91 Deceitful Ginger Cakes
I saw Heaven today; it looked like Hell. If I’m honest, I didn’t understand at first; it all seemed a little ridiculous. I was sitting in the garden, sipping orange squash and eating a red jam tart, when it happened. Mum was gardening, the radio gushing Stravinsky - each violin stroke was rushed, violent – and wearing a white dress with a spotted-white hat. I remember well, you see.The ginger cake had gone off; Mum was just spinning it out. Oh, and I’m not deliberately avoiding the topic I set out to expose, by the way; I’m merely explaining the genesis of my story. Please don’t be angry with me. The radio screamed furiously, on and on, a monotonal harmony of voices accelerated precariously into a mind void of reason. Stop cross-examining me! John came round, asked for some tea bags. The sky had hurriedly cracked open, a rift in the dreams of many. Mum was happy to see him, asked if he wanted some ginger cake. Crimson sky bled from the wound, obscuring what was left of those ‘gospel truths’. Couldn’t stay long, he lamented politely, had to get back to her he said. Such an ironic inversion: ‘Our father,who art in heaven…’– O holy Hades.Mum bustled, I sat; we ate tomato soup and cheddar and Mum phoned someone, with stern eyes. I heard snippets: “…pale as a sheet…”, “…off for the week…”, “…nothing….” Numbers, and numbers divided by numbers, added onto more numbers, and multiplied relentlessly to form streams and streams of never-ending numbers: death . In that moment, the grey concrete of my life had become stained with colour. Of course I didn’t tell anyone; that would be stupid.
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