Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

The art of something out of nothing

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Umineko  >

by Leilanie Stewart 


The wheeled trunk was as long as the traveller was tall. The weight of the trunk didn’t matter since the traveller had the girth of a tree. This country was warmer than the last and windier too. The humidity curled the sinusoidal waves of the traveller’s hair into tight coils. Sin. Sin-u-soidal. Soil. New soil. The past could be buried; sin could be buried in soil. Like everything else about the traveller, their hair had no fixed state, just as they had no fixed state and at any moment, the hydrogen bonds of their hair could break and reform, leaving their hair in lank strands. The traveller was a lank strand in a new country, a new place, on new soil. A tourist.

The tourist could walk forever if they had to in their travel-worn shoes. The travel-worn shoes had morphed over time into a comfortable smart-casual mould of the tourist’s feet. But they walked on their toes. Their calves were tight from always walking on the balls of their feet.

This new place had an unknown smell. An unexamined scent of victory. Though still, they walked tip-toe, tip-toe, tip-toe, always on edge, always ready. Escape was undeniable, invisibility inevitable.

The trunk didn’t contain nothing that couldn’t be brought without bringing down the hammer of incrimination. Negative words, negative thoughts, negating the needless nacre of the trunk. The trunk was clunky. It was a clunky trunk. The trunk went clunk. The thoughts were choppy. The thoughts needed to be chopped up. Chopped up and


Tip-toe, feeling the breeze, causing a shirt to ripple and flap against a tip-toe-tensed body. The wind passed by. It was a passive wind.

Full circle from touch-down-to-taxi-to-rest-on-stand-to-tip-toe-to transcending the double automatic doors, wheeling the trunk behind. Clunk-clunky it clicked outside onto the tarmac.

The trunk contained anything necessary to remember remnants of a past time in a passive voice.

The traveller looked back over their shoulder, feeling the drag.

And then, the tourist walked forward, towards the sun over a new country, into a fresh life. Breaking the rules.


published 31 May 2014