share


First Blimp

Removing colour from my thoughts, I formed a winter ball. I threw it. The dead were uncounted. There was a distinct lack of emotion. A decreasing range of accountability. My histories became few. Then one. I wanted it to be like life, but I had nine, eight, seven micro-seconds with which to work. I went to shape it, and sprang it on you. No criminal consciousness. No automatic compensation. No new aftermath. I can’t count, but I try.

 

I am at home behind me. My history is an international house of calling cards. I fail to connect because I am dead or dying. It is surprising. I once considered skiing, skating, sliding, until finally I sat exhausted with my hat on. Gloves on. Long scarf and boots on. The centre of my house, on balance, is sub-zero. I peel off my socks and warm them in the microwave. I place my feet on a pillow. I wonder if this is like life. Colossal subroutines amass and disseminate above me. Then I’m right back up again, multihued historian among the clouds.


ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTOR

is the author of All This Could Be Yours..

READ NEXT

fiction

November 2016

The Miserablist

Anne Boyer

fiction

November 2016

This vision was strongly nebulous, an indeterminate but bold reaction only because it was so much like one of...

Interview

July 2012

Interview with David Harvey

Matt Mahon

Interview

July 2012

David Harvey is rare among Left academics: his work is as much appreciated by anarchists and the Occupy movement...

feature

June 2016

Heteronormativity and the Single Mother

Jacinda Townsend

feature

June 2016

I.   This spring, in cities and towns all over the United States, schools, churches and other organisations will...

 

Get our newsletter

 

* indicates required