Station (unfinished)

There's the question of the train station. It will be decked with trash. The corners will glisten; the off cuts of the night. How should it be filled? How should the rubbish move? Is there a moment where the trash just becomes liquid it starts to move freely once it gets to the land fill its back to its ocean.  Back into the wild. As if to litter is some sort of inhumanity to the rubbish.

Or, falling at the wayside, failing to get to the bin. It wants to return.
The tiles on the floor of the station. They are part of the stations grid. I guess the station is a grid and the tiles are the cells of it. Brick. There should be a lot of brick. But the sort that is hostile, new shiny. A brick in the teeth. A brick in the

The "spare" room

It has been freshly painted a crisp lime colour. Ready for sale or ready for a guest. It’s not for use as much as it is used for show. There is an old Dyson hoover in the corner; a DC04 apparently. Its bruised decal secondary to its replacement that resides in another room. Totems of Tory aid.  There is pine furniture, the worst of the house. Other spare parts mis-align in here. A barrenness circulates around the room underneath the bed and into the idle gloss work. At one point this empty room marked a symbol of achievement. Now maybe just middle-class sterility.

The dross nature of "nice" interiors. I'd rather it be bad than "nice". Stacks of memories filed neatly into albums sit patiently for rituals of recollection to moments of seized happiness.

How many other extra rooms are empty? Layers of hotels are empty. Nocturnal rooms. How many rooms are full? How many cease to be occupied? How many never cease to be occupied? How can such a silent room be so stentorian? And how do some attempt silence and still say nothing at all?

The rectangular window. Serves a slice of home county countryside, within the boundaries of the villages most prolific landowner. A nascent hum of the A24 hangs there. London’s veinal tendrils sprawl out to the meekest of quarters.

The Fish, The Cigarette, The Sofa. (Unfinished)

Maulville Progstein, a small green fish was swimming around a bottle of mineral water minding his business. He had been doing so since waking two hours ago for there is little for a fish inside a bottle to do. Although there was something bugging him. He had this innate desire to smoke a cigarette.

He sat there. Well he didn’t sit there he doesn’t have a behind to sit on. He slumped against the ridges of the plastic formed bottle and laughed at the predicament he was in. “How have I ended up addicted to cigarettes when I’m a water dwelling animal.” He said to nobody.

It turned out that the fish had just woken up from a four-day bachelor party. The memory of this happening had been erased due to extensive alcohol consumption

Their best friend Carter the Carp had intended on getting married.  Unfortunately, Carter had drowned and would be unable to attend the wedding.

Maulvillle, looked out of their bottle and into the dross interior of an unknown living room. There was a lime green sofa with an illustration of camellias on its exterior. Mauville thought about what a great time they would have if they were a sofa. No sofa has ever been addicted to cigarettes. Maulville also had no way of smoking as he couldn’t leave his bottle or he would suffocate and he didn’t have any plausible thumbs to operate a lighter. But gosh did he want a cigarette. He didn’t even know how he had ended up addicted. Perhaps someone had stuck a patch on him or put some sort of tobacco product in his bottle. An E-syrup perhaps.

Maulville swam a few circles and looked at the sofa again.

“I bet you’ve never been stuck inside a bottle”

“I have actually” the sofa replied.

Maulville was stunned.

“Excuse me?”

The sofa was silent. 

Maulville swam an anxious circle “How would you get inside a bottle?”

“The same way those tiny boats get inside bottles.”

“How do they get inside bottles?”

“They’re put into a trance and ushered in. Then the boats wake up and they’re inside these bottles and they have no idea how they got there.”

“Is that so Maulville.” replied suspiciously. “Have you got a cigarette”

“Let me check.” The sofa checked. “Hmm, I do, but… how am I to give it to you? Neither of us have the capability to move a cigarette.”

“Can’t you put me in a trance”

“How did a fish get addicted to cigarettes?”

“I’m not sure.” Mauliville fastidiously replied. “To be honest with you I’ve never had a thought before. And I’ve also never spoken to a sofa.”

The sofa stared back coldly. Maulville anticipated a reply but it never came. A grumbling sound brewed from inside the sofa a soft gurgling with a oaky timbre.

“Are you okay?” Maulville was suddenly concerned for the sofa’s health. It must be grating on one physical health to have people constant slumping on you. Having to hold someone in a position for hours

“Look I didn’t mean to cause offence”

The sofa pursed it cushions together and spat a cigarrette through the air. The perfectedly machined cylinder flew in a sonorous arc. It tapped the exterior of Maulvilles bottle and landed a few centimetres from the plastic bottle.