The last building standing looked up. The sky, once his enemy, no longer rained upon him, no longer sent all manner of birds to shit on him or nest in him, no longer faded him with its glaring eye.
The last building standing looked down. There were no more steel animals in the street clambering over its legs, farting noxious gas over it, leaving tracks all over it, revving and beeping around it like parasites.
The last building standing realised that because there were no steel animals there would most likely be none of the little bags of pus which spilled from the beasts, worming their way into the building’s body, its bloodstream. He looked within and confirmed that this was the case. There was no evidence of the creatures’ food, of their defecation, of their noise.
All that the building could see was their skins; bright and multi-coloured, lazily discarded, and the faint aroma of charred flesh.
The last building standing wondered what one should do when it is the last building standing. The tethering lines that gave him strength and ears and a voice had been cut off: literally in some cases, figuratively in others. What good were ears if no one was speaking to you? What good a mouth if no one spoke your language?
The last building standing just
stood there as the angry clouds bloomed fiery petals over the sky
He put his hands on what he thought was frosted glass but the surface gave way steadily beneath his finger tips. He wiped away years of refrigerated dust. The bleak vista showing through the streaks. The hollow shell of a hobo’s dwelling pitched and abandoned in an empty car park. He turned away. A chair propped in the corner, its cushioned innards erupting from the seat. Maria on the floor sleeping, covered in old uniforms they hand found hanging like corpses in the basement. Overhead a dry light socket hastily removed, arterial electrical wires hung around it. Idly he punched a section of silver air conditioning duct that had escaped from the roof cavity. The surface shuddered, a rustling working up through the coil section by section, retreating into the cavity. He followed the noise out towards the hall. A line of closed doors and an expended fire hydrant discarded on the floor. He shivered, returned to the room, and closed the door to number 107.
sketch
ominous. abandoned, cold. exploration of such a place would be great fun, dangerous fun. interesting if that was not snow in the foreground, but sand. uncovering a building like this, a bend in history whereby we discover that there were humans before us and they were exactly the same. but a tinkle says this has been done bfore.
hmm. no probably better to go with the exploration theme. not by a human though. a reclamation by a raccoon, or small animal. possum. looks like something out of chernobyl. perhaps the possum is making its way back through the building to feed its young? final scnee with the young have been affected by the radiation, cancers. born without mouths, without limbs. the futility. not chernobyl though, perhaps a far-future australia? the snow would then be contradiction, a challenge. how to communicate australian location? a sign, half scrubbed. cliche, really, but effective. or render it anonymous(e).
—
write
The hotel is still but for the faint crunch of a she-possum’s feet across the foyer floor and the subtle, immense sound of snow melting. A dead rodent hangs from her jaws; as she pauses to sniff the air, an odd number of limbs swing below her snout. Reassured of her location, she skitters towards the reception area, and up into the pigeon-holes that her young are nested within.
Five pink bodies squirm at the smell of their mother. She drops the rodent’s corpse and begins tearing thin strips for her young to sink their tiny, soft teeth into. The strips disappear down the gullets of the babies faster than she can tear them off. They are already large, larger than she was when she was their age, and they sport knobs of flesh where she doesn’t. But they smell like her babies, and she feeds them all in turn.
All but one, a tiny thing that hangs at the back of the pigeon-hole. The reason for its size and behaviour is obvious on closer inspection, as where its mouth is there is nothing more than a thin line, like a raised scar. Its jaw muscles work beneath this scar, but no opening, no void to fill with juicy strips of meat can be produced. Soon it will die from malnutrition, and its brothers and sisters will grow larger and stronger. Stronger, indeed, than their mother, who will succumb to their appetite, crushed and consumed by a ball of wriggling, knotted flesh, unable to defend herself against the smell of her young.
Really enjoying reading your thought patterns Phill. The thing I love about prose is the way a collection of words is able to uncover a meaning that would have previously been difficult to say out loud. I think your line “immense sound of snow melting” is an example of this. A simple statement that suggests so much more than what it could have been “the sound of snow melting”.
Impressive work Dan, I especially liked the end bit “the tethering lines that gave him strength and ears and a voice had been cut off: literally in some cases, figuratively in others. What good were ears if no one was speaking to you?” has such an awesome sense of crescendo about it…
Phill, dark, spooky ,eerie, sent spine tingles down my body. My favourite part was “its brothers and sisters will grow larger and stronger. Stronger, indeed, than their mother, who will succumb to their appetite, crushed and consumed by a ball of wriggling, knotted flesh, unable to defend herself against the smell of her young.” Just such an interesting way to complete the piece, I really want to hear more…
Mark I love finding snipets of poetry hidden beneath the prose “covered in old uniforms they hand found hanging like corpses in the basement” ironic… It breathes life into the piece.
Apologies I was away last week and busy catching waves on the East coast to contribute too much. I did, however go to an amazing poetry reading, check out http://bit.ly/bbLxRU for the review… Oh yeah, and I have some exciting news regarding other readings in Perth. Keep an eye on my blog for more info… http://bsawon.wordpress.com/
7 Comments
The last building standing looked up. The sky, once his enemy, no longer rained upon him, no longer sent all manner of birds to shit on him or nest in him, no longer faded him with its glaring eye.
The last building standing looked down. There were no more steel animals in the street clambering over its legs, farting noxious gas over it, leaving tracks all over it, revving and beeping around it like parasites.
The last building standing realised that because there were no steel animals there would most likely be none of the little bags of pus which spilled from the beasts, worming their way into the building’s body, its bloodstream. He looked within and confirmed that this was the case. There was no evidence of the creatures’ food, of their defecation, of their noise.
All that the building could see was their skins; bright and multi-coloured, lazily discarded, and the faint aroma of charred flesh.
The last building standing wondered what one should do when it is the last building standing. The tethering lines that gave him strength and ears and a voice had been cut off: literally in some cases, figuratively in others. What good were ears if no one was speaking to you? What good a mouth if no one spoke your language?
The last building standing just
stood there as the angry clouds bloomed fiery petals over the sky
and he was happy
He put his hands on what he thought was frosted glass but the surface gave way steadily beneath his finger tips. He wiped away years of refrigerated dust. The bleak vista showing through the streaks. The hollow shell of a hobo’s dwelling pitched and abandoned in an empty car park. He turned away. A chair propped in the corner, its cushioned innards erupting from the seat. Maria on the floor sleeping, covered in old uniforms they hand found hanging like corpses in the basement. Overhead a dry light socket hastily removed, arterial electrical wires hung around it. Idly he punched a section of silver air conditioning duct that had escaped from the roof cavity. The surface shuddered, a rustling working up through the coil section by section, retreating into the cavity. He followed the noise out towards the hall. A line of closed doors and an expended fire hydrant discarded on the floor. He shivered, returned to the room, and closed the door to number 107.
Very ominous Dan. I like the unexpected angle you’ve taken with this one. A building imprisoned in it’s own structural integrity.
pretty ominous picture
sketch
ominous. abandoned, cold. exploration of such a place would be great fun, dangerous fun. interesting if that was not snow in the foreground, but sand. uncovering a building like this, a bend in history whereby we discover that there were humans before us and they were exactly the same. but a tinkle says this has been done bfore.
hmm. no probably better to go with the exploration theme. not by a human though. a reclamation by a raccoon, or small animal. possum. looks like something out of chernobyl. perhaps the possum is making its way back through the building to feed its young? final scnee with the young have been affected by the radiation, cancers. born without mouths, without limbs. the futility. not chernobyl though, perhaps a far-future australia? the snow would then be contradiction, a challenge. how to communicate australian location? a sign, half scrubbed. cliche, really, but effective. or render it anonymous(e).
—
write
The hotel is still but for the faint crunch of a she-possum’s feet across the foyer floor and the subtle, immense sound of snow melting. A dead rodent hangs from her jaws; as she pauses to sniff the air, an odd number of limbs swing below her snout. Reassured of her location, she skitters towards the reception area, and up into the pigeon-holes that her young are nested within.
Five pink bodies squirm at the smell of their mother. She drops the rodent’s corpse and begins tearing thin strips for her young to sink their tiny, soft teeth into. The strips disappear down the gullets of the babies faster than she can tear them off. They are already large, larger than she was when she was their age, and they sport knobs of flesh where she doesn’t. But they smell like her babies, and she feeds them all in turn.
All but one, a tiny thing that hangs at the back of the pigeon-hole. The reason for its size and behaviour is obvious on closer inspection, as where its mouth is there is nothing more than a thin line, like a raised scar. Its jaw muscles work beneath this scar, but no opening, no void to fill with juicy strips of meat can be produced. Soon it will die from malnutrition, and its brothers and sisters will grow larger and stronger. Stronger, indeed, than their mother, who will succumb to their appetite, crushed and consumed by a ball of wriggling, knotted flesh, unable to defend herself against the smell of her young.
Really enjoying reading your thought patterns Phill. The thing I love about prose is the way a collection of words is able to uncover a meaning that would have previously been difficult to say out loud. I think your line “immense sound of snow melting” is an example of this. A simple statement that suggests so much more than what it could have been “the sound of snow melting”.
Impressive work Dan, I especially liked the end bit “the tethering lines that gave him strength and ears and a voice had been cut off: literally in some cases, figuratively in others. What good were ears if no one was speaking to you?” has such an awesome sense of crescendo about it…
Phill, dark, spooky ,eerie, sent spine tingles down my body. My favourite part was “its brothers and sisters will grow larger and stronger. Stronger, indeed, than their mother, who will succumb to their appetite, crushed and consumed by a ball of wriggling, knotted flesh, unable to defend herself against the smell of her young.” Just such an interesting way to complete the piece, I really want to hear more…
Mark I love finding snipets of poetry hidden beneath the prose “covered in old uniforms they hand found hanging like corpses in the basement” ironic… It breathes life into the piece.
Apologies I was away last week and busy catching waves on the East coast to contribute too much. I did, however go to an amazing poetry reading, check out http://bit.ly/bbLxRU for the review… Oh yeah, and I have some exciting news regarding other readings in Perth. Keep an eye on my blog for more info… http://bsawon.wordpress.com/
Cheers, Benjamin
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