Blog 89: A Static Bubble

It was a quiet village, nothing much ever happened there. The sun rose and set over the same wattle and daub houses, the gardens remained immaculately trimmed. There were rarely children to make noise and never the ill mannered kind who would be badly behaved. It was a small bubble, immune to change. The locals were proud that their home was so static. This pride was the reason for the ‘comical’ sign on the bridge into the village which said; nothing that’s worth a tale will ever happen here. Sadly though, for me, that’s the truth.

Blog 88: The Path of Promise

I’d worn the socks so long that my sweat was turning them into shoes. My shoes were a memory clinging to the socks. My feet were a mess of mushy flesh only held together by their adornments and too badly mutilated to feel the pain they should. When I caught glimpses of myself in puddles I saw a corpse too stubborn to admit defeat. Sweat was the glue that held my matted hair to my head. My hands and arms were a diagram of human skeletal structure. My eyes only saw the long straight road ahead, the road I’d been following since birth
That road would take me to the waters of The Fountain of Gods, from which they draw their eternal power. It takes a mortal lifetime to reach the fountain as the story goes, no matter where you start your journey. I have hopped so long that my life would be enough to pay the toll of this road. Now I only want to make it to the end to know that I have not wasted my life. If I died with the fountain in sight it would be enough I think.
The road is a test of endurance, of spirit, of faith. Only one mortal ever reached the fountain. He tells the tale to others and leads them to the road. My parents believed in the promise of the god. Now I wonder sometimes if this path I walk isn’t just a cruel trick to play on mortals, the play things of the gods.

Blog 87: Fate Vs Justice

Whenever Fate and Justice come to blows Fate emerges victorious, as it sadly must. Only when they can barter truce for the shortest of times do the honourable stand a chance. We remember those bright moments forever, few as they are.
After falling out again Justice implored Fate to let the savior live. The pleas fell on deaf ears during the crucial moments.
She’d dedicated her life to saving others. She sought to cure the ills of the species, not with words or feeble gestures but vaccines.
That day she only needed money to eat, the fuel for her body and mind to continue its work. She was almost spared by Fate, leaving as the gunman entered but one pulled her back and threw her to the ground. As she fell a shot was fired into the air. She stood between them and others, trying to reason with them but only agitating the nervous men. She was the sacrifice, the proof (as the men saw it) of their conviction.
Justice wept as her mind was scattered in fragments that as one might have saved so many. Her blood and brains spread outward like a fountain, painting a crimson circle onto the wall behind.
When the virus came she was not there to save her kind. They never thought to read her notes which would have given them a chance.
Justice cursed Fate for its cruelty and departed, leaving Fate to its sadistic whims.

Blog 86: The Raven and the Girl

She saw the raven and smiled and in return it winked back at her. The great bird dwarfed her small frame as she hovered before him.
“Glorious weather today.” He said without sarcasm, despite the downpour. Droplets cascaded over his innumerable black feathers which had a hint of pearlescent to them.
“It is,” she replied , “I love the lightning, its beauty is thrilling.” Her smile was so genuine the old felt he`d caught it. He smiled as well as he could which was either completely or not at all. He twitched to flick off the water. “Have you ever flown amongst it?” She asked excitedly. The raven's yellow eyes stared again towards the glowing forks of lightning. He wanted to frown at the young girl but didn't have the required muscle structure.
“Do I look mad?” He asked. “I wouldn`t stand a chance in that.” A breeze chilled him and he shivered. The girl failed to notice the breeze.
“What brings you here?” The girl asked, she only saw the ravens when they were on duty.
“I have to pick someone up soon.” He hopped and fluttered his giant wings and settled, more comfortable. “He should be here soon.”
She stared about at the mud and rock all about them and saw a figure approaching slowly from the horizon behind the raven.
“It's not him is it?” She asked, uncertain and pointed towards the figure.
“No, it can't be. He's too overdressed.” The man was wearing a plain shirt and an overcoat.
“Can you help me?” The man pleaded loudly. The girl looked to the bird to answer. The bird said only;
“He's not coming with me wearing that.” She nodded.
“Why are you staring at that bird! I need help!” She looked at the man, puzzled.
“Are you talking to me?” She asked pointing to herself.
“Of course, I'm dying, help me.” She looked at him, he didn`t look like a dying man, only disheveled. The raven felt likewise, the man would not be traveling with him, not like that.
“He's early.” Said the raven. She stared more closely at the man and he howled and spun, pointing to the knife in his back. It was buried up to the hilt.
She nodded to the raven who winked back. “So I am here for him,” the old bird noted the red stains down the back of the overcoat, “I'll have to wait.” He looked at the girl he saw shimmering like a reflection on moonlit water whereas the dying man saw a beautiful maiden.
“Can you help me?” Asked the raven. “This one will not be easy.”
“Of course.” She replied, watching the man in his flesh and bloody finery.
The tall man would die eventually. He would leave behind the shell that weighed him down. When he was ready the raven would return as she was; ethereal and at peace with the new plane of existence.
Until the man could accept that he was dying he was only see her as he wanted to and the raven merely as a bird and not the steed to bare him away from life.

Review of the Degree Show in The Scotsman

Article

My bit in exclusion;

Graham Kinross (PEM) also has books of stories at the heart of his work, going as far as to arrange his degree show space into a kind of reading corner, with sofas and comfy chairs.