The Sub-Editor - Bong-Tree

BONG-TREE

She said:

'So, we sailed away for a year and a day to the land where the Bong-tree grows. . .'

She said: 

'Yes, we went to sea, just you and me, to a place that no one else knows.'  

She rolled onto her tummy and turned her head towards mine.  She whispered in my ear:

'A magical land inhabited by trees that stood like fat old gentlemen, their wide girths bulging and their fingers gnarled and curled.  And ancient rocks with pebbles and pockets that we climbed up and sat on to eat. And herds of deer that moved like shadows.  And a castle with turrets and fairy-tale towers. And a river that shone in the sun like silver.

'At night, we laid down next to each other, cocooned in our sleeping bags but still together.  

'And we smoked as we stared at the stars.'

She said:

'I was never happier than in that place. I had all that I wanted and needed.' 

The Sub-Editor - Dust

DUST

It's the mornings that terrify me the most; the process of waking up. At night I scratch. I toss and turn. I dream and, in a half-conscious state, the clarity of my thoughts makes me want to bellow and scream.

To wake and reconcile oneself with another day; another day of avoiding the truths that, when engulfed in the black of night, are exposed all too well.

My days are all about avoiding the truth.

I wake - a mysterious, tenuous thing, this daily becoming - but I keep my eyes closed. I curl my body into a ball. I press my hands between my knees: ugly red fingered impressions on bed-warm flesh. I breathe, face-down, into the pillow and the rudeness of being properly conscious again makes me sneeze repeatedly so that when I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I look like I've been crying for years.

Or, perhaps, it's just an allergy. 

The house is full of dust. Dust on the bookshelves and windowsills, the TV screen and blinds.  On the wooden arms and legs of furniture and in the creases of fabric and cloth. Dust on the base of the upright reading lamp, on the faded, pleated lampshades and the electric fire's plastic coal: on the tops of the wall sockets and framed pictures and prints. Corners and crevices, ornaments, appliances. Not only on horizontal surfaces; it clings vertically too; to the sides of wardrobes and the chest of drawers, the desk, the filing cabinet, walls and doors.

When the low winter sun cuts its way into the house, the truth is unavoidable; the atmosphere inside is heavy with dust - endlessly suspended.  Moving minutely, slightly, in the cold white light. I breathe it in.  I tread it into the carpet. I feel it settling on my skin like snow or a wet mist.

Dust is dead, but it sticks. Like the ashes of a cremated body, it is slightly greasy. The dust in the house sticks to me as I sit and wait. It blocks my pores and clogs my mouth. It dulls my hair and gathers under my nails. It greys my skin and turns the whites of my eyes yellow. 

Sometimes, I use the sleeve of my pullover to wipe away the dust.  Sometimes, I use a damp cloth. I even have a feather duster (albeit synthetic).  I disturb the dust, but I am never rid of it. I dislodge it and displace it, but the minute I turn my back it encroaches once more. Dust on every surface. Dust on the floor. Dust on every object I've ever owned. Dust on every object in the house; not just my belongings, but on those of others who were here and then left.

I am the custodian of dust.

The Sub-Editor - Night Walking

NIGHT WALKING

I dream of a place where I once felt at home; a place of cobbles and rock and stone, built into a hill.  All roads led up to an open moor, wild and raw from the relentless winds that rattle and ravage it, sweeping the landscape and taking your breath. And, after a while, a broken quarry takes you down to earth again.

I dream of a place that is covered in snow and held together with ice. Where silver lights hang from trees and orange candle flames flicker in windows. I think there is music playing there, too.

The pull in my muscles as I head up the hill; tightening in my thighs and aching in my calves. My back is sore from bending forward.  My jaw is fiercely set.  But I can no longer feel my fingers and toes, and my mind is somewhere else.

I have devised a circuit and, every night, I walk it. I always leave the house at ten. Ten pm when the TV news is starting. I learn what I need from the radio (and I'm thinking of getting the paper delivered to the house).

I live on the outskirts of town, a cul-de-sac. If you look at a map the road goes nowhere. But, there is a footpath that crosses an industrial estate, a playground and a public park, and leads directly to the 24-hour Asda.

I walk for a couple of hours each night, till midnight. I walk through well-lit streets and pitch-black alleyways. I walk across tarmac and gravel and grass. I walk under the moon and the stars and the galaxies, but I never escape the sick-thick glow of the neighbouring city's light pollution.

I'm wondering: would it be cheating if I shopped at the supermarket late at night? If I kept my head down and used the self-service tills? The organic supplier doesn't stock all I need.