As befits the darker duties of justice; they came in the night.
For what benefit is there to society to witness the inner workings of administration; the grinding cogs; the pounding machinery; machinery that oft requires lubricating with society’s most precious substance – blood?
His crime? What possible crime could a mild mannered house painter inflict on the tribe? A crime so subtle as to be invisible to the naked eye; a crime of thought perhaps?
They came for night whispering; for dreams unspent; they came in the knowledge that the night’s shadows creep in the mind’s cold corners; they came for his soul; for his wanting; his turned-down-at-the-corner mouth; they came for the ideas that formed between one brush stroke of house paint and the stroke of midnight on the clock that had not chimed since sand had invaded its mechanism during the last storm.
They came in black; their faces hidden (for justice must, by definition, be faceless).
They came on feet that made no sound on the rough hewn floor of the room that he shared with the ghost of his wife, dead these long years.
They came with the boy’s best interest at heart and removed him from the source of his discomfort.
Iskandor felt as if his eyes would burst forth from their sockets; gagged and straining to see what manner of demon had invaded his sleep. From swivel socket orbit to the gulf of awakening, he had no chance to draw any breath other than that which inhaled the pungent tang of deep anaesthetic chemical.
And on their breath fading into oblivion Iskandor heard the words whispering his judgement and sentence…
No screams or shouts; none of the usual cacophony of police action; blunt with bravura; this was a covert operation designed to disappear in the warmth of morning leaving the little house of a humble man deserted of life and object – empty of all history.
For what benefit is there to society to witness the inner workings of administration; the grinding cogs; the pounding machinery; machinery that oft requires lubricating with society’s most precious substance – blood?
His crime? What possible crime could a mild mannered house painter inflict on the tribe? A crime so subtle as to be invisible to the naked eye; a crime of thought perhaps?
They came for night whispering; for dreams unspent; they came in the knowledge that the night’s shadows creep in the mind’s cold corners; they came for his soul; for his wanting; his turned-down-at-the-corner mouth; they came for the ideas that formed between one brush stroke of house paint and the stroke of midnight on the clock that had not chimed since sand had invaded its mechanism during the last storm.
They came in black; their faces hidden (for justice must, by definition, be faceless).
They came on feet that made no sound on the rough hewn floor of the room that he shared with the ghost of his wife, dead these long years.
They came with the boy’s best interest at heart and removed him from the source of his discomfort.
Iskandor felt as if his eyes would burst forth from their sockets; gagged and straining to see what manner of demon had invaded his sleep. From swivel socket orbit to the gulf of awakening, he had no chance to draw any breath other than that which inhaled the pungent tang of deep anaesthetic chemical.
And on their breath fading into oblivion Iskandor heard the words whispering his judgement and sentence…
No screams or shouts; none of the usual cacophony of police action; blunt with bravura; this was a covert operation designed to disappear in the warmth of morning leaving the little house of a humble man deserted of life and object – empty of all history.
This is an extract from a work in progress, tentatively entitled "The Voice of Reason"
4 comments:
What an intense piece of writing. Full of atmosphere, menace and remarkable metaphor. I hope you'll let us read more.
Hello Pisces, link to Elbowroom much appreciated, and the added tag seems apt. Good to cross paths - have started wandering around Farqueue. Woe Begone has already caught my imagination.
Nostalgia clips are up my musical street - Magazine, Femmes, Go-betweens. Yes the 80s weren't soooo bad.
fabulous!!
wonderful piece of art...well done pi..thanks for sharing!
k:)))
Apologies for the slow response to your comments - big brother has blocked access to blogger at the salt mine so I'm only able to comment on weekends.
Vanilla: thanks for the feedback - I'm sure I will be posting more bits and pieces from what I now think will be entitled "Decaying Orbits"
Johnny: thanks for visiting; glad you have found enjoyment in the scraps that litter here.
Karoline: as usual - glad to hear from you - like your new avatar btw *clik*
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