This week, I’m feeling a bit on edge. Maybe it’s because footy season is about to start. OH SHIT ABOUT TO MAKE A MOVIE
The hunter kneels on the side of a sweeping hillock, lets damp blades of grass settle amongst his fingertips. Above him, the peaking curve of the hillside sweeps through a violet sky, obscuring the vast wilderness that creeps away to the horizon beyond it. Brazen energy niggles at his shoulders as he slows his heart rate, negotiates control, prepares for the coming storm.
The jester leans into the wooden frame of the stage, just out of view of the huddling masses. Red velvet caresses his cheek. He thinks of all that could go wrong, feels his tongue twist inside his mouth and his stomach lurch against the billowing unravelling of his insides. His memory is a spring, slowly uncoiling, releasing electricity into his synapses and unfurling the careful preparation he had so carefully prepared.
The admiral scouts the deck, lets stinging ocean spray batter her face in the morning sun. Here, in the soaring sound, all feels quiet and still, despite the lurching of the hull. Somewhere, underneath her, hundreds of men and women are still asleep, dreaming of anything that will take them away from these wretched seas, from this endlessly ticking clock. The admiral takes off her cap, and tries to remain steady in the rocking.
The hunter feels the rain flick across his brow, and clutches his blade so tightly it cuts.
The jester clears his throat, and expels everything but the tiny piece of himself that he needs.
The admiral turns to the sun, and opens her mouth wide.
And the sky turns red,
and the unspoken is writ large across the clouds.