Post by PASTIE on Aug 8, 2007 23:25:00 GMT -1
6. A Corridor darkened beyond shadow.
For moments, there was blue sky.
There was fresh air drifting smoothly by. I could feel warmth upon my skin. I lay back into lush, caressingly dry grass and stared up at innocent clouds. Swallows and House Martins wheeled and dashed whilst the Swifts screeched shamelessly to celebrate their freedom.
All was peace, calm.
Even my head was uncongested. Thoughts no longer dashed by, doubts no longer nagged, time exerted no pressure. The only strain was to awaken from deep sleep.
My eyes were bright. They did not ache. They demanded no rubbing, to blink was to refresh rather than to despair. They danced enthralled at the colours and sights that were paraded before them and when they finally closed it was as if they could still view the scenes.
And what about the smells? Flowers and fresh bread; the musty cleanliness of a recently exposed river bank. Aromas of fresh cut grass blended with coffee, fresh herbs and honey.
Meanwhile my ears heard children playing, gentle breezes toying with the finest summer leaves and the distant gentle cymbals of rivers dropping over their placid little falls.
For moments, there was blue sky. Precious moments.
Then the dream was over. If only those eyes had taken the chance while they could to savour more of the sights that they beheld. If only the senses could have clung that little harder to snatch such rare opportunities. If only more urgency could have been found amid that tranquillity; to cling more firmly to the giddy fragrances, sweet smells and gentle tunes that floated so casually past. But PASTIE was to miss them all. From Caliban dancing amid his Isle of pleasures, he was to the witch trapped in the tree.
PASTIE already knew what would be there when he opened his eyes, he simply hoped that this time it wouldn’t be true.
Nevertheless, PASTIE opened his eyes. Only darkness. And his heart sank.
Resigned to the inevitable, he tested his ears. Only silence. And his hope disappeared.
With no other tangible senses to turn to, PASTIE took a deep breath. Only stench. And he knew where he was.
Now with his hands, there was touch. His left hand slid over a rutted floor, knocking away what felt like ancient loose change; but not round and smooth, more dented and worn. Along from the floor his fingernails sunk slightly in to the rotten plaster at the base of the wall. He ran that hand up and up, feeling the mould and rot lagging his palm. Somehow aware that his space was constricted, PASTIE reached with his right hand and almost instantly touched fabric. This was no gentle comforting cloth, however, this was mildew infested unpleasantness, sopping to the touch as foul fluids oozed out of it. The right hand danced upwards, daring only to touch the cloth as a guide to distance and direction. Eventually, PASTIE felt his way up to a bowed timber frame. He used this sudden firmness to lever his weight up to standing and realised that he was behind a sofa. It was a kind of a sofa, the rotten corpse of a sofa putrefying and denying its natural state of non-existence. PASTIE edged his way around, and sat on its arm, trying to adjust to this new state of numbness.
Darkness, stillness, silence and stench.
Yet there were eyes upon him. DTR struck a match, and through dense grey smoke there was enough of a pale glow to view something of the surroundings. Janner was sitting cross legged on the floor, the whites of his eyes casting desperation out through ashen features. COYS was floundering around, lost in the transition, a relative newcomer still believing that there may be an exit. Smurf had given up on this and was smearing diesel into his hair. Sterland was away in the distance, rocking and moaning as he tried to hammer coins into square shapes. Only GfJ had his back turned as he rocked vigorously from the shoulder moaning unspeakable groans that could be agony, could be pleasure, could be neither. PastyDuchy polished his glasses pointlessly in the dark and bemoaned that his banjo had rotted on its way here, whilst Ade pushed intently at the buttons of an unplugged Playstation console.
Heavy breathing came from above. PASTIE peered far up into the darkness and heard the wheeze of heavy breath and could just make out the pin pricks of two far off eyes.
“Good holiday Mate?”, asked Gres.
“Not bad”, replied PASTIE
“Take a seat”, said Janner
“No thanks,” said PASTIE, “I think I’ll just wander around”.
And he did.
Corridor Six was upon us.
For moments, there was blue sky.
There was fresh air drifting smoothly by. I could feel warmth upon my skin. I lay back into lush, caressingly dry grass and stared up at innocent clouds. Swallows and House Martins wheeled and dashed whilst the Swifts screeched shamelessly to celebrate their freedom.
All was peace, calm.
Even my head was uncongested. Thoughts no longer dashed by, doubts no longer nagged, time exerted no pressure. The only strain was to awaken from deep sleep.
My eyes were bright. They did not ache. They demanded no rubbing, to blink was to refresh rather than to despair. They danced enthralled at the colours and sights that were paraded before them and when they finally closed it was as if they could still view the scenes.
And what about the smells? Flowers and fresh bread; the musty cleanliness of a recently exposed river bank. Aromas of fresh cut grass blended with coffee, fresh herbs and honey.
Meanwhile my ears heard children playing, gentle breezes toying with the finest summer leaves and the distant gentle cymbals of rivers dropping over their placid little falls.
For moments, there was blue sky. Precious moments.
Then the dream was over. If only those eyes had taken the chance while they could to savour more of the sights that they beheld. If only the senses could have clung that little harder to snatch such rare opportunities. If only more urgency could have been found amid that tranquillity; to cling more firmly to the giddy fragrances, sweet smells and gentle tunes that floated so casually past. But PASTIE was to miss them all. From Caliban dancing amid his Isle of pleasures, he was to the witch trapped in the tree.
PASTIE already knew what would be there when he opened his eyes, he simply hoped that this time it wouldn’t be true.
Nevertheless, PASTIE opened his eyes. Only darkness. And his heart sank.
Resigned to the inevitable, he tested his ears. Only silence. And his hope disappeared.
With no other tangible senses to turn to, PASTIE took a deep breath. Only stench. And he knew where he was.
Now with his hands, there was touch. His left hand slid over a rutted floor, knocking away what felt like ancient loose change; but not round and smooth, more dented and worn. Along from the floor his fingernails sunk slightly in to the rotten plaster at the base of the wall. He ran that hand up and up, feeling the mould and rot lagging his palm. Somehow aware that his space was constricted, PASTIE reached with his right hand and almost instantly touched fabric. This was no gentle comforting cloth, however, this was mildew infested unpleasantness, sopping to the touch as foul fluids oozed out of it. The right hand danced upwards, daring only to touch the cloth as a guide to distance and direction. Eventually, PASTIE felt his way up to a bowed timber frame. He used this sudden firmness to lever his weight up to standing and realised that he was behind a sofa. It was a kind of a sofa, the rotten corpse of a sofa putrefying and denying its natural state of non-existence. PASTIE edged his way around, and sat on its arm, trying to adjust to this new state of numbness.
Darkness, stillness, silence and stench.
Yet there were eyes upon him. DTR struck a match, and through dense grey smoke there was enough of a pale glow to view something of the surroundings. Janner was sitting cross legged on the floor, the whites of his eyes casting desperation out through ashen features. COYS was floundering around, lost in the transition, a relative newcomer still believing that there may be an exit. Smurf had given up on this and was smearing diesel into his hair. Sterland was away in the distance, rocking and moaning as he tried to hammer coins into square shapes. Only GfJ had his back turned as he rocked vigorously from the shoulder moaning unspeakable groans that could be agony, could be pleasure, could be neither. PastyDuchy polished his glasses pointlessly in the dark and bemoaned that his banjo had rotted on its way here, whilst Ade pushed intently at the buttons of an unplugged Playstation console.
Heavy breathing came from above. PASTIE peered far up into the darkness and heard the wheeze of heavy breath and could just make out the pin pricks of two far off eyes.
“Good holiday Mate?”, asked Gres.
“Not bad”, replied PASTIE
“Take a seat”, said Janner
“No thanks,” said PASTIE, “I think I’ll just wander around”.
And he did.
Corridor Six was upon us.