Stalin’s British Victims

My college History tutor was an odd man. His face reflected the ache of years stranded in educating the young and the listless; he had given most of his life to History, yet hardly would he be remembered by it. A life more of habit than of passion, the end that would come to us all, he would pace the second-floor corridor with a limp, his grey hair bobbing with every untoward step. A sentiment of desolation would follow him as he walked, and amidst the ardour of the students between themselves, he would simply disappear. He did not belong in a world teeming with love and enthusiasm, rather he would  barely come alive within the laziness of the classroom. He could not inspire where inspiration already left its stain- he could inspire where the bleak reaches of history burrowed into the skin of the living and caused a morbid fascination to bubble dimly in the veins. Here he could reach in and tear the veins apart, but to the outside world, he was merely a creature of boredom and ruin. To me he was a hero of sorts: buried in his own thoughts. It was how I would have wanted to live when I was older; crushed by the weight of my own intelligence, yet dexterous enough to be able to use my madness to feed society with meaningless knowledge… and to get paid for it. It wouldn’t matter because nobody would listen to me anyway. I’m sure my tutor felt this way about his students. I am also sure that he knew how much I did listen. Continue reading “Stalin’s British Victims”

Something Wrong with Heart

I didn’t push my face against the window. I didn’t want to. The glass was melting, a steady and deliberate dissolving which would cause my skin to burn, should I have touched it. The slow dissipation of the window caused me to suddenly remember being taught at school that glass was always melting, the faint scent of blancmange still present upon my clothes from the canteen. They told me that glass was liquid. The years would change its shape, alter its form, distort what lay behind it. Outside the sun was shining. For a moment my mind smiled, but my present image remained frozen at the window on the bleak, bleak day. The glass melted now because everything was wrong… not because of its matter, and not because of blancmange, but because the poison rain fell from the sky; from clouds blacker than the scorched bodies which had littered the streets in times past. Darker than night, and more terrifying than anything which had come before. The droplets would fall, dissolving the concrete architecture, ravaging skin. Magnificent flickers of a blue shimmer, leaving behind such fluorescent flowers, such ferocious and beautiful mutations- of pink, and green, and yellow- alive, and dead within minutes. Humanity personified in nature. Continue reading “Something Wrong with Heart”