The Grain

The grain

Under the world of sound, there is a vast blanket of nothing. I am still in the world. When I try to move my arms, nothing happens. The grain pushes and pushes down but isn’t heavy. It is a mere space. Lying in this space is not a threat, although thinking about where I am is daunting. Do not do it. Do not think. You will get there.

I am not crushed; I am spread out. The tantalising gush of the flow of the granules around me, moving down a sudden fall. There’s a weight on the roof of me in this world – a sense of blindness catches me behind my eyes. They have stepped on me. Or dug. They dig, with their dirty hands, full of sticky melted cream. And then the flow of grain around me starts. Everywhere.

My tongue lies in my mouth like a dry duvet. Made up and useless. I swallow and a pool of saliva settles behind my teeth. Oh, the grains. I open my mouth and push my tongue against the wall of sand. It is cold and pleasant against the dryness. Suck on the sand and take it into my throat, into my body. Suck on it, dry it out, dryer.

When I dig into the layers, it becomes colder and colder, until there is finally the red hot centre. My fingertips grind around the grind of the grain. They are slowly capturing me, enclosing their pieces around my sluggish body. I drag my head back and let the resistance of the weight collapse onto my chest. Granules in heaps, granules in masses, seeping into corners of eyes, holes of ears, my open mouth.

This world is not a world, it is an underworld. No time or space exists for a human. But I am no longer human. I am sand.

-> grateful that my short The Grain was published in the first installment of Spread Mag and showcased on canvas at their launch party exhibition