CIRCLE
It is a certainty that a great writer must devote his life to his art, and upon completion of his magnum opus often end all together. Hence, I have long delayed the final chapter, in fear that such a fate awaits me. I wonder if I might spontaneously combust on the ultimate dot, burst into flame and send the pages fluttering upwards, away from a cluster of grey, smouldering ash. Alas, what an end! I settle into a plush armchair – pen, ink, paper... The boy was now puffing hard. It was meant to hurt. Revolution upon revolution had driven him upward past grey apartment blocks and coarse neon after the boy had escaped the grey apartment where his foster parents lived. For years, school had been a torment; They had known that if They pushed him to the edge... and They had known how to. The High Street, Morrisons, a crisp packet, a dog, cars, petrol, trucks, red lights went unnoticed. Only the goal – wait till his mates heard this; he would show them. As the wheels whirred beneath him he wobbled precipitously across the road.Terrorized by brakes screeched and horns blasted, the wide-eyed boy pedalled out of the city, out on the Roman road, out to rolling hills, patchwork fields, stretching to an infinite horizon. How lovely! I am sure the publisher will say: ambiguity, contrast, and - dare I say it - Originality. I admit it: I am rather proud of myself today. This writing really works up a thirst; a paragraph surely merits tea. A bell tinkles. I look around, at the vegetable patch, the newly planted seeds – flown all the way from South America you know – with short, green shoots beginning, and the last batch ready to be moved out. I like writing here; scientists say it is good to write near plants
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