Circle In The Sky
Dreaded shapes hurtling around, losing our form. When you cannot tell where the shape-seller ends and the world begins, you know things are beginning to fail. The gentle fizzling out of their being, something around the hair, it is impossible to determine where they cease, where their edge is. Do they have an edge?
Looking up there is no cloud. Invisibly maybe the moisture is held, suspended. Blue, such a vibrant blue, searing through the whole vista. Look up, look up! When did you last look up? To see such vastness, it is always there, remember to look up. Here in these flatlands it is enormous, human eyes insufficient to take in the entirety of the three hundred and sixty degrees of the horizon and the magnificent dome above.
They are running out; circles all gone, rhomboids too. You settle on a square, although the price is noticeably greater than the less precise rectangle. Shuffling slowly along the queue you seen the few remaining shapes leave with grim faced, determined, satisfied shoppers stomping slowly off with their shapes paid for and wrapped. So few remain.
Finally you reach the front. There is a single square left, you request it. Handing over a filthy, well-handled, greasy note leads the shape-seller to wrinkle their nose in distain. As they hand you over the final square you sense a deep misery descend on those behind you in the queue.
“And here’s your change: back to you”. A rattle of coins in your upstretched hands. You turn and leave.
Click here to buy the paperback version of Dead Deer’s Prompted writing