Mercury Chris,
a guest entry (no2) by mat,
Photo Credit - Mathew Kyriakides
There he lay, hollow, his body but a mere shell. If one were to trample upon him he would surely break only to reveal a malnourished yolk. His limbs scatter across the floor, reaching for the beckoning light that only reveals itself to him. Thus he is blinded and condemns himself to focussing on the swirling patterns that waltz around his head, spirographing their way through what feels like liquid within. His cheeks and bones rest against the cold, heartless concrete, but somehow it feels comforting. So he caresses it as if it were his mother, for he feels as cold and as heartless as it does. But then a reverberating footstep seems to ripple his liquid centre. The person standing over him stood skinny, but proud, smirking and whispering in attempt to reassure him. The boy who still lay merged with the floor is now semi-comatose. His senses flickered like a lampshade in a storm and words registered like Morse code. Thus the figure that stood over him seemed part of the scenery, almost like furniture, only it moved in and out and around the room, spinning. So the boy, Chris his name, remained in the same position clinging on to his only possession, a possession that in reality owned him.
