miðvikudagur, febrúar 06, 2008


Three days and nights of feverish dreaming.


We were hidden up there in the dingy white room only I knew about, a tiny servant's quarters on the upmost floor of the old house. We were protected there from the outside by a steel grate like trap door. We decided we would let in as many as we could until we unequivocally ran out of space, but we had to be sure they were still fully human. We were dubious when those two of them came asking for shelter. The face of one was so gray and his eyes so bulging that we couldn't be sure about him. Then he started to sing. We all joined in the familiar tune as we slid the bolt away and opened the grate.

No one dared venture out in search of food. Below we saw one of them go flailing madly by. Then we waited.

It passed eventually, and it was safe to emerge onto the streets into a new, refreshed world. I got the feeling that it had been years.


This I remember the least well. I recall his back looked familiar to me from where I stood as he rolled away from me in the bed, even though he'd become hairier with age. It happens to some men.


There were impossibly tall brick walls -- brick like an abandoned industrial building from the 1920s -- around an open space. If you fell (or jumped) you landed in a sea of green mold and spores that floated up around you and threatened to choke you.

Also there was swimming. I tried to hit a slow, steady pace so as not to run up onto the soles of the swimmer in front of me (a woman with the physique of a rower). A smaller woman, stunted maybe, dogged me and criticized. I concentrated on my breathing. I found it odd not to have to turn my head but slightly.

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