This city is caught in a fragile sleep, a place of vivid
dreams and drool stained pillows. Its streets are like coral canyons in a warm sea heaving
and flowing with people. The tropical heat forces dark green weeds and lush
grasses to burst through the slabs of brick and concrete, filtering up like
insurgents through colonising slabs of brick and concrete. Fruit trees, wild
and untamed, stand along the long and straight roads that lead into the city from the rest of the world, opposing old colonial lamposts that flake black paint along the
empty paths. The city itself is surrounded by a vast orange scrubland, and the fruit of the trees
droops down unpicked into the short yellow grass by the side of the road, melting and deforming under the humid sun like the skin and
bones on a corpse left to rot.
Inhabitants drift down the footworn streets with dead eyes, trailing vortices of musty smells that mix in the wind. Living here means understanding existence and death as less a mere certainty giving room for wilful ignorance, but just a long way off. Life becomes nothing more than a process gone grey along the way of lain down tarmac, the soles of your feet grinding slowly as you shuffle out of your house, along that relentless pavement conveyer belt, until you reach the end of the road, the self checkout, life support beeping again and again, over and over, tolling like a bell for all your worthy achievements are worth until death herself packs you and carries you away in a big black plastic sack for life.
Inhabitants drift down the footworn streets with dead eyes, trailing vortices of musty smells that mix in the wind. Living here means understanding existence and death as less a mere certainty giving room for wilful ignorance, but just a long way off. Life becomes nothing more than a process gone grey along the way of lain down tarmac, the soles of your feet grinding slowly as you shuffle out of your house, along that relentless pavement conveyer belt, until you reach the end of the road, the self checkout, life support beeping again and again, over and over, tolling like a bell for all your worthy achievements are worth until death herself packs you and carries you away in a big black plastic sack for life.
But then there are those with wild eyes and swaying step who cross the road,
down off the pavement, into dirty alleys on the outskirts of town, where each footfall lands almost silent, a dull tap that
reverberates around on towering buildings that creep up into the sky and
hem in any wanderer or traveller. Looking up at their dusty bricks a one can see spiral of lush tendrils, pockmarked here and
there with delicate star shaped flowers. Dark purple petals and waxy green
leaves curl towards the sun. And down on the ground, as you walk, very occasionally
a glint of one the many lords of the city catches your eye as a random
copper coins. A coin first spent so long ago, spent for you, indebting
you to this city even before you’re dragged out screaming into this unforgiving
world. Born into a life of debt but nevertheless feeling the dry air on your wet skin lighting up your nerves like a blanket of
ice, eyes wide and bloodshot, your gumless screams stifled by scratchy
blankets covering your new nude body, trailing umbilical all over the shop
until the doctor finally comes to decide if you’re an innie or an outie, your
bellybutton sealed like your fate.
Most people in this city are poor, living on these outskirts. Here the streets have no signs, each twist and turn clearly an abesentee design- a secondary effect of the decision to build homes so desperately needed by a burgeoning population. The blocks separated by dirt covered paths cross over each other like tree roots exposed by the rain. Together the children of this shanty play, chasing eachother, dry smears of dirt settling into
the crags of their palms as they laugh and scrabble like feral little magpies
for any shiny flake by the side of the copper coloured houses. Each house is topped by its own patchwork of
corrugated rust, and the walls slant into the ground, at
different angles, sinking back into the earth. Within each thin home lives
a large family, so close to the next that they can hear the life next door. Screams of anguish, moans of pleasure, laughter, arguments and everyday conversations seeping through the cracks in
plasterboard just as privacy relents to mold. And as the sun goes down you can catch
glimpses of soft, wind dried limbs through stained linen blinds that gently waver in the
breeze.
The roots lead to central area of the city where tall white and blue glass skyscrapers hang. At a certain point the curved dirt paths give way to planned streets, each polished building casting a shadow and cooling the pavement. Every cornerstone and angle looks to be so heavily designed and ordered by architechs looking down from cold, dry, air conditioned offices. Black cars careen down wide silver highways lined with trees trimmed so perfectly by unseen hands. On weekends the city is paralysed, and warm winds flow through the square streets, the only sounds around being the gentle clatter of some thin plastic wrapping dancing down the alleys, before it disappears from view. The dull roar of the motorway that feeds the centre of the city is hushed for now. And as the work week begins the air begins to fill with a chorus of intermittent horns in harmony, distant sirens grow to scream on top of cars that careen like speeding violins towards their targets and out of earshot. And people in black suits appear out of nowhere to walk purposefully, their heeled tapping shoes crackling together and their heads bobbing up and down as they flood into their buildings hurriedly, to sit at their desks, plugging in letters transformed into demands and sentiments sent hurtling out the aeriels wobbling at the top of the buildings to other headquarters around the world, codified, encrypted, reaching satellites that perform handshakes with the reams of data beaming between computers, beaming down to be transformed back into light that appear again reflected, on the dead eyes of the ones who read it.
#############################################################
to be married with ---
###################
The roots lead to central area of the city where tall white and blue glass skyscrapers hang. At a certain point the curved dirt paths give way to planned streets, each polished building casting a shadow and cooling the pavement. Every cornerstone and angle looks to be so heavily designed and ordered by architechs looking down from cold, dry, air conditioned offices. Black cars careen down wide silver highways lined with trees trimmed so perfectly by unseen hands. On weekends the city is paralysed, and warm winds flow through the square streets, the only sounds around being the gentle clatter of some thin plastic wrapping dancing down the alleys, before it disappears from view. The dull roar of the motorway that feeds the centre of the city is hushed for now. And as the work week begins the air begins to fill with a chorus of intermittent horns in harmony, distant sirens grow to scream on top of cars that careen like speeding violins towards their targets and out of earshot. And people in black suits appear out of nowhere to walk purposefully, their heeled tapping shoes crackling together and their heads bobbing up and down as they flood into their buildings hurriedly, to sit at their desks, plugging in letters transformed into demands and sentiments sent hurtling out the aeriels wobbling at the top of the buildings to other headquarters around the world, codified, encrypted, reaching satellites that perform handshakes with the reams of data beaming between computers, beaming down to be transformed back into light that appear again reflected, on the dead eyes of the ones who read it.
#############################################################
to be married with ---
###################
________________________________________________________________________--
And it just so happened on that day I woke up from my
half dream exactly at midday. I swore. I was late for the meeting with Joanna. I
fell out of bed onto the chocolate brown rug with wormlike fibres by my bed and
briefly considered going back to sleep. My room was small, a rental subsidized
by the police sector I worked for. It had beige paint peeling off the walls
revealing the old vanilla wallpaper, perhaps there was an infinite sequence of beiges underneath that one, but i would know until i finally put a sledgehammer through it.
________________________________________________________________
Detective Chief Inspector
McFlanaghan. Chaos and I play a fickle game, we make our moves one after the
other, never winning, both playing, forever. I was born and raised in the city by my father, my
mother died before I was born. Her name was Lela, the softness of her name
hung tenderly in my memory, I only knew her from my father’s pictures. His name
was Benedict. Like the eggs. And we had a saying in our tiny two-man family:
don’t keep all your eggs in one basket. He must have come up with it, of course. We lived by that phrase. But then my father died in an omelet fire. The coroner decided that the cause of death was house fire tinged with a lust for
breakfast. But that was my dad through and through. He loved breakfast. And he
loved making it. He always made a habit of encouraging me to go out and make my
own. His words still ring in my ears, tempered words that shone through the
grimace borne of the gentle searing splatter of bacon grease onto his hairy
arms. “Make your own damn breakfast!” he used to say, whilst waving his shiny,
melted plastic spatula up and down like a wizard’s wand, shoulders twitching
minutely at every tiny jumping drop of grease burning through his coarse but comforting arm hair. And I took those words to heart.
Because it turns out that breakfast isn't just the most important meal of the
day, breakfast is life. He used to make an omelet every single morning for
fourty-four years since he could reach the hob. He taught me to twist and push
until you hear the cracking fires emerge. Twist and push and tear the knob
right off to keep the flames firing the frying pan of destiny. And then crack
your eggs. There were times when it seemed like he was telling me old
news- ideas I already knew- but as soon as he was gone it was because I never
knew his story. I never realized the struggle that gave weight behind his
words. I never realized why he was telling me these things. He was full of
wisdom, laughter, and breakfast. But I never cooked my own. I could
never find it within the deep shelves of my heart. And now im the one with egg on my face; some kind
of demented yolk I can never wipe off.
So I had to find my own purpose in life. It just so
happened my purpose found me first. It was chaos itself. I found my way to see
through the charred, steaming hulk of our little burnt eggbasket. When our
dream burnt down, I caught a glimpse into the writhing underworld of hatred.
And so I remembered the ethos my father gave me before his pancakes were
flipped. It was for me an ethos unexplored, where the night could set it ablaze
at any moment. And so I packed my bags full of determination, hate, fear, eggs,
turned them into weapons, against those who ride on the coattails of chaos.
Against those who set the night ablaze. And all in all, in the deepest, darkest
nights of your life Fate rides a flaming chariot through the sky, careening his
reined charges through the snow that drifts so calmly in the air, and he enters
your quiet life like a master cat-burglar. He delicately lays down the law of
the universe right next to your sleeping face until you bolt upright and
realize you’re right in the shit. I always hated Christmas. And so I am but a
ghost in the footsteps of dusk, trying finding my path. I often find myself
looking up, trying to see past the sodium orange lamplight that eats into my
soul like moths to a stained rug. To me the sky is forever a colander; the
stars pitted gaps in a bowl of black, the night seeps in.
Looking back over my shoulder at the never ending line
of streetlamps, my gloved hands flipped up the collar. I reached into its folds, my quarry the crumpled pack of French
blues. I pulled one out, lit it, and inhaled deeply. I shuddered. A cloud of
smoke fell up past my head. And it was a cold evening, no doubt Emerson, my
partner, would be feeling it too, back in our wheels for this whole operation.
Necessity had found us an old ice cream van. We called her Laquisha. She ran
like a beaut, and we’d modified her original ice cream truck siren to be piercingly
loud. We careened around in her, and as long as she continued to pump out 99’s,
we would continue to pump out .44s, right out of her ample side window at
whatever bastard needed one. One after another, in whatever form, we served
righteous brainfreeze to this tangled cerebral mess of a town. I was glad
Emerson was keeping her company. I had asked him to save me a couple of flakes
to stick into a mighty vanilla swirl for when I got back. I smiled to myself as
I walked down this dustily lit road. I paused. Why was I here?
I carried on smoking, walking, thinking through the
cold, moodily and brooding as was cliche. I flicked my cigarette down a side alley, watching its orange arc fly
through the air until it stopped, sizzling, in small pool of blood on the
floor. I jolted and swore. Fear fluttered through my body like bacon in an iron skillet as I thought
through my next move. I remembered that it was a Tuesday. Of course. And I began to follow the
trail along the course concrete until I laid eyes on a body. It had fallen
clumsily. I swore again and closed my eyes. Poor girl. As I opened them I was
numb. She had a stamp on her forehead, chaotic milky eyes looking up into the
night sky. Her limbs were strewn about, her left porcelain hand clutched an
open packed of custard creams, she was missing a shoe. She was clearly dressed
for a night out, long flowing black dress, torn in places, and a black velvet
choker cruelly highlighting the damage sustained to her neck and face. And I
noticed that the packet of biscuits was left full. Not a single one taken. Her
lipstick, deep red lipstick, was smudged across her cheek like scar. And she
was punctuated by an obscene smattering of beige crumbs, they were scattered
like fallen stardust across the flowing black fabric that covered her empty
body, a delicate, obscene galaxy all the way down to her midriff. She had light
brown hair, curly, but lacking volume and lustre, as if unconditioned for
weeks. The light failed to bounce off, any bounce long since gone. And as I
stared with dull silence echoing in my ears I noticed the finer details.
Suddenly, I heard the sharp slap of feet rushing up behind me. I snapped round,
drawing my '44 as fast as i could. The footsteps stopped. I squinted past my
dim shadow into the fog of the city night, my barrel hovering, pointed
unknowingly in the briskness.
"…Show yourself!"
And from the deep dark at the end of the alleyway emerged a small thin man in an apron smeared with fingerstreaks of chocolate. He wore a tall white chef’s hat with a heavily mustached man giving both thumbs up, his eyes screaming happiness. He took a few steps forward, finishing the end of a waffle cone.
"It's only me, boss!" he called as crumbs spewed from his mouth in no apparent direction.
"…Show yourself!"
And from the deep dark at the end of the alleyway emerged a small thin man in an apron smeared with fingerstreaks of chocolate. He wore a tall white chef’s hat with a heavily mustached man giving both thumbs up, his eyes screaming happiness. He took a few steps forward, finishing the end of a waffle cone.
"It's only me, boss!" he called as crumbs spewed from his mouth in no apparent direction.
I paused, sighed, holstered my piece and zipped up my
fly.
"Goddammit
Emerson. You really fucking scared me there."
His eyes were always lit with the sparkle of a man who
lives life for the sheer hell of it. That’s why he was with me. I followed hell,
he followed suit, depending on the formality of the occasion. He was the yin to
my yang, the bread to my butter side down. And there was undoubtedly a fire in
his warm soul that never went out. But as those green orbs looked past me, his
smile fell, the sparkle faltered. A single drop of vanilla ice cream fell from
his bottom lip and hit the ground with a wet tap.
“Its…
her” he said.
“Yes.”
I sighed. “I know that.” We both turned around. Emerson had to turn around again so we were looking in the same direction. I understood his shock. No amount of death is ever
right after a waffle cone. But the time for ice cream had been and come and
passed away.
