she said

'in the moment between times, I am now'

I was a small child swinging upside down in a willow tree. Golden hair flying back and forth in the summer dusk, smelling of earth and dank shady hedgerows. Before the dimming of the light, I created cloud castles and peopled them with the beautiful.


I woke cramped and cold on the concrete floor, disorientated by the flickering strip lighting that had disturbed what meagre sleep I'd been able to steal. Metallic clangs and footsteps outside the cell, rough voices. The sweat began to trickle down my spine again, soaking into the rough hospital gown, stinging the scratches on my upper arms. Briefly I curled into a foetal position, trying to still the rising fear, take control of my panting breath. Cruel to dream of trees and wake buried in artificial stone.

Footsteps halted the other side of the door. Key into lock. Turn.

Swinging myself upright and pulling the gown down over my thighs as he walks in. No matter that every clinical violation of my body has already occured. Now I am conscious and every gesture of modesty is a defiance. Perhaps exposing my open flesh and snarling would be satisfyingly aggressive, but I am sore and also know there would be no response. In his eyes I am already an animal.

Green eyes meet white coat, clipboard, gun.

'it's time'

Slender bruised wrists, seized roughly, implaceably, handcuffed. Yielding, fragile flesh hauled upright and onto waiting trolley. Cell vacated. The imprint of female on sweat marked concrete, three golden hairs and the smell of fear left to be sterilised.


she said

'in the space between places, I am here'

The train hums and bounces across the marshes, rocking me into somnambulance. I spy a heron against the pink tinged reeds, a touch of ice on tidal waters. No matter where I travel, in motion it is always autumn.


The tunnel ceiling is higher outside, the lights brighter. I am disorientated in a strange land. They brought me here unconscious and never before have I travelled without knowing the way home. White coat between my bare feet and above my head. Silence. Strange how I used to sit alone in parks, coffee shops, play the game of imagining other people's lives. Always able to intuit backgrounds, loves, dreams. Now I am the centre of an H between two immaculate conceptions, emotional feelers baffled, repelled.

Somewhere outside is a memory of a girl, laughing in the rain. Somewhere back then is a life, confusing and often challenging but very much loved and lived. Somewhere my footsteps are filling up with dew, a cat is curled up asleep in the scent of my bathrobe, a man is aching with the memory of my touch.

Trolley slows, stops, another door opens and then shuts behind me forever. More white coats, brighter harsher light in my face, gleaming needle unsheathed from pristine plastic.


she said

'in the instance of death, I am life'

white walls of the cubicle melt into spirals of colour. My mind contains the universe, I am huge, powerful. Flesh shrivelled and cold, nicotine stained fingers curled uselessly around an empty cider bottle. Two worlds collide, one hot with blood and a horned head against a full moon, the other filled with sirens, mother's panic. I have no name, I need no name, I am.


White coat leans close to take careful aim at my cold trembling arm. I never imagined dying in this environment. Alone with my thoughts, in my sleep or with my hand held tightly by a loved one, all once possibilities. I always said death would never be unwelcome if my life had been truly lived, that I would leap the divide without the fear I always had of falling. Now I am being terminated, obliterated, pushed.

Needle pricks, syringe primed, time stops.

I am tied to a stake waiting the lick of flame. I am knelt at the block waiting the hum of the blade. I am lifted up to a cross ready for the nails. Heretic, rebel, scapegoat, sacrifice.

Poison enters, blood betrays, neurons overload. I am less than, I am more than, I am.


and she said

'maybe if you understood
the paradox
that light is both
wave and particle
and all the colours come
from one
it wouldn't seem so hard
to let me be'

well I guess this isn't the sort of thing ATS members enjoy reading. Shame because the feedback would have been useful

No I liked it. It was pretty good very interesting.

Reading that fed the hunger that was rumbling within my soul.

That was a moment lived and lesson learned. Hidden just below the surface of some carefully placed words.

Did that fountain spring from you arc? If so, where did the inspiration come from?

I think it was the threads last night to do with personal freedom of choice, and I started thinking of a time and place where a woman could be terminated because of her belief in that choice. But that in the end even termination would never be defeat. Plus some of my own memories and semi-wiccan beliefs

Good, but seeing as how i'm 6 months from my masters in journalism and already have a minor in creative writing, i'll give you some constructive criticism. First, this is a very nice idea, but the caveman like presentation of action between lines can be avoided. Also, poetic stylings are delightful and make for a beautiful piece, but use them with the most discretion possible. Keep writing!

well thanks for the comments and constructive criticism. First prose I've written for years, and definitely rusty! But will try and expand somewhat on the idea and polish the structure

I personally like it just fine, in fact I think those "caveman" action lines add an element to the story that is very clever in the way it's used. When I read those lines, it helps to bind a common perspective between myself and the character. As she slips between a dreamstate and wakefulness that is how your senses pick things up. Just short exact details, like picking the most intense symbols from a group that grab your attention first.

Of course this is my opinion which comes with no credible references to verify the worth or experience of my past opinions.

These are my two favorite lines:

Cruel to dream of trees and wake buried in artificial stone.
...and never before have I travelled without knowing the way home.

The different execution images at the end are right on - the imagery in your language is pretty rockin' in general.


It's not clear why she's being killed - is this intentional? Am I blind? After you explained it in a reply, the story got stronger for me.


Have you read Jeanette Winterson? I think you would enjoy her if you haven't. I recommend The World And Other Places which is a short story collection. It'll blow you away!

Very vivid imagery Arc! Very well done! I really like the dark feelings that you generate with this!