Kaius Mowbray
Glass shattered, hundreds of shards fly, glittering in the too-bright light of Tesco Metro, each shard spinning, refracting,
The brick hit
the floor,
bounced and
crashed into
a pile of
healthy snacks
The Folds: Ventilation: Intersecting filthy pipes, caustic air pushing forth, turning, left, right, faster and faster. A low grumble, a church organ grinder, deep bellowing. A thousand sheets in the wind, the crush and crunch of paper and bones. Chalk dragged on an LCD screen.
‘Manifest’
Oh Manifest, Manifest. The big shots, the runners of the show. The self-help show, the human improvement race. Mankind’s great adventure into the esoteric, the unknown, beholden to both the half-baked and overgrown. The ideas that stick and those that fall by the wayside, they’re collected and projected into this project of the misdirected, a guide for the guideless, a treasure chest for nothing less, nothing less than absolute absolution. Oh Manifest, yes Manifest. Bring your desires to life. Hold this book and read the title two times thrice. Oh Manifest, Oh...
Posted by Anon to DeepBoards.com
I think they were meant to take a right up there were't they.
Yes, it doesn't seem they were following the pipes.
Anyway, you seen Nick anywhere?
Not yet, unusual for him to be late though isn't it?
barriers dissolve, bejeweled explosion. Everything freezes,
he's stock still, mouth agape, a breakwater in a tidal wave
of glass. He'd never seen anything as beautiful in his life.
Not a grain touched him.
Nuts and half-
popped-corn scatter
across the tiles,
a crunchy granola
of smashed glass and
sultanas.
Outside, the street,
complete silence. Trance
broken, nervous laughing merges with quickly disappearing footsteps.
Alarms jerk into motion.
The pitch gets shriller,
then a rumble,
then a howl.
The pipes are boxy,
vents and grills,
a labyrinthian system,
supplying some great machine with ventilation,
with an escape.
The air is dry,
unforgiving.
It whips around the corners taking any noise with it.
Left,
right,
down,
left,
left.
The vents are gun-metal.
Dull and hard.
Barrels firing in one direction.
There’s grit in the wind,
it scratches,
toothpicks on dry skin.
Something is coming,
pitch increase declares an end.
You can only look backwards,
only the way you’ve been.
Who is Nick?