A.Journal

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Medium

Medium

The air in the apartment is very stale all of a sudden. Cigarette smoke swirls like a spell.

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A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

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A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

Medium

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

Medium

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

Medium

The best cigarette you've had in years.

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The soft piano music rises again, nearby yet very far beyond you.

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Her eyes are two different colours: amber and ash.

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His eyes cross.

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You feel goosebumps stand on your shins.

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Not a single twitch of recognition.

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His cleats go CLICK CLACK on the hard ground.

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His eyes lose focus and his lips move as he concentrates on deciphering this new information.

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Behind his glasses, his eyes glisten.

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Mothball smell. Many seasons old.

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You hear the metal rattling in its case -- you feel tiny sparks leaping over your skin -- almost familiar now.

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Sparks dance across the conductors on your back.

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Eyes gleaming, sexually charged.

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The room spins, then shatters.

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All sound from the city above has evaporated. Like you were never in a city at all.

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A diffuse, bruise-coloured glow.

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A bald spot so pristine simply cannot go unrubbed.

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White spindles of leg hit your vision like a pair of flashbangs.

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A small mound inside, about three inches across. Vaguely circlular.

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At this proximity, his aura of alcohol is near weaponised.

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A smeared pattern, with streaked edges. You can rule out natural irritants.

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You feel warmth radiating from the inside. Something in there is fermenting.

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The slightest of shivers passes through him.

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You can feel every contour of the joint.

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What's that? An odd etching noise coming from somewhere else in the sprawl. Familiar, somehow.

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A soft hissing noise accompanies the steady beat of its cooling pumps. Sounds like a human body, amplified.

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She winks at you.

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Droplets of rain break in to party with the dust.

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Moonlight peers in to see what you're doing.

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You glimpse the sky through a concrete frame, grey teeth with a grey maw.

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Smells like blood.

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Dark firelights and digital snow dance behind your eyelids. Within your breast, a thrum stirs stray metal -- a deep bassline, plucking strings of pectoral muscle.

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Your own breath. Loud in your ears, uneven.

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A seagull shits nearby, white splatter across cement.

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Taste: Woody, bland. The laser printing gives a slight tang.

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It is back to being a regular chair, with no hint of the existential terror it once supported.

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Taste: Sharp, almost acidic. Unusual paper type, probably very bad for you to consume.

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Etched jaggedly into the plastic: 'FUK MUSIC'.

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Notes of industrial turpentine and sour pear.

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Walls covered in stains and memorabilia. Scuffed wooden floorboards smelling of spilled drinks.

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Face: wholly unfamiliar.