Buckets

We are all holding a bucket.

The Feather

F   a     l       l       l     i   n g the feather floats         gently to the ground. Vulnerable to every stray         b       r     e   e z   e it  s     p   i n   s and twirls. It seems so helpless in the w   i     n       d. The feather knows no f   e a   r. Wherever it lands it

Advertisement

The Plain

A vast plain spreads out before me,littered with towers of various size.Some with no doors, some that are all door.One is made of eyes. It’s looking at me.

The Storm

Why does the storm rage?My ship is tossed about.

Virus

Jester sits making a ha-ha-ha soundunknown in his world which an earlierage would call laughter. Dirty windowsshow peoplestreams flowing into around buildings, eddies and whorls forming asbodies move thisway-thatway alongconcrete estuaries and out glass-doored deltas.Faces frozen in morbid rictus rainbowlinesmouths perpetually inverted.

The Game He Played

It’s so easy to kill a human being.Flash, bang, little moan, meaty thud.Seven billion creatures on this planet.One less? Who cares.People come to me with their problems.I play the game, I deliver the goods.Day ends, I go home to a loving wife Lying dead on the floor.Too many holes in her head.Who? Why?It’s too easy

Before Adrianople

7 August, 378

Graveyard

月

Staring at the skyIn the dead of the night-timeMoon is shining down