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No Cygnet for Sleep: 13

‘No Cygnet for Sleep’ contains strong language, sexual scenes, drug use, and gore.

The Truth is the Myth

By Jivan Ward

I say, Suna? What about her?

Ané stand at my confusion. She pull door plain sight hidden in the wall. Open to spiral staircase like descent to hell and wind blow out say, Stay away. We down flights round and down round and chill, grab arm and no sound but echo of sole and stair steel then stair concrete and brick and gravel crunch. Ané smartphone light white beacon to unknown. Walls peek out wet and mould green strands down to floor and stairs plateau and long corridor lit by dim light. Green door: Warning High Voltage Danger of Death. She turn off smartphone light to rattle keys and rattle up and into the world above, a jingle for deadeye Patches. I imagine their saturate blue eye twinkle and blink they rattle against constraints and groan like infected then Ané open door no hinge squeak.

Steel throne. No TV. Big machines hum. Plugs to wires bundled lead to metal barber chair up to bandage back of head. Ané walk to introduce. She look down sorrow. Hand stroke of hair black grease clumped and she turn chair to face me. Bloodied bandage around eyes and ears and wires fray and tangle over forehead to temple. Mouth sag open and teeth grated. Little stubs now almost all decay. Gaunt pale like no blood no flesh nothing but white ash shrink wrapped skin. Black veins subtle strangle arm. Ané say, Robyn here is our shining light.

Chill cements my bone.

She say, You never questioned how she got into the facility? What about the resemblance?

She sigh. She see my horror make up my face. Gravestone frozen. See them playing in park from apartment mouldy green sill. See them school them – I realise the optimism. See them white separate room and blue light cascade from wall of screens that surround them. See them hospital them – I hear howling echo down stair from Patches writhing foaming at tables and snap to silence. She say, The truth is in the myth.

Now feathered and stuck. Now be slain. She say, Now you can hear your options.

Jivan Ward

Jivan Ward was born and reared in London, where he learnt that there’s more to life than what surrounds you. Stumbling out of a tumultuous passion for music, into the corridors of libraries and the dank recesses of fiction, he began writing poetry and short stories before going to university to study the craft and art of writing. Tit led to tat and he works in retail and is currently writing a novel and running a blog. He believes the internet is a force of neutrality and that the publishing industry should invest more in its authors than its devices.

For more Information on this Series, Visit: No Cygnet for Sleep: An Introduction
To Follow the Entire Series, Visit: No Cygnet for Sleep: Jivan Ward

@jivanward / Jivan Ward on WordPress

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