiled at me, allowing no ambiguity about the way the corners of his eyes crinkled. I was ready for the usual questions, but I hesitated when he asked me if he was right in thinking I was an artist. I made an almost silent flopping noise with my tongue as he went on to tell me that he had ‘just the thing’ for me.
I had the horrible sensation that I was taking part in the tortured dream of some sort of prisoner. I felt a morbid chill low in my insides.
The man was almost gleeful as he opened a file and passed a piece of A4 paper into my hand. I listened to him saying something, but his words had no meaning. He may as well have been speaking Latin. I looked at the piece of paper. I was led to a small room. Somehow there was a biro, and somehow I was sitting down signing the piece of A4 paper, and my mind seemed very far away, and Ilistened to the crackle and fizz of the static that erupted from the carpet.
And suddenly I was walking down the concrete steps to the street and I was employed. I had a job.
The job was, apparently, in a tattoo shop in a surprisingly smart part of the town. There were people, employed people, everywhere, all looking as if they needed to be somewhere other than where they were at that instant, apart from those who sat in the many restaurants that lined the streets. They looked as if they had been born to dine in precisely those restaurants. A wave of nausea coursed through me.
I sat on a bench between two saplings, and stared at the dust between my feet. I sank my face into my hands and began to moan quietly.
What was I going to do? I had to take the job. If I didn’t take the job, or if I got the sack, or if I left, I was fucked. The Department wouldn’t give me any more money. I either had to be
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