The voice is calm, I hope they are paying him well. There is no need to panic, we’ll keep you informed, meanwhile enjoy…

What was the driver thinking? The vessel, so far off course? Out of satellite range, the falling snow takes on a primitive power, a revival of long-suppressed presence, far from experiments on pilots and tests for hypothermia.

In chic bars and jolly boozers, the festive season is under way, the apocalypse comes not in laser beams or neutron bombs, but a proliferation of plastic bags, a tendency to leave without | saying goodbye.

The tanker lists badly. One engine dead, one on fire, leopard in the snow, kitten on a piano.

The kiss came like a prophet from the desert, her lips maraschino, his heart, artillery, firing a mad barrage, all they could do was drag bodies from the wreckage, it was a slow number, they begin to kiss again.

No longer on the radar, already the insurers are being woken, friends and relatives, long sealed in bags and stored in freezers, take the messages that will so entirely | divert the courses of their lives, of course we will do everything in our power, our thoughts are with you now.

Her thoughts were on the pine trees, the light show of the Aurora Borealis, he had no sympathy for the navigator, slumped at the controls, baby with a moustache, evil lemur on a vine, it was a zombie-themed evening in the hotel, the holiday of a lifetime.

The architect is stressed, she is talking to the foreman. He had all the makings of a prophet, but nothing to prophesy. While the pattern is consistent, no alarm bells ring, the survivors | removed their parachutes and checked their position.

It will certainly affect the production process, it may be months before we know for sure. Her gospel was rejected and settled into the mouths of deviants and fanatics, stalling paradise, possibly for good.

It is an illusion to believe life has ups and downs, it is perfectly flat. He wondered whether the presents would arrive on time? She despised the work of science, it was merely moving atoms around, a limited vision, but no one would restrict the flourishing of words, they were greater than the people who spoke them, escaped the people who heard.

On an impulse, the wounded pilot put on her jacket with the rings of braid, and staggered off into the jungle, no longer concerned with Santa’s schedule. Behind her, monkeys began to congregate around the cooling fuselage, and he replaced the lid, trying to make it seem like nothing had changed.


from the series Silver of the mine of gold (open-ended: 2013–present)