A tribute to Neil Gaiman. Imitation is indeed the best form of flattery.
9:20 : I am wondering how many people have sat here in my place wasting their lives typing away on a keyboard, looking for meaningless information, sorting out list after list of spreadsheets before the hour is over, before the day is at end. I am biting back the urge to cease to resist insanity that speaks to me in the corridor of my mind. I am biting back the urge to jump up on my desk and start hollering: why am I here? in a tongue older than any of the Indo-European languages. In my day dream my voice resonates within each an every one of the employees solds souls, so that it quakes in the deepest recesses of their chambers within that cholesterol choked organ in each and every one of his or her chests, the organ that they have long since forgotten the name of, καρδιά, coração, the heart.
Why are you always so angry? (laughs), something needs to keep the ol’ circulation going. Well, you shouldn’t its bad for your heart. (laughs harder) gotcha mate, gotcha.
13:30: Tail between her legs she runs, down the isles that criss-cross and stretch across the partitioned cubicles like well worn paths in this putrid jungle. The den is close, left, right, down pass the carpet moss and through the glassy waterfall. The apes in the canopy beep and chatter. She longs for the comfort of solitude. Just a few paces more. She clambers into the cavernous den and shuts the door. The smell of formaldehyde flowers is overwhelming. She breathes in the sterile artificial scent, and her heart ceases to thrash wildly in her ribcage. She reaches into herself and pulls herself around her being, and her soul quietens. She is alone.
10:00: She sings a song of wolves and packs, and of lions and prides, of plains and grasslands, and of countries and continents, and of worlds and universes, and of universes and voids, and of gods and man, then she laughs.
14: 00 Joycelyn has had had enough of old friends. The upheaval caused the causeways at the back of her neck to jam. An engine failure and subsequent explosion of a minicaravan on one of the narrow causeway lanes leads to a chain of petrol tank explosions that cause the entire causeway to erupt into flames. There are currently no reports of casualties although there have been rumours of petrol demon sightings. The senator would like to inform the public to remain calm and not panic. However, in the interest of public safety, children should be sacrificed and those who are able should not hesitate to RUN.
12: 00 my lunch box, I’ve been needing to lose weight since my pregnancy. The food over here is just too oily.
No, its been difficult, my metabolism is just not what it used to be. Everything slows down after you give birth, and I mean everything.
HEY. No I’m not telling youuu. Hahaha. ah well. Its just not the same. But things change all the time now don’t they.
Yea, alright I’ll talk to you soon.
The earth shakes as the mammoth descends the steppes. The small mammals scurry forth and part a way for the wooly giant. The giant grunts and little fur balls come half lumbering, tripping across the black ice. They have come to suckle.
-
The intern sees in the distance a mirage of something solid. She walks toward it, keeping her eyes peeled as she gingerly places one foot in front of another. The sound of a million buzzing bees penetrates her brain. She finds herself clutching her thoughts to prevent them from losing themselves in the noise. The bees have heads of strangers. She looks for a familiar face. She finds none.
The table is decked with foods from all the continents of this world and the worlds beyond that. A succulent head of board sits biting the apple from the tree of knowledge in the middle of a bed of chicken feet and black goose eggs, centuries old. She wonders why she knows all the names of the food on the table; Masquerla, duck- like things from the seventh realm from the temple of Gods on the mountain by the white dwarf, Snichole, unformed thoughts of the red children of the south of nowhere, best served with a dash of bittersweet nostalgia, and Durian, a prickly fruit from the thin-leaf tree that grows in the equatorial Merlion City. Her head begins to ache, and the bees return.
When she awakes the bees are gone, and the mist as cleared. She remembers that she is late and turns around. The intern runs.
-
Rain. The rain pelts like a butcher skinning the day’s slaughter, relentlessly. I reach across my face and flip by drenched fringe backwards, and reveal a teardrop scar on my forehead. It is too dark, and too wet. I cannot see beyond five feet. I swear under my breath. Benji should have been here by now even after considering his chronic lateness and factoring most unforeseen circumstances, that goddamn scoundrel always keeps me waiting. I wander about my foggy surroundings, inhaling the damp acidic air. It has been years since I’ve seen that fella. How many, ten? fifteen? Who can keep count? Even after this many years, he is still the same. I am here waiting, and he is no where to be found. I flick my cigarette onto the ground. The damn thing wouldn’t light anyway. I want to walk away but I hold myself back. Just fifteen more minutes, just fifteen. I tell myself perhaps a car accident, perhaps the dolt got the address wrong. They give me small assurances, these ideas of sudden death and destruction, less so forgetfulness. Fifteen minutes. I am leaving. He is no where to be found, and I am done with waiting.
