I don't write about blood enough.
Copyright Bloody Mulberry 11.05.2012
Mixing Bowl
I was weak. Watching my life
force seeping out of my arm into a transluscent gold bag as I
squeezed a squash ball with one hand, sipping hot sweet tea from a
bone coloured mug held by the other; it tires you out, what if you
lose too much.
That would be a stupid
mistake.
And then, when I had a pint
and a half of it, the lifeforce, the blood, I poured it into a
suitable receptacle, a blanchmanche mold, and put it in the micro
wave, and turned it on before sinking back into the garden chair I
was using in my improvised medical suite in my kitchen.
There was the familiar hot
vacuum cleaner sound, the whirring of a spinning turntable, the
sickly light.
And my blood boiled, boiled
hot and sticky. And there was a fearful vibration, grinding to the
cour of mmy weakened soul, my legs giving underneath me, my essence
bubbling choking mockery, glooping like volcanic mud, and the
grinding increased.
The microwave shook.
And then there was a bang,
and a knife on blackboard screech, and my blood burst through the
door, crimson steam rising to stain more my ceiling, and I saw the
essence of my soul, a laughing spitting contorted face with eyes of
blood, and then it burst with a laugh onto my lap, and scalded me.
Scalded me as I had always
scolded myself.
Copyright Bloody Mulberry 11.05.2012
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