What is this crab thinking she wonders? As it is pulled from its watery home and thrust rudely into a bucket with its already incarcerated kin.
She realises that they don’t think – not in a way we would recognise. But still there lingers a doubt, a nagging whisper in her mind that this is wrong. That all the crabs should just be left alone. A cloud passes the sun. For an instant she imagines a vast alien hand reaching down for her, yanking her to a realm beyond her ken.
She doesn’t go crabbing again.
‘With a duly set precedent the administration would be able to act in such a way as is of some benefit to the organisations involved.’
The hosts right eye twitches and he gulps down frustration.
‘Yes or no,’ he repeats.
‘Look the prerequisites…’
‘Yes or no,’ the host roars.
In the gallery the producer’s mouth hangs agape. The view is locked on the host’s snarling face.
‘You ambiguous fucker!’ The host launches himself. Hands outstretched. The camera startles to life and pans away.
‘Yes or no!’
A clarion call to those watching.
With no will and no living relatives the house and its contents are up for auction.
The room is a disaster of audio tape cassettes. Most of the boxes seem to have degraded and vomited their contents into a communal chaos. All seem to be unlabelled.
It takes him three hours. He decides to take one; part souvenir, part curiosity.
His old cassette player is in the garage and that’s where he listens to it.
Ten minutes of crackling static. Disappointed, he is just about to give up.
Then the screaming starts.
Human and real.
Far too real.
The chips are down kid. Have you got what it takes?
I didn’t think so. The very essence of you is damp. Limp. Flaccid and worthless. D’ya know that?
Of course you do. You look at it every day. I’d say it oozes out of you but even that is giving you too much credit. You understand? Oozing is too dynamic for you.
Am I surprised?
No. To reiterate it’s writ large on you. A sandwich board floating on the insipid sludge beneath.
Now get the fuck out of here.
The Prophet, fuelled by little else than divine words to find His people, wandered for seventeen long weeks until he stumbled upon their little village.
When he looked upon their own bodies, as emaciated as his, he felt the kinship that He had spoken of and although he was near delirious with exhaustion his God assured him that yes; These Were They.
Had he not been he may have noticed the distinct proportions of the knucklebones that adorned their necks or the hungry look in their eyes when they told him their would be a great feast in his honour.
Random word job again today: prophet and dinner.
Yugens rolls the first pebble in his hand. Below the crowd wait in hushed expectation. Each holds a stone. Each is eager to dispose of the tyrant just as he has disposed off so many of them.
‘Why are you smiling?’
The King looks up at his oldest adviser. ‘I have an itch on my ankle,’ he replies.
Yugens cannot help but smile himself at the irony of it.
‘Do it then,’ the King says.
‘Goodbye old friend,’ Yugens says quietly. He places the first stone over the King’s chest.
The rest soon follow.
Random word generator: ‘pebble’ and ‘ankle’.
He’s saved it to last. Why this he’s not quite sure. If he’s honest he can’t even remember her having worn it.
The detritus of their failed relationship burns softly in the fireplace.
Was she wearing it the night they met? Or is it just something unworn, unremarkable, unloved and left behind in the rush; the hurried, jagged rush to termination. Like me he thinks.
Then he realises he just compared himself to a scarf. Some small part of his melancholy lifts. He smiles for the first time in a long time.
I used the random word generator again for this one – the words were ‘fireplace’ and ‘scarf’.