#81 — The Destination

My contribution to 100 Stories by 100 Writers

The journey is long, and cold to the bone. A road stretches out for miles. At the end, a broken building — filled with lost ephemera — overlooks a driveway, built of dust and soot, and chalk in patches. Along the barrier, which separates the path from grassland, regular graffiti is emblazoned on the metal. Standing at the doorway, motionless and cast in shadow, I can see my brother. He doesn’t know I’m watching him.

Have you ever seen the first incarnation? Green lines to guide you ‘pon the everblack of all creation? I think I saw my death there; in a dream. A brown bookcase frame of wires fell atop me, and crushed the air from out my lungs. Then, I woke — in a pool of piss — on a Tuesday morning. Late for school, I skipped the hygiene, pedalled on my bike towards the hall and forgot the apparition of another self.

Years later, the sky was purple. Once again, I felt a truth beyond the touch of real stone. Something sang eternal song. There was a hill — and a girl — and a tumble. Next, the purple turned to starless curtains of the everblack. Piles of rubble hid a rusted safe beneath, and within? A plastic screwdriver, furnished by a Christmas cracker. The reverie repeats, the safe replaced; instead, a television — fit with antique dials — flickers aimless static.

My final drift into that place defined a phase of life. A train carriage blurred the passing bushes as it reached my home. Her eyes, from blue to black, reflected in the perspex; a taste I sacrificed, for gluttony and avarice. There was a moment — like a fork in the road — when inspiration moved me to piano keys to tell you how I loved her. Through time, a flare enveloped the boat, the haunted house and the rose. I opened up a door, and you were left alone.

The destination is a salmon pink, behind the clouds. It flickers gently, just above the block of redbrick houses. Hanging by a distant window, there’s a lamp of yellowed light. Standing at the doorway, motionless and cast in shadow, I can see an empty figure; staring straight ahead.

Hello readers, old and new!

I barely utilise Medium now, and I’d like to explain why; and what’s coming! First, let’s give some context here. Why have I written this post?

At the incessant behest of my father — Grimsby Hackney to you — I decided to get involved with a fun community project here. 100 Stories by 100 Writers is the brainchild of Smillew Rahcuef. It’s full of a wide variety of writers; all expressing themselves completely.

I wrote surreal poetry, to mirror my place in life at the moment. It’s based on an odd short film I released, and full of dreamlike imagery. As ever, I hope you enjoy my words. This was a bit of a purge.

In truth, I’ve struggled with everything lately. I’ve fallen into a lull. That’s why my writing’s suffered, and why you haven’t heard from me. It’s pretty damn holistic too. Every single aspect of life has become a depressing churn, to be honest. Although I feel on the way to improvement, there’s still a road ahead.

If you’re reading this before I’ve had a full chance to catch up, I have over a hundred notifications, piled up and waiting. I’ve written this throughout the night, in prep for a morning of replying to comments; not to mention catching up with some of your wonderful writing here. I’m looking forward to getting on top of it all, but sleep must be a priority! Don’t be offended I’ve put something out; there’s much I want to check out when I can.

As a final note — for Decent Land readers — I’d like to say that I’ve still been working. The amount of art that we’re building behind the scenes is honestly staggering, and I can’t wait to share it all. My work as an art director for the company has indeed taken over, and the arks left little imagination fuel for me to draw from.

However, a new edition of the novel is coming within the week. There have only been three so far, but the last was left on an atmospheric cliffhanger. The next part of my Maian Tiger narrative is nearly finished, and it’s quite a beast. It’s already at 2,500 words, with still a bit left to type out. I’m ludicrously proud of the story so far, and I think my readers will like it too.

Thank you for taking the time with my work, and I can’t wait to return the favour. Always appreciative of all of your patience,

Lee David Tyrrell.