THE HUNT Their frantic voices drifted up from below. “Shit. We had him.” “It always seems like that.” “Look. Here’s a couple of red drips and some more of this sticky stuff. He’s up this Way.” He couldn’t remember how he found his way up here. It was silent and empty. He felt queasy. Thrust up here ona grey, churn- ing wave that appeared out of a vast, deep sea, he squatted and surveyed his wounds. Pale skin glowed feverishly in the acid light of the fluorescents. They had been hounding him for some time now. An endless harassment which left a haphazard trail of plastic wine glasses and smeared cigarette butts in its wake. Stalking him in packs - distinct, gregarious tribes that from a distance looked like one homogenous horde - they were a harsh breed that aban- doned stragglers who were left to fend for themselves. They craved power and desired to anoint their souls with the sacred blood. To live forever, never die. Jack was the first to go, hurled from the lofty heights, he splattered upon whatever ground lay far below. Bill had been franti- cally slashed to pieces. Caught in an awk- ward moment during his bath, Ed perished quickly. They cavorted maniacally on his limp, naked body executing wild pirouettes. Henry wen quietly, fading away like tints of orange, blue, and red in a late summer sun- set. A grotesque jumble, his facial features monstrously distorted, Don had suffered the longest. He was the one who inspired the survivors to push onward. And still he fell. His vision blurred and his muscles numb, he clambered a little further clinging to whatever was at hand. They drew closer. Their quick, short, perfumed breaths echo- ing round the crumbling columns. Like some of the others, he never wanted to be up here. He wasn’t even sure if there was an up. A smooth, tranquil grassy meadow was a preferred playing field, and all his tortured mind could conjure up was dark narrow alleys with endless forks. This way or that. Choices were limited. It didn’t matter to him. They all seduced and com- pelled him and now he wished the journey had never begun. He had pleaded with them that it wouldn’t work. The blood had run thin, turned rancid with the passage of time. Its rich red savouriness perished. Now it lay fes- tering, rank with rapid exploitation and no one in sight to infuse it with life and vitality. — They could revive the heart by rejuve- nating the soul, not by ravaging the body. To begin a new journey on a virgin path. A re- joicing in all things lost, all things forgotten, and all things yet to be. The passage would be agonizing, but the re-birth spectacularly enlightening. But they continued to haunt his trail, clinging to it with zealous desire. So he re- mained precariously aloft. His aching fingers clung onto a misshapen outpost. Exhausted, Breathless, and spent of his soul, he watched them draw closer, eager to snatch his lifeless body and fling it into the eternal raging fire. Perhaps they would. Perhaps they would not. But all they left for him now was The Belge According (iexsaammendmec am By Wott Silence to wait. And so he did. Teerers on the Yhveshol of an cliff any) THe Wind blows sweetly on vm atteved form oleinyk |wnocemty ashing qwuestions 0s i} Vlows in my ey — wy Nes iS wy only answer: : Ht plays with the tendrils ot my vat Cavessing them as a lover wag Ywiically SWAN : ‘ ist ar fee foveig on vy old Oneek. gentle, wwvisivle fingers Avy “trem, olding we with NING avs - There is blood. But ik is Not Seo, now Fett eX Cept au | e pain J Teel IS VOM; : st deop, davk. ond al\ consuming Can You heat ie wind? Will you be my lover < wil \ou Pik Me UP tT fell Awd yaise ne 40 the Weavens ¢ lnutinaly , tk pulls re dvev We ed i vevond — {or Yes. was tS any OWGWEM == i “4 untain 82 * covered rock’ driftwood /awe bushes ane Iniden caves / deep in ted snow her track \Qix with the track. of ghtly she ‘lim wirtteeiwer/orange pac =o. eas. book s of gra: nolaf Aewy to follow) hear& po nding/ chest hi / over/the\sam trail/ deé n sn pikey little stems Ofes Shooting star: eS e call er nam @ Co a v4 The Beye According [ikexeammnenamen, THE HUNT Their frantic voices drifted up from below. “Shit. We had him.” “It always seems like that.” “Look. Here’sa couple of red dripsand some more of this sticky stuff. He’s up this way.” He couldn't remember how he found his way up here. It was silent and empty. He felt queasy. Thrust up here ona grey, churn- ing wave that appeared out of a vast, deep sea, he squatted and surveyed his wounds. Pale skin glowed feverishly in the acid light of the fluorescents. ‘They had been hounding him for some time now. An endless harassment which left ahaphazard trail of plastic wine glasses and smeared cigarette butts in its wake. Stalking in packs - distinct, gregarious tribes that from a distance looked like one homogenous horde - they were a harsh breed that aban- doned stragglers who were left to fend for themselves. They craved power and desired to anoint their souls with the sacred blood. To live forever, never die. Jack was the first to go, hurled from the lofty heights, he splattered upon whatever ground lay far below. Bill had been franti- cally slashed to pieces. Caught in an awk- ward moment during his bath, Ed perished quickly. They cavorted maniacally on his limp, naked body executing wild pirouettes. Henry wen quietly, fading away like tints of orange, blue, and red in a late summer sun- set. A grotesque jumble, his facial features monstrously distorted, Don had suffered the longest. He was the one who inspired the survivors to push onward. And still he fell. His vision blurred and his muscles numb, he clambered a little further clinging to whatever was at hand. They drew closer. Their quick, short, perfumed breaths echo- ing round the crumbling columns. Like some of the others, he never wanted to be up here. He wasn’t even sure if there was an up. A smooth, tranquil grassy meadow was a preferred playing field, and all his tortured mind could conjure up was dark narrow alleys with endless forks. This way or that. Choices were limited. It didn’t matter to him. They all seduced and com- pelled him and now he wished the journey had never begun. He had pleaded with them that it wouldn’t work. The blood had run thin, turned rancid with the passage of time. Its rich red savouriness perished. Now it lay fes- tering, rank with rapid exploitation and no one in sight to infuse it with life and vitality. They could revive the heart by rejuve- nating the soul, not by ravaging the body. To begin a new journey on a virgin path. A re- joicing in all things lost, all things forgotten, and all things yet to be. The passage would be agonizing, but the re-birth spectacularly enlightening. But they continued to haunt his trail, clinging to it with zealous desire. So he re- mained precariously aloft. His aching fingers clung onto a misshapen outpost. Exhausted, Breathless, and spent of his soul, he watched them draw closer, eager to snatch his lifeless body and fling it into the eternal raging fire. Perhaps they would. Perhaps they would not. But all they left for him now was to wait. And so he did. 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