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Pain
By S. Jayant
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Pain. It emerges from cracks in the rock, a pink misty vapour. It drifts, destroying all that it touches.
-------Traffic honks. A busy day. He crosses the road and enters the glass-fronted building where he works at spinning dreams.
-------Pain is rising in clouds now. It looks around for fresh prey. It flexes its talons and grins without humour.
-------This ad copy is no good; must be rewritten. He finds a few of the photographs quite all right, though. This is an important account. Dreams need to be sold effectively.
-------Pain has obscured the rock completely. A pulsating pink fog. Swooshing sounds emerge from it. It permeates all around it and destroys without mercy. Red talons quiver.
-------Lunch break. The senior art director is a fine woman. She has long glistening hair and a Grecian aspect ratio. She has a well-suspended undercarriage and high-quality body paint. Her V8 meth-fuelled engine hums provocatively. He looks at her and lusts, nibbling at his sandwich.
-------Pain is everywhere now. A dance of death, with thousands of talons swiping at everything around. Skin is rent asunder. Muscle tissue collapses. Cerebral tissue weeps. Blood sprays through the air, fills his mouth. Convergence. Afternoon workshift filled with pain. Undercarriage in the distance, swaying gently, buffeted by the wind. Pain is howling, howling, baying for blood. Cerebral tissue dissolve in a flood of tears. The artwork in front of him vanishes, replaced by the mask of pain. He puts his head on the table and feels the cold glass top against his nose. Death would be a release, but then who is going to finish all this remaining work before the deadline ?
You ?-------
