Wednesday, 9 July 2014

Discoloured Smoking Area

Street artists had blown out giant soap bubbles in the morning. Once these fickle and beanie-shaped bubbles had all popped in the air, a flimsy foam fell to the ground and coagulated between broken tiles on the pavement. An evil air of iridescence and oily black stared back at us all from the ground. The smell of detergent evaporated, and then it was as if those magicians had never even been there. Nothing more to see. 

What if I will have never travelled beyond this tea room of few words and of short dreams?

Kids touch the brown and wooden, uneven pub floor. Under a creamy layer of smoke and cough, the yellowed walls sweat nicotine. An old and greyed velvet curtain puffs out clouds of dusty particles. The fear that time might stand still grows knotty fingers reaching like the long roots of trees. Surely not here, not in this winter of the soul spent sitting in a discoloured smoking area that blasts with the fuzzy sound of outmoded punk records. The heart of Saturday night is dull and void, not labyrinthine or enigmatic like in the pictures. There is nothing to fret over here, only the same old rotten minds that bounce off these pasty walls and slide down between identical faces dangling on a washing line. 
And if it's after midnight, tomorrow is already here...

My first novel (similar style) on amazon

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