Adventures at the end of the world

The wind screams into my ears , hitting me front on, as I struggle to cycle onward down the never ending road. Flat, smooth, long. In the distance more of the same. I stop at a bus stop and see a conspiracy of gnomes hiding at the beachside.
The hateful things are no coincidence, they’re up to something that can’t be good.

The elements are pushing me back, doing their best to keep me away, but my stubborn streak pumps at the pedals that bit harder, and I adjust my gears, vainly hoping for some miracle boost.

Stark at the end. But no more than most of what fell behind. Cliches of desolation fit the landscape, scattered across stretching nothing. But through the wasteland comes absurdity.
A tree of junk and left behind stuff, leads to a charming exhibition, signposted by a garden of brushes.
This ozlike tipsy-turvy distracts momentarily from the sinister. A creaking sign pulls me back, rocking in its own time, a prelude to a scream.
I reach a lonely pub at the end of the road. Welcoming, with a reassuring normality. Empty but for an aging couple, who communicate in passive aggressive fragments of speech. Mewing at the quality of the food, he shuffles from his seat to stare closer at some pictures on the wall. He is not interested, only hoping to break the torpor of his stagnant existence. Either would kill the other given half a chance, but they lack the the imagination.20121120-130639.jpg
Their forks screech on porcelain, and I cringe at their lifeless mastication. They are replaced by an older pair. Tie pulled tight in a severe jacket, he declares the food too rich for him and they head out to oblivion. She uttered not a word. There is no other sustenance, they will likely starve out there. A final couple, a few years younger than the last, take the table closest to me. And there are a few smiles, laughter and a steady conversation. Hope there is another way. Between them some signs of at least a passing concern for the others presence.

I decide to leave it here, before more doom laden manifestations further assault my sanity. I will flee with the wind behind me, not to the sea, but back to firmer ground and the hope of meaning in the turbulence.


‘Nice bit of fish.’

Her fork penetrated his jugular and he fell face first, smothering his chips in red sauce.



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