dark | side | thursday | thirtythree

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

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Do you have a dark side?

Or, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so,  join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.

Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday

Share your dark side?

I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.

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dark | side | thursday | thirtythree

His teeth hurt.

And he could see nothing. Not a damned thing.

Nothing.

Some good things. The lights had (finally) stopped flashing. The siren was (at least) silenced.

For now.

His stomach churned, he felt the ground slither and shift beneath him. Snakes twisting, hissing, embracing. Rehearsing.

He ached. Wanted. Needed.

Lusted.

Fragmented memories, teenaged walks. Darkened banks, distended rivers. Fumbled encounters with unknown territories. Soft, warm, cotton, elastic, plastic. Ridges, curves. Swollen, stolen. Stubble and trouble. Warm, wet and pressed. Repressed, depressed. No, yes. Please, and no. Crevices, false moist premises. Fingers entwined. Breathless promises, untouched premises. Unknown provinces. Breathless. Hard pressed fences, no defences.

Dark wet endings.

Fear and guilt. Tumbling, spinning. Mind unfurling. Twisting, turning.

Darkness gathering.

Nothing.

Water rushing. Trunks extending. Leaves unfurling. Shadows passing. Fingers, lips and tongues. Melting, melding. Branches poking, spreading.

Snow piling up in front of him. Snowflakes, she gave, he takes, she fakes.

Nothing.

Dials descending. Counting and measuring. Time approaching, receding, rushing, crashing. Time compressing, extending, unwinding, dilating, disappearing. Unfurling.

Nausea rising.

Spinning, twisting, retching, heaving.

Nothing.

Faces swirling in the mist. Approaching and receding.

Voices, echoing, booming, fading. Fractured. Silenced.

Twisting, a sharp pain pulled at his arm. Needle embedded. Fluid flowing. Pain pushed back. Clarity crystallising, crumbling. Push the button.

Nothing.

Tight white cotton. Curve and crevice. Hidden, bidden, unforgiven. Warm wet lips. Tight embraces. Hidden faces. Dark desires. Dark flowing rivers. Twisted branches. Elastic, plastic, closure.

Nothing.

Nausea rising.

His teeth hurt.

A lot.

Nausea rising.

Lights flashing, sirens screaming. Sirens taunting. Taut warm bodies. Beckoning. And then, the reckoning.

Cotton. White. Tight. Curves and swellings. Hidden promises, forbidden premises. White. Swollen. White and smooth. Stubbled trouble. Shaven, brazen.

Nausea rising.

Nothing.

His teeth hurt.

A lot.

Push the button.

Nausea rising.

Blink.

His eyes, open. Rivers frozen. Love left frozen. Give me a dozen. Why so cold, not so old. Bold, sold. Shoes un-soled. Left untold.

Nausea rising.

pushthebuttonpushthebuttonpushthebutton.

Nothing.

Eyes blinked open. Morphine seeping, through plastic tubing. Bloating his arm, warming, pain receding. Floating, fear receding. All receding. No preceding.

Dry mouthed, he reached out. Cold glass. Rolling over. Crisp white cotton. Sheets not shrieks. Shaking hands, cold wet (water) gasping, fetching. Life giving.

Nothing.

His teeth hurt.

Less. Than before.

Nothing.

Eyes open. Blink. Think.

His teeth hurt. His face hurt. He hurt. Everywhere. Faded memories. Washed up. Tied up.

Nothing.

His teeth no longer hurt.

Now he lay still. Seconds passed. Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. An eternity in the sweep, of a second hand.

Second hand dreams. Long lost dreams. Fading fast. Taught white cotton. Curved promise, false premise.

Push the button.

Eyes wide open.

Hurting less.

Gathering memory. Firm if fanciful. Must not lust. Grasping memory.

Push the button.

Warming. Memory storming. Flashing lights, screeching sounds and sirens calling. Falling. Breaking. Warm, wet, bodies joining.

Push the button.

Nothing.

Push the button.

Falling.

Eyes wide open.

He saw her then. Saw her,

reality.


The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.

thirtythree | fiftytwo

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