Moving Finger - Issue 3 - Brunel University

the floor like a many-tentacled octopus. I settle back and begin to sink under the sublime
weight office of a bittersweet amber ale, daydream awhile, drink, daydream some more
and let the evening pass me by. And as I sit under the soothing pressure of a mothering
atmosphere, a strange figure strolls ghost-like into the building, partially disguised by the
hazy smoke. The burden on my eyelids is lifted slightly. I've never seen her before, but
she seems vaguely familiar. The only features of her face I can make out are her glittering
emerald eyes that sparkle brightly, even from distance. She approaches the bar and leans
heavily on it as if seeking condolence. A sadness so pure seems to be puppeteering her
body, shoulders sagging, head slumped. She exchanges a few quiet words with the
bartender and then drops her laden head as he nods his. She picks herself up and begins to
saunter through the smoky vale towards me, another part of her body becoming clear as
she draws closer. At the last moment she makes a sharp turn, drifting past me. She lets her
body fall at an adjacent table, motionless. Enticed by the sweet perfume that radiates from
her beating pulses, I find my head turning instinctively towards her. All I see is a frozen
Pinocchio, huddled up in the corner. I would've thought her dead were it not for the
gleaming tear at the edge of her eye, so bright it nearly blinded me. The longer and harder
I stared at her, the greater my urge to comfort her, hold her frail body in my arms and
wipe away the punishing tears that hurt her face. Yet I did not. For once again I felt
myself pushed down into unconsciousness. My eyelids grew heavy and 1 began to sense
my limbs grow limp and numb. I took one last look at the apparently tortured stranger and
slipped into nothingness. That was the last I saw of her.
Josh Summers
MY COUNTRY
That winter night I remember tearing through country roads on the way home. There
was choking rains, high tidal winds and tree-preying lightening, which illuminated bare
branches. I caught glimpses of the outside world, which appeared as repetitive grassy
banks, laced with streams, hedges and fences. The headless-horseman-infested woods no
longer chilled me from within the warm confines of the car. I sat listening to the hypnotic
patter of rain from above with the constant bumps of the road disrupting my obsession.
The misty windows shut away a clear night, preceded by a hazy sniff-smoke dusk.
The sun does its own casting on dry mosaics as you rush off to do something you
could never avoid: a prom or a date or a drink with a friend. 'Nighttime is such a different
world. In the towns neon-throws strike out at the buildings. The sun is now replaced by
distant, flickering streetlights, creating pools of fresh atmosphere on a night-out. As you
drift home, looking down upon a glittering sea of silent lights, which lie like a half-dry
molten hotbed, the silent larva flows. A single fly, wanting to be nowhere else, dances
round the only glow in the wide world. Finally, you drop into bed to struggle or fall
asleep, having made a few emotional pleas and sentimental decisions, which are rarely
fulfilled.
On spring mornings I'd awake to the mist outside with invisible birds making
monotonous tunes. Voices continue talking as your mind lies on the distant blur of a
dream-bed. Staring out of the deep mirror window, the still scenery caresses your mind.
Through words of explanation you know there's nothing to do, nothing you can do, but
the tired relief of laziness pulls you through.
At the earliest opportunity spring becomes summer. A late afternoon in the heat sees
dandelion specks illuminated by strips of sun. You play dead on suburban lawns you
could sleep on. All of this is surrounded by picket-fenced perfection, trimmed neatly
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