Scumdadio Ectoplasm sat in the neoprene terminal, his eyes fixed on the dark-reflecting windows. On the nearby benches other travellers sat with the same vacancy papering their features: a non-look. Under the fluoro-glare the Caucasian skin films to parchment and the Affro fades to deeper black. Over by the coffee-stat a woman, face Goth-white, black hair framing it, rubbed talon-seal on her nails and blew them dry. This was also a gesture of self-satisfaction. Scumdadio mused his wicked musement: “She likes the little of herself she knows, at least.”
In the deep, parallel rain, the bug-jets roared, lifted into the strato-smog and were gone. Naked lights in the distance reflected themselves in prismy drops rolling down the tri-glaze. “Time enough,” thought Scumdadio and fell asleep.
In the deep, parallel rain, Scumdadio dreamed that the bug-jets roared, lifted into the strato-smog. There was no difference between the reality he dreamed and the cold tarmac lake outside. Yet the heartless beat of the rain caused his imagining to rise to another height, He saw the sky open in an offering of plenty. Sun and indigo blue broke the rag of clouds and drenched the ground.
Scumdadio woke. His dream had come true and, like all dreams, its coming was commonplace. The sun shone as if it had never been obscured. The deep blue heaven ached for the stars of night. It was all under control. Even the bug-jet fumbling its way to planet-fall was utterly and cataclysmically normal.
© BH 1992
Just thought you needed to know a bit about Scumdadio. He came to this place in 1992, some say from the future. Maybe he came to 1992 from now. We have no way of knowing.
1 comment:
I keep seeing neoprene things in Poundland.
Post a Comment