In the end, we had to to lock the staircase up to stop it from straying.
~
image & text: David Witteveen
In the end, we had to lock the staircase up to stop it from straying.
~
image & text: David Witteveen
He tried to say something, after he dumped the last armful of clothes in the boot of his car. An apology, perhaps. Or a plea for forgiveness.
She ignored him.
Her eyes itched from crying. The pain and the anger and the betrayal were burnt out. All she felt was exhaustion.
He drove away in unsatisfied silence.
It’s over, she thought. Done. Rule a line under it and move on.
But then the metaphors started haunting her.
~
text and image: David Witteveen
Casings rust. Components fail. Technology becomes obsolete. Desperate for spare parts, the robots crouched in the grass, waiting to ambush a train.
~
text and image: David Witteveen
We hid under the shop awning, while vast and silent creatures stalked through the rain.
~
text and image: David Witteveen
My Father Told Me About This:
On the left, there’s the front of a building that is now a dojo - but back in the Sixties, it was a dance hall, and quite the place to go of a Saturday night.
Through the bridge, there’s a red brick building, which is a police station.
It all looks very peaceful, but back in the day, it was a pretty rough sort of a venue. You could pretty much rely on a fight breaking out every weekend, and if you weren’t near the door, you’d have to grab onto one of the coat hooks that lined the wall, and hold on for dear life.
It was also an oddly safe venue, so you wouldn’t need to hold on for very long, though. Because each time a fight started, the management would turn off the light under the eave - and before long, the police would notice it was off and come a’running, and a few would-be tough guys would dry out in the holding cells until Sunday morning.
~
image & text: Loki Carbis
When the meteorite struck Earth, most of the dinosaurs and pterosaurs and other large reptiles died out. Only a few managed to escape, finding means - lucky accidents, really - to slip away from the dust-choked surface. Like the plesiosaur that descended into the deepest of lakes, becoming one with darkness and depth and cold, cold water until there was very little to distinguish beast from loch and certainly little enough to be concerned with minor details like breathing. And the pliosaur that went in the other direction.
There isn’t much to eat in the sky; no wonder the poor thing has gotten so thin. Still, she seems to like it up there. The cirrus are sly and slippery fish and when she can catch them she snaps them up in her dolphin-teeth. Only the dense, black cumulonimbus are large enough to present much of a threat - and having evaded them successfully for the last 65 million years, it seems likely she will continue.
She is, on the whole, unbothered by cryptozoologists or camera-wielding tourists. Only the occasional aeroplane, buzzing past her head like a fat blowfly.
~
image and text: Hespa
They huddled in the trees along the banks of the creek watching the orange digger approach. This was their creek, along which they used to play, along which they danced and sung and celebrated the turning of the seasons.
The concrete paths got laid, the fences were built, the pile of stone and metal got larger and larger. How shall we fight it, they cried, how shall we keep our creek, how shall we get the power we need to save it.
The digger came closer, threatening…
They banded together and called down the strongest power they knew – they called the Sun, harnessed it, trapped it in the creek.
Now they ask themselves – how shall we use this power.
~
image: Renee Hobbes
After you left, I found the tape reel in your belongings.
I should have mailed it to you, or at least thrown it out. Instead, I threaded it through my 16 track recorder and pressed play.
Your voice floated out from the speakers, warm and close. The fidelity was breathtaking. It sounded as if you were standing right next to me. The hairs stood up on my arms. I could almost smell you.
You used to sing to me, late at night, sitting on the studio floor with half-drunk bottles of wine in our hands. It was your private gift to me.
And then you left.
I stop the tape. Rewind. Play the tape again, dubbing your voice to a second track. Rewind. Dub. Rewind. Dub. The tape warps. Static leaks in.
I repeat the process over and over until there’s nothing left of you but white noise.
~
image: Angelica East
text: David Witteveen
