Wednesday, April 09, 2008
To Fill a Page
Tap a few sentences. Read. Edit. Block delete.
This is my time to write but I’m not writing. There is no breaking of the dam; no word flood gushing from my brain to my fingers to the document, to the internet, to the world, to the – let’s face it -- two or three people who will actually read it.
Jasfoup uncoils. I can feel his scales slip-slidin’ over the ridges of my brain. Did you see Torchwood? The backstory episode? The bit where Owen is recruited and his fiancée is on the operating table with her skull open and a squamous alien burrowing tentacles in her brain. That was no alien; that was a muse. That’s exactly how I picture Jasfoup when he’s curled up inside me. Outside of me he’s tall and black and wears a grey Armani suit and sunglasses to cover his red pupils.
He’s here now, one heavy hand on my shoulder and his sulphurous breath filling my lungs. “What have you got?” he asks and I look at a screen filled with love and lust and longing.
I look at him before I reply. His smile reveals pointed teeth and the tip of the long, flexible tongue he teases the ladies with. I can see my distorted reflection in his shades: a huge nose preceding wide, blue eyes. “You,” I say.