This Darkness Mine Read Online Free PDF

stomach acid into my eye, a mocking gesture, the audience snickers and breaks wind violently.
    Time to go.
     
    Unformed……wet yellow….membrane wings…..dragging over the asphalt grain…snapping the spinal exhibit….sneering sadistics with big hands….black stone……zonies close in on us……crowds all left….look elsewhere…hide safe and well….punctures run in the embryo jelly……gentle syringe……spiking the body count……placing y’best bet besty……shrivel too……evaporate into plastic smoke………wash ashore on some other host-forsaken chemical beach…….
     
    Overflowing landfill site. Dumping ground for baggage, emotional and otherwise. The diggers stand tall, rusted dinosaurs not able to dig down deep no more. The wires hang from uncrowned trees. Autumn’s passed, we’re into winter. Heads down, in burial hoods, the workers march on by, ungloved hands shaking from low temperature bites. Warm home to bed and sex and wife. The ground is still, so desolate. No surprises here to see, except for the car that’s stalled nearby. The overweight man inside can’t take much more. He is crying, knowing no way to stop. He’s heaving on a length of rubber piping. The engine’s not stalled, it’s hot and running. Window glass goes from clear to mist to fog, soon comes a darkness, a carbon shroud for him. Such a pretty place, this desolation, with its diggers, dead land and suicide. There are no trees here from which he could go hanging, swinging in a wind that cries and cries.
     
    Wet ride coasting on the outer limits. Dipping into the cool of the twilight zone. Do in the spectrums of night galleries spinning overhead. Well ready for what comes next. Foam cascades of ashes and ember rabies splatter the vertigo-veins of his shaft. Pumping in and out. Hot and hard. Scar nebulas are rising into horizons. Out of the whirling dim. The burned black eye. Haloed with night-wounds and junkie-dust.
    Shooting gallery punks grease their hair with green spit. Taking aim.
    This gathering of shadows and deliverance is for you. Gunshot blue meat settles in the hole. Charred pieces crumble through. Scattering cooked blood grains to the wind. She’s at your side. Her fingers in there with the bullet. Working it deeper. Making sure you’re well dead. Long gone silver.
    Slower and slower flow the browns and the blues. Suns set, a million vanilla pods rain down and burst. Dry, you could murder a drink.
    But she murders you too cold before you do.
     
    The office walls are the colour of pale protein today. Everyone’s in convulsions, well-hidden, wiping brows and tapping fingers. Readjusting collars and tugging at white-light bracelets, soundless systems of stress and grief show themselves, braille pimples nestling in cleavage, protoplasma gathering in custard flecks, edging lips shapely, shapeless and thin. The Redundancy Packages have arrived.
    They’re in Reception.
    Sweaty gelignite, brown-taped shut, awaiting collection. No-one volunteers. No-one wants to go down there and see if their name is on one of them.
    Someone, not one of us, has already been claimed.
    It’s a sad apocryphal tale. He was an Agency Temp, he didn’t know what he was doing, communication breakdown, too much static, the Greenhouse Effect air stops words carrying, becoming clear.
    He didn’t hear that there is One Rule when it comes to Redundancy Packages.
    You handle your own. No-one else touches it.
    The Package does not care if it gets things wrong so we have to be right.
    Everyone knows the One Rule.
    Except, sadly, for the Temps.
    Youth and efficiency are expendable. He’s not the first one to be snacked on by a Package and he won’t be the last to have the marrow corn-holed from his breaking bones. There’ll be more whose cells will scream like decompressing space chambers, dying with the coda of an unceremonious belch. No-one ever sees it happen. It always happens when our backs are turned but, when we look back at where our