пятніца, 14 снежня 2007 г.


Lemonman wondered about the injustices of the world. He liked to think of these things. It made him happy. He sat on a bed of nailed broken polystyrene. He knew the fumes would only make him sick, but still he sat and pondered. Mincing, almost. His brain was too full of potent imagery to be mincing, Mincing being, as I understand it - to be doing nothing.

These injustices made him depressed but by wondering on them, he found it gave him a reason. He felt bored and lay down. The polystyrene crunched under his weight. He lay and gazed at the sky, a dark green sky. Between the clouds he saw spots of yellow - the sulphur in his coffee had started to work. Lemonman leant across, over his clothes to grab the knife that lay by his book on nodules.

Taking the knife in one hand he drew a strip down his leg, creating a red stripe in the fatty flesh of his thigh. He always felt clean when blood letting and this was no exception. He felt fresh and new like the breeze had suddenly grown warm and enveloped him in it's misty aroma. He rubbed the open wound, then washed his hands in the bowl of cold water by his bed.

He stood up, the thin blood leaked onto his foot and soaked into the crushed polystyrene floor. A beating at the wall let him know Donald was back from the surgeon. His head probably bound and wrapped.

Oh the injustice. Lemonman rubbed the back of his neck and made his way to the small chair in the corner. He sat down and observed the patches of red marking the floor. The bowl of water now pink and bitty. He pressed the buzzer.
"What?" said the speaker.
"I want some food." said he
"What?" repeated the speaker.
"Potatoes. Salted ones and some gravy too."
"Wait.". The speaker fizzed and died.

A beating at the wall let him know Donald was not feeling better after being to the surgeon. The crack of the door-box opening echoed round the small cell. Lemonman swung open the panel and took the plate. On it were 3 roast potatoes in gravy.
"Thank you." he said
Donald's moaning and banging grew more frequent.

He sat quietly wondering and slowly squeezed the crunchy potatoes until the soft white middles squidged out into the warm gravy. He took his fork from his bedside draw and began to eat. Ummm. Potatoes. This was a treat he would rarely see again now the war was on.

After finishing the soft potato and soaking the gravy up with his hair, Lemonman took the roast skins of the potatoes and rubbed them into his leg. The salt made the skin sting but he knew it was for the best.

The darkness had crept upon the night and the clouds were no longer visible. The yellow spots in his vision were larger and greener now. He washed his hands in the pink water and put the potato skins back on the plate, then put the plate back in the door-box.

Outside (outside, outside) a crow settled on the aluminium grill separating the visitors from the rest of the world. It pulled at the rinds of bacon poking through and gazed down at the figure of Lemonman laid on his floor of polystyrene. The crow took a strip of bacon and flew away into the dark.

On the hill a boy sat. He was six. He held in his hand a wooden stick and a piece of string. He rubbed his tired eyes and fed the string down into the small hole by his feet. A moment later he withdrew it. Attached to the end was a minute television. He took the TV and put in in his pocket. Slowly he lowered the stick into the hole and sure enough another TV was attached to the end when he withdrew it. He placed this TV in his other pocket. Then he turned and left for home.

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