Mind flickers fluorescent. On. Off. On. Off. The snap of plastic, sharp in the air. Soiled. Another broken picture show. Another broken streetlight. Another broken stranger. We catch water in a paper cup from the segregated graveyard. Where are the signposts in this land? We break. We crawl. We stand. We fall. We crawl. We break.

‘It’s not so bad,’ whispers legion, ‘not so bad here.’

A peeling poster grips the floor. Gravity always has its own agenda.


Cut along the L. ‘Is that my name?’

‘Mr Tuesday?’ The door shut over her voice, but she waits anyway. There is no Mr Tuesday here. Camouflaged in the bamboo of shadow, she calls out again, ‘Mr Tuesday?’

No one wants this name. It’s a nice name. Perhaps it could be our name? Snatching twists punctuation into the neat little row of 17 green chairs, ‘I’ll have it!’

Her smile is, cold, alone, ‘Have you returned all the pens, Mr Tuesday?’

‘Is this my jacket?’ we are feeling for pockets that might be there, ‘I don’t seem to know.’

She sighs like we have done this a thousand times, ‘Do you want me to check?’

A moth is circling the moon. Burn. Burn. Burn. I’ll have it,’ our lips are working her harmony around the words. No more signposts. In this land. Don’t tell.

‘They will just search your room again you know,’ she taps her foot tunelessly on peppered vinyl, ‘and that’s wasting everyone’s time.’

‘Can I have some tea?’


Cut along the O. ‘Is that my name?’

An old woman stares empty at the TV, clutching a teddy bear close to her chest. I was a person once, now legion breathe with my lungs. A piece of rubber stranded between the pale forest legs. It was a shoe once. Everything was something, once.

Rain on glass. Fallen leaves on fairy lights. There were signposts… once, we remember, ‘Can I have some tea?’ we ask the blue overall, ‘Can I have some tea?’

‘You had your tea 10 minutes ago.’

The fluorescent flickers, ‘….Can I have some tea?’


Cut along the S. ‘Is that my name?’

‘Do you remember me?’ she is pleading for an answer with her pretty eyes, ‘Do you remember?’

‘Yes,’ we remember, ‘I have returned all the pens.’

She smiles, warm, searching, ‘Dad, I miss you so much.’

Dad? The moon burns down to the wick. Black smoke….  …. I remember… There are fairy lights. Hidden in the cellar. Don’t tell. About the signposts.


Cut along the T. ‘Is that my name?’

Blinds run sideways, keeping the dark out. Necklaces strung like fairy lights……. She is crying…. Don’t tell…….I….. I…………. There are fairy lights. Legion say. In the cellar.


Legion say, ‘But don’t tell about signposts……….  or we will all be lost.’

‘Is that my name?’


46 thoughts on “Signposts

  1. All day I’ve been playing around with a blog idea called, The Perilous Reading Society. A showcase for edgy, I might not get what I want, pieces found here on WordPress. What do you reckon? I feel you have some ownership as you planted the seed.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Ah, if only. A friend told me today that my writing was like a Jackson Pollock painting at the moment. Which felt pretty spot on. I keep pushing the boundaries around, seeing if I can touch the bottom.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. I get it. I tried the same thing recently. I liken it to going fishing but using your own psyche as bait. It wasn’t pleasant, but I guess it’s a part of what we do. I stand by my comment on your writing.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. How would you go about the PRS show casing? Would you launch it with some finds of your own and give some specs on what qualifies for inclusion and encourage other perilous readers to submit candidates? Could be exciting but also perilous and time consuming.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Haha, I can see that we think alike. I figured just launch it and see what happens. It can’t be time consuming, that’s my one rule. If it’s a cow, I’ll scrap it.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Hey, if you ever wanna join forces in this perilous endeavour, give me a shout. You can be the dark, mysterious, hard to please, one and I’ll be the giggly, love everything, one. You can then usurp me and retire on the profits. I’ll turn to drink and write incomprehensible poetry on toilet walls.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Haha, now you had me laughing out loud! I’ll have to think about if I could be a fit for this job description. Maybe I’ll let you launch it first and then we’ll see. 😉

    Liked by 1 person

  8. They are weird. I think it might partly be their smell. So antiseptic.. which, don’t get me wrong, is a good thing. Then there’s the fact that many people walk around wearing face masks.. also for a good reason. Good reasons. Still weird as hell.

    Liked by 1 person

  9. ‘I will show you fear in a handful of dust.’ To have you compare this with Eliot, I have never been so blown away. I absolutely adore The Waste Land, it takes me to another place, it makes me cry without understanding why.


  10. Oh Jac, this is awesome and amazing. I’m really struggling to produce anything at the moment and this has both inspired and intimidated me :p It’s absolutely brilliant! 🙂


  11. I once saw a completely black canvas with a splash of white being displayed at an art gallery so… I think we may already be at that point.

    Liked by 1 person

  12. Man, pressed send accidentally.
    I had subsequently wobbled around the nature of this piece. Your words, the other bloggers who have commented here, inspire me. Thanks, mate 💕

    Liked by 1 person

  13. It is. I volunteer twice a week at one of the local hospitals here. I’ll just say I’ve seen things…

    Liked by 1 person

  14. Dare I say you found it again, your delirious mind, working towards something fantastic, this is another brilliant flash of imagery, slashed together with the kind of nervousness you expect from someone high on whatever deadly drug they have coursing through their system. I loved it 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  15. Thanks Matt, you’re so cool. I’m liking this process, but I’m also aware that I’m treading a fine line and only a hop and a skip away from buying a beret.

    Liked by 1 person

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