The Man, the Field and the Porridge Oats.

I don’t know how we ended up in this place. My memory doesn’t allow me to remember. We walk up and down this field many times each day. Those that escape through the hedged borders of this field only return solemn faced. Never again meeting anothers eye. There is an electric power line running through the centre of the field. Standing tall and defiant. Outside of the man’s reach. Some try to climb to the top but they never come back down again. The clouds forbid us to see.

No matter how hard we try, we simply cannot talk to eachother. The words do not form in our mouths. It’s been so long since another has graced my ears with conversation. All we do is endlessly walk up and down this field for a reason I cannot fathom. Every week the man will come in a range rover through the gate and unload a mound of porridge oats. This is our excitement. I’m too hungry to question what’s in the porridge oats. We scramble over each other in a frenzied race to reach the pile. shoving as many handfuls of porridge oats down our throats as we can manage.

He will observe us for quite some time while we eat. Removing those that begin to form words with their mouths. Those that learn to stand upright from all fours. Those that begin to question the porridge oats. Those that are simply unhealthy, no longer providing whatever it is the man needs.

While I chew my porridge oats I look up to the powerline. The clouds have dispersed. I can see them clearly. I stand upright and gaze above me. I hear laughter and conversation. They’re forming words! The man in the range rover cannot reach them so they are happy. Yet they can’t eat. Soon they will have to come down and share the same fate all of us are bound to. I quickly fall down to all fours. Every day more and more join us.

I don’t know what will happen in the future.



The Man in the Mirror Is Not Me

It’s Sunday morning

The calender says so

For all I know

Days don’t have names anymore


I watch my legs move forward

And backwards

My feet clumsily doing what feet do

I get him to move his arms

Just to see if they’re still working

I crack his fingers

The sound is pleasant to me

But he cringes


While climbing the stairs

I pass a mirror

There’s someone else there, not me

I look behind myself

There’s no one

Aside from the many lists

Of employees of the month

How is this possible

He copies my every movement

We walk closer to eachother, hesitating

But back off suddenly

We stare at eachother for the longest time

Both of us seemingly waiting for the other to say something

I ask him if he has a name

He flaps his lips open and shut but there’s no sound

I ask him again

Still, nothing

I decide to waste no more time

I have work soon

I walk on

Without a glance back


I watch myself scan items at a till

He’s blurting out polite jibberish again

The customers soak it up like butter on a crumpet

Day in day out

The same music

The same lyrics

How does he do it?

“Another day, another dollar”

He repeats like a mantra

I tire of it

And think of her

Soft, milky white skin

That you could sink your teeth in to

Her hips, wide

My hands glued to them

Her eyes locked on mine


I’m in between her thighs

She slowly slips it in


And he’s still scanning items

What an idiot