Auld Lang Syne

‘Tis the nigh as we know it, the nigh that was promised is now bestowed upon us.

There is no escape alas, except to follow home that light.

That light of guiding blindness, and sound of hollow beat.

‘Twas not the thrum of the echoing surround that rung in our ears, instead ‘tis the sound of our very hearts as they turn over their last beat.

How many more must be laid to rest upon the cold unfeeling web?

A web born of hollow tubules, cast in steel and hardened bore, which drive home the hammered rivets into the cooled aluminium cast.

Nothing more than a confusion, a jumble, and a loss for the mind, for those looping rises that are sulci and gyri will never comprehend.

No more will night turn to day, nor day into night, for the lines have blurred and the seams have been adjusted to make one endless passage.

Passage: yes, that is what it is- time’s free run-, a tunnel that carries us back toward the Saviour’s call… except there will be no revered deity awaiting us, the ones who pad, crawl, and shuffle down the one-way path.

For once the journey begins, we cannot turn back towards what was… for that has long since passed, a new path for the Wicked forged by the Righteous.

Yet would the Wicked deceive and cajole with the force of power and greed?

Perhaps not, no, for they- the Wicked- would never receive a second chance, a moment to shun the shame that shrouds their name and soul.

All the while the Righteous hide behind their gowns of weighted ink and lead plates, for they hold the key to all knowledge of sorts, and they cackle with glee has they turn the hands that wind the clock. Behind a helmet of polished Perspex, they tuck their morals, caring not for ethics neither, deep inside… and they morph from once human to almost alien.

This new age, this new awakening, is the unfeeling twin to days gone by.

In your distant recesses of ailing memory, you can recall the warmth of community, and freedom of will. A time where friends and family alike could mingle without fear, the scent of warmth and laughter curling in a carefree dance with the feeling of liquor and grilled vegetables. That was the perfect afternoon, a barbeque in someone’s back garden with the lil’uns leaving sticky handprints upon any surface that they could reach.

The lil’uns were the first to go; that day seared into your somatic seams for eternity.

A change of hands, a trade of power, was all it took, to change the world as we know it.

Eldritch is the haunted echo of the ghostly screams, which still cling to the brickwork and twisting girders, of the stolen youth. Drugged and hooded the infantile frames writhed with primal decree and pleading escape in a bid to free themselves of the cannon-like arms that curl and clamp.

‘Twas the tear-stained streets that filled with the mother’s wails and the father’s bellows as hounded feet are restrained from ploughing into the certain hail of golden death.

No words said.

No explanation given.

No lil’un ever returned.

Most strange was the acceptance of this shifting reality, no one dare to murmur about the towering figures donned in black.

A collective agreement of abstained gossip, a vow of silence to mourn the loss of the city’s future.

Except it is nought but an illusion, a wispy guise on the sordid truth, for all who still hold their own know that with every day that slipped by another house- another shop- loses its warmth becoming an empty shell of what it was.

A city built on ethereal shells of broken bonds and shattered sanctuary.

No house is a home, when left to dress itself in a fine wafting veil of choking dust.

You know, you knew it’s only a tenuous second before they come for you too.

And when they did come, you were not sure what to expect… but you did not ever imagine a pristine tunnel of blinding light.

Nor the sharp scratch of needle as it jabs a dose of liquid into your bicep, followed by the hiss of, “Walk now and don’t stop until there is nothing but darkness.”

Heavy was the hand that shoved you beyond the circular reinforced door, stumbling you blink and break the spell.

Your mind returns briefly to the present.

And your coiling cochlear catches the thunderous echo and grinding grate of metal locking into metal, but your head never turns to glance behind for it has been told to ‘walk.’

Walk it must and walk it will.

With agonising steps your feet step high and extend to nibble at the first portion of the tunnel.






Until you see it- them- a silhouette of a family.

Joined in a chain, a tangle of fingers and interlocked palms.

Tilting your head, you muse at the image that they cast, a loving unit that protects the child… until they flicker and disappear. The coil of remaining smoke suggests that they have been vaporised, but there is nothing-

Except for a panel sliding shut, craftily hidden within the nuanced wall.

What did they hear as their last thought, or shrieking external sound?

Perhaps the loudness of the silence as it pours from the harken soul.

Maybe the forgotten whistle of a tune once loved.

Or quite simple the audible sigh of becoming acceptance.

Closer now… closer now..closer now.closernowcloser now…

You muscles shiver as they falter, as if tasting the coppery buzz of electronic surge that comes from the brethren’s light.

Numbness caresses your surging brain, muffling the roar of continuous thought, allowing one whisper to remain, “Thank you for your sacrifice, the Supa Solar Scientists appreciate your contribution.”

Then the light convulses, a warping curdling wave that rushes, gushes, and hushes until no more can you be saved…

A second.

A second that is all it takes to lose sense of life and light and succumb to dark and death.

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