One Brief Glance at Waiting Jaws
Looking for a way to feel? Then you need a return from the dead. All those past horrors coming back to haunt you. All those cherished memories no longer there in the past but here, in the here and now, ready for your glassy eyed scrutiny. Do they measure up? Were you right to cherish them? Now’s your chance to find out.
The mixed doom, for Carlton Albright, was exacerbated by the finger he held aloft in order to create the illusion of capture, on the tip, of the vulture that had been following him around for the past three hours. There, against the explosion of the bluest, brightest sky he’d ever seen, that cunt of a bird, circling. And circling, it seemed, to specifically avoid Carlton’s illusory fingertip capture. Why, thought Carlton, can it (i.e. the vulture) not allow me even this smallest satisfaction? To which the retort, from somewhere behind the ginger bush: The reason, my dear Carlton, is because that bird isn’t actually there. You know those floaters you sometimes get in your eyes? That’s your vulture. A mere floater. There’s no point trying to look at it dead on in an attempt to capture it with your fingertip and gaze. It will move from your grasp, always. Who’s there? asked Carlton, not unreasonably, to which he received no reply. Except, perhaps, for a clue-filled rustle from the bushes. If I don’t get something to drink soon, he thought.
Drinking was by the wayside as far as Dean Camper’s long-suffering wife, Denny, was concerned. She imagined, for some reason, that Dean was off the bottle and somewhere back on the old straight and narrer. But Dean, as a matter of interest, was, at the moment of her thinking this, face down in a pool of gruelly vomit, gurgling and wishing to sweet Jesus Christ that he were somewhere else. My Dean, thought Denny, as she closed her trusting, tired eyes.
It is now long ago, quite twenty-five years, since there was a poor man who had an ugly and deceitful wife, and they hated each other dearly. They had, however, plenty of children, though they wished they didn’t, very much, and the woman prayed for them to die day and night, but still they did not die. Now there was a basketball court in front of their house in which was an apple tree, and one day in summer the woman was standing beneath it, playing with her Beatle, and while she was playing with her Beatle she cut her finger, and the blood fell on the green, green grass. Ah, said the woman, and sighed right heavily, and looked at the blood before her, and was most unhappy, ah, if I had but a dead child like that, covered with red blood and as white as a sheet. And while she thus spoke, she became quite happy in her mind, and felt just as if that were going to happen. Then she went into the house and a month went by and the summer fucked off, and two months, and then everything was white, and three months, and then all the flowers died, and four months, and then all the trees in the wood bent to nothingness, and the grey branches were all brittle and entwined, and the birds fell out of their trees and the shit fell from the squirrels’ arses, then the fifth month passed away and she stood under the apple tree, which smelt so sickly that her throat gagged, and she fell on her knees and was beside herself with pain, and when the sixth month was over the tumour was large and bulbous, and then she was quite still, and the seventh month she snatched at the apple tree’s apples and ate them greedily, then she grew sick and sorrowful, then the eighth month passed, and she called her husband to her, and laughed and said, if I die then bury me beneath that fucking apple tree. Then she was quite uncomfortable and miserable until the next month was over, and then she had a child as black as you like and as green as snot, and when she beheld it she was so horrified that she died.
Who knew that the dinosaur park was full of real, actual dinosaurs? The children I took there, all in my care, certainly had no idea. In fact, they were still blissfully unaware right until the moment of being pierced and torn by those giant, killer teeth.
The grass, as they say, was somewhat greener on the other side. Which is why Crispy the Christmas Cricket wasted little time in hopping over. He’d had enough of the desolate patch of nothing that he shared with his dad. Of course, as soon as he made it to the other, greener, side he immediately regretted his decision. Why? Who knows. Crickets are funny like that. The real trouble, however, was that hopping back to his dad’s desolate side was simply not an option. Not unless he wanted to fry himself on the six foot high electric fence. Go on Crispy, you can do it!
The fairgrounders were all astray at the thought of yet another year without the Boxing Booth and the Wall of Death. But fuck it, they decided, let’s put them on and fuck them all.
The mixed doom, for Carlton Albright, was exacerbated by the finger he held aloft in order to create the illusion of capture, on the tip, of the vulture that had been following him around for the past three hours. There, against the explosion of the bluest, brightest sky he’d ever seen, that cunt of a bird, circling. And circling, it seemed, to specifically avoid Carlton’s illusory fingertip capture. Why, thought Carlton, can it (i.e. the vulture) not allow me even this smallest satisfaction? To which the retort, from somewhere behind the ginger bush: The reason, my dear Carlton, is because that bird isn’t actually there. You know those floaters you sometimes get in your eyes? That’s your vulture. A mere floater. There’s no point trying to look at it dead on in an attempt to capture it with your fingertip and gaze. It will move from your grasp, always. Who’s there? asked Carlton, not unreasonably, to which he received no reply. Except, perhaps, for a clue-filled rustle from the bushes. If I don’t get something to drink soon, he thought.
Drinking was by the wayside as far as Dean Camper’s long-suffering wife, Denny, was concerned. She imagined, for some reason, that Dean was off the bottle and somewhere back on the old straight and narrer. But Dean, as a matter of interest, was, at the moment of her thinking this, face down in a pool of gruelly vomit, gurgling and wishing to sweet Jesus Christ that he were somewhere else. My Dean, thought Denny, as she closed her trusting, tired eyes.
It is now long ago, quite twenty-five years, since there was a poor man who had an ugly and deceitful wife, and they hated each other dearly. They had, however, plenty of children, though they wished they didn’t, very much, and the woman prayed for them to die day and night, but still they did not die. Now there was a basketball court in front of their house in which was an apple tree, and one day in summer the woman was standing beneath it, playing with her Beatle, and while she was playing with her Beatle she cut her finger, and the blood fell on the green, green grass. Ah, said the woman, and sighed right heavily, and looked at the blood before her, and was most unhappy, ah, if I had but a dead child like that, covered with red blood and as white as a sheet. And while she thus spoke, she became quite happy in her mind, and felt just as if that were going to happen. Then she went into the house and a month went by and the summer fucked off, and two months, and then everything was white, and three months, and then all the flowers died, and four months, and then all the trees in the wood bent to nothingness, and the grey branches were all brittle and entwined, and the birds fell out of their trees and the shit fell from the squirrels’ arses, then the fifth month passed away and she stood under the apple tree, which smelt so sickly that her throat gagged, and she fell on her knees and was beside herself with pain, and when the sixth month was over the tumour was large and bulbous, and then she was quite still, and the seventh month she snatched at the apple tree’s apples and ate them greedily, then she grew sick and sorrowful, then the eighth month passed, and she called her husband to her, and laughed and said, if I die then bury me beneath that fucking apple tree. Then she was quite uncomfortable and miserable until the next month was over, and then she had a child as black as you like and as green as snot, and when she beheld it she was so horrified that she died.
Who knew that the dinosaur park was full of real, actual dinosaurs? The children I took there, all in my care, certainly had no idea. In fact, they were still blissfully unaware right until the moment of being pierced and torn by those giant, killer teeth.
The grass, as they say, was somewhat greener on the other side. Which is why Crispy the Christmas Cricket wasted little time in hopping over. He’d had enough of the desolate patch of nothing that he shared with his dad. Of course, as soon as he made it to the other, greener, side he immediately regretted his decision. Why? Who knows. Crickets are funny like that. The real trouble, however, was that hopping back to his dad’s desolate side was simply not an option. Not unless he wanted to fry himself on the six foot high electric fence. Go on Crispy, you can do it!
The fairgrounders were all astray at the thought of yet another year without the Boxing Booth and the Wall of Death. But fuck it, they decided, let’s put them on and fuck them all.
posted by Paul Saxton at 3:53 PM
4 Comments:
I don't have anything intelligent to say, just that when your works good its very good indeed. My head was full of Scandinavian realist paintings although I can't explain why.
Russell
Like 'em. A lot. Especially the ugly and deceitful wife, and the fairground.
And don't forget the dead baby of course.
cool :)
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