by l.l. ballack “In the quotidian, to no smaller a degree, death moves: in traffic accidents both realised and narrowly avoided; in hearses and undertakers’ shops, in florists’ wreaths, in butchers’ fridges and in dustbins of decaying produce. Death moves in our apartments, through our television screens, the wires and plumbing in our walls, our…
It’s just a dream. Christ, it’s just a fucking dream! Mwaaaaah! Mwaaaah! Mwaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! “Awwww, did someone have a nightmare. Awww, cuddle Mummy, cuddle Mummy.”
I was dead when they found me. They weren’t entirely sure how long I had been dead for, but it was a good few minutes.
Like witches, they cast their spells over first one then two, then maybe three or four. Then, before you know it, entire villages are damned by the wickedness of their sorcery.
Life was breaking away from him in bits of degraded matter; he knew that much. Beyond that, things were no longer his concern. Death held no jurisdiction over him; fear had long since absconded.