A: And who set this up? Who turned on the lights? Made a stage, laid a bed, and expected me to sit here, comforted eyes? Is this all a podium? A circus, who here whips the pony?!
B: We shall not write, we promised this.
A: Then who shall write? I shall write.
B: Then who shall listen?
A: Why me?
B: Why then are you here, do speak!
As I stay perched on the balcony outcrop of a deserted hall, I reminisce about how two crows collided in a fight. The crows fell to the ground, the claws tangled, mangled but the fight was far from over. The squawling, the nipping, the coal-black eyes of crows, life, and the four whole feathers that broke off and littered the grass. The grass was green. But not just green, more green than green could ever be. It was the most vivid of green like cream, paled by the overcast and the foreboding rain. It always rains and it’s always cold.
When I first arrived summer was ending but you could still feel it. Mayflies tapping the windowsill closed. I’d just moved into the dorms and it was the first time for me to feel such strong winds the moment you opened the balcony door. So, so strong. I’d thought if we’d lived uphill the winds would be blocked by the trees but there were only eyes. Foxes that hid. They screamed in the night. My housemate called it “Bloody murder.” I’d pay it no attention.
Like cold pasta. The neighbours had hijacked a weary lampost from the construction site. It was rather amusing until their curtains never really parted. I didn’t hear much sound from them either and a sharp light never left the bedroom of the house and that entity. Only, a flag soared waving from the middle bedroom. A big place this is, but so small.
I’ll blend in then. A blue puffer jacket and a hike to the woods. Stanmer Park by Lewes Road. And how wonderful the sky is to open up a warm beam of sunlight. Bask in it as I lay on the grass and closed my eyes. I don’t remember breathing but I’m pretty sure I did as a breeze swept across my face. I turned in its direction and all I remember is my roses by the window, dead, ashed and now replaced by some bedside cacti. I’m not there anymore, am I? I love – I don’t sing praises to art that redeems me. I could stare into the crow’s eyes and question how death was always there for me. But it’s lost, I’m feeling where I’ve gone and I could laugh for hours as if all is gone that which is known.
Cover image by Nathan Dumlao / Unsplash. The copyright of ‘Diary Foreboding Sussex (Horror Short Play)” belongs to Dues.