The Hairy Hands of Dartmoor
As the cold, damp wind blew across the moor, the trees, with their spindly fingers creaked, pointing to him mockingly; Panic began to seep into his every pore. The velvet night sky, pin pricked with delicate shards of light, shone upon the gravel road. The small stone bridge lay only a few feet away, beckoning him to the other side. His heart beat quickened, his palms began to sweat. Short, sharp wisps of breath became visible in the air. His eyes darted in every direction, like a missile seeking its target. Nothing. Silence. He scoffed to himself anxiously. Hairy hands come on. It was just a legend, a myth. It couldn’t possibly be true, Could it? He shivered nervously.
The hairs on the back of his neck began to spring up sporadically, sensitive to his mental paranoia. Why was he even here, at this time of night? He thought to himself as he fumbled for a cigarette inside the glove compartment. Something stirred in the bushes up ahead. Moths danced crazily in the beams of light emanating from the car. His eyes strained to catch a glimpse of what may lie before him. He stopped short of locking the doors, reminding himself Dartmoor was a wild place, full of life both day and night. Then he saw it. As clear as day but as hazy as night. Hands. Pale, thick and stubbly. He couldn’t go on. Not now. He’d heard the stories.
Stars of CCTV
A little bit to the right. No, a bit more. Left a little. There. Zoom in. Captured. Black and white images crawl about the screen as they log every detail onto a tiny hand held computer. Young, old, black, white, big, small. No one escapes. Every last detail recorded for future purposes. What they are we will never know. Men in anonymous offices tucked away in dark, dank alleyways scour the streets for signs of life. Retaliation. Thoughts. Everything you do and say is caught on camera. Sometimes you know. Most of the time you don’t. Small, silent eyes follow your every move, from shop to shop, car park to pub. Not even the inconspicuous among us go unnoticed.
Computers drone monotonously, analyzing detail after detail. Name, age, race, address, occupation. Logged, made a note of, call it what you will. Nervous pensioners and callous teenagers trudge along the streets, carefree. For now. Mothers with babies and yuppies on mobile phones, captured, in the invisible net of big brother. Unaware of the demise of their own fate. The men sit, silently, hooked on coffee and pills staring into the black and white world of the screen, waiting for something that will never come. They themselves are also watched, just in case. Voyeurism for the government. Peeping toms and self-gratification, lie within the cold wall of little buildings, out of sight. So they think. You look up and wonder. Thinking. Reacting. Nervous. Sometimes you know. Most of the time you don’t.
Subterranean Homesick Blues
Some say they exist, others say they don’t. Deep beneath the London underground live those excluded from society, cast aside and banished to the depths of human morality and existence. Living alone among the sewers and cables of the world above, breathing air only suitable for rats and other vermin, for that is all they are. Living off bits of decaying food, bones and rubbish left to trickle down from the streets, every day becomes a hunt for scraps of reality amidst the hazy tunnels and catacombs of days gone by. Men, women and children, deformed beyond recognition. Grotesque forms of life distorted by lack of light, air and life.
People on platforms blissfully unaware of those who inhabit the lines, the true owners of the tube. Those who clean the lines and the trains. Those who make sure well all get to where were going. Unlike those who cannot go anywhere at all. Forced into a perpetual state of confusion and despair, longing for something more than a platform as a home, yet comforted by the womb like structure of the tunnels. Existing rather than living, fighting rather than winning. Being. Some above ground know of their existence, yet acknowledge it only briefly. Others know nothing. It is beyond their comprehension to think of another world other than their own. Their lives, so neatly played out among the cafés, restaurants and boutiques above need no interruption from something so dark and disgusting. It would tip everything into the unknown.