Magenta Moments – Dead Deer

Magenta Moments

Vivid and vibrant. Harsh and shocking. Moments such as these come regularly now. The background colour to life is a dark, dirty red. It is punctuated by these sharp incidents of a startling hue.

In a car park. At work. Walking, cycling, sleeping. At any time it comes, rising up, rising in intensity. It is exhausting, it is debilitating, and of course it is wholly self-fulfilling and soul-destroying.

The head throbs from the piercing shade, even as it fades slowly back to the grim relentlessness of normality. I long for some fresh, warm and friendly colours once more. It has been so long, so very long.


Today I wrote from 17:30 to 17:40. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Feb 4th – In the midst of hope and despair

February 4th – In the midst of sadness and despair.


In the midst of Sadness and Despair, two small, run-down towns about 150 miles from Nowhere, was a town called Hope.

Hope was often overshadowed by its more populous neighbours: more people visited Sadness and Despair, sometimes singularly, and sometimes together. Sometimes whole groups of people visited Sadness and Despair, and stayed, making one or both of these towns their home. Their populations grew, and they became cities, twinned with each other, but each with its own unique character. Grey skyscrapers grew, nudging the clouds that drizzled tears downwards onto the grey pavements where the inhabitants of both Hope and Despair shuffled their feet and looked down as they walked. The parks were lifeless, the waters still.

In the town of Hope, still a town, not swallowed yet by the suburban overspill of the shadow of its bigger neighbours, flowers still grew. The flowers that grew in hope were not noisy flowers, but delicate-petalled things, who dripped their colours almost self-consciously, rather than blazing it to the world. The flowers grew in hope, and wilted in Sadness, and died in Despair. That was the way it was.

The people who lived in Hope held their heads up as they walked, and lived in colour. Clouds were not for them the threat of rain, for rain was the bringer of life to the flowers, and the plants, and the trees: rain filled the lakes and gave life to the streams. Clouds were not there because of their mood, but provided relief, when it was needed, from the heat of the sun, when it became too hot. When it was cold, or dark, the people in Hope knew that the sun would come out again and warm the ground, because the sun always came out again to warm the ground, eventually, no matter how long it took. If the sun came out in Sadness it was because they didn’t deserve it: in Despair it was always too hot.

People visited Hope, sometimes, but few stayed. Its inhabitants wished them to, they always did, but they felt that someday they would return again. Few people visited from either Sadness or Despair, though: it seemed as if the journey there was too much. The trains ran empty in both directions, usually, for there was little demand. Those that did travel did so without a ticket: it mattered little either way.

The town of Hope is still there. People go about their business, looking forward. Should you ever find it, they are very welcoming to visitors.


Inspired by a prompt from here.

Feb 3rd – The edge of forever

February 3rd – The edge of forever


She stood, swaying, balanced
on the edge of forever
and forever ago.

Her arm was steady
as she raised the rifle to her
shoulder, setting her sights

on her target ahead. Breathe
she told herself, breathe,
slow and long and true.

she had trained herself
for this; knew she was ready
to do what her head said

she must, even if her heart
screamed no. Eye to the sight;
crosshairs there to cross

him out the instant he
crossed the street. Steady.
She shifted the weight

on her feet, braced
against the wall of the
seventh floor of the empty

building, chosen just for this.
Her swaying slowed: forever
and forever ago met, embraced

at the cusp of the moment
when everything had to change.
Movement. She stood

stock still, the stock still
against her shoulder. She edged
her finger against the trigger,

its familiar curve a comfort,
her right eye pressed to the lens,
her left closed to the outside

world. This was the inside
world. She had a job to do,
one she had given herself,

and its reward was oblivion
for him, and whatever waited
over the edge of forever

for her. He stopped outside
the doorway opposite, reached
into his jacket, took out

his phone. He dialled.
Not moving, a perfect target,
perfectly still in the telescope

sight. Two small lines intersected
perfectly above his eyes,
his phone pressed to his ear.

As the telephone vibrated to itself
in the bag at her feet,
                       she fired.


Inspired by a prompt from here