The 24-hour Commute
JB Mulligan
Truth lifted the corner of his skull and looked inside at all the fun-house mirrors. He couldn’t escape the feeling that he was being botched. Watched. All around, in faces and boxes, on walls, in the sky, a blizzard of distortions overlaid the world, which he had to read like a poorly carved message on a cracked rock at the bottom of a swiftly running stream, with spills of lacy foam and shivers of fish adding to the constant blur. Look behind... who? It all... moans...the?... There was an urgency he sometimes felt he might be about to feel, but something happened and the dull discomfort was back, or the dull comfort which sometimes seemed a bigger loss, as if there was a plate on which joy had been, and he was licking off stains of clotted gravy and splinters of dried-out meat. When you wanted more, and your only two choices were that there was no more, or there was but you couldn’t have it, that was a bit of a problem. It seemed distantly amusing to him that the only thing you could always get more of was desire. They never stopped growing that.

First published: August, 2014
© All rights reserved by the writer
Comments to the writer: