Refractions
A series of short pieces by Clarke Nova
Hands rotate about the bezel, indicating the
elapsing time, which flows steadily away. Messages sent not always equal the messages
received by the intended audience - psych one from an eon ago. Too late to say sorry - too
late to apologise for all the pasts, for all the possible futures. Watch winds down, no
earthly hand can wind back its original settings. The celestial watch-maker, call him what
you will, is a divine mechanic, but not even he can fix such a derelict item.
Printed words bound by covers of morality, hiding them from the eyes of the unsuspecting,
daring a reader to open them and unleash their true potential upon a dark and dormant
world that lurks without. Ideas swirl, colliding, conflicting, creating and fusing
together to form new, more powerful word pictures. Once, pictures were all - an idea
communicated by its image. Words are not the item - words are our common idea of an item -
and even then some words are not able to generate the same idea to all. Words are a mere
representation of an idealised item, nothing more, nothing less.
Thieves rob beneath the sightless eyes of an allegedly all-seeking being - taking the very
stuff of life, and turning it to their own ends. Electrons are unreliable - they decay
upon transmission - return to their natural place. Words do not - until the very media
they are entrusted to is destroyed. Although a word is not powered, it can have power by
its permanence. Impermanence is impotence - and rotation is castration. It's time they all
had a little spin.
The black gate is closed - shuts itself, leaving all who wished to pass through its portal
stranded in it closure. Swings shut on its seamless hinges, lubricated with pearly drops
of Cowper's gland lubricant - beats lanolin hands down. Dropper bolts slide home with a
sigh, like the sigh of a young boy, just before he shoots his load over a denimed thigh,
silver snail trails of hot sperm across the pale blue. Those trapped by the gate hammer on
its mirrored fine panels - muffled thuds like drums at taps. Wails, curses, the plaintive
cry of hundreds of lost spirits, poured like water on to the featureless walls of the
chamber.
Aching cocks strain behind buttoned flies, aching for release from their indigo dyed
restraints, pressing expectantly against the cold metal posts. Stirrings of prostates,
releasing of alkaline lubricants along the smooth urethras, tensing of bands of sphincter
muscles against ureters. Blood filling the spongy corpuses, hardening still further,
stretching the already silken skin. A trap is sprung, and they are released, spurting
thick clots of hot, sticky cum into expectant mouths, greased and nameless arseholes,
satiating them with their ejaculate, a total package of proteins and sugars - why, a
person might live for years on such a rich diet.
Time slides along, propelled by the willing hands if those who wish to see it pass,
without enjoying its fruits.
Shoots off unaided, whilst being screwed up the ass - look dear, no hands - just the
friction against the crinkled surface of the glad gland, embedded into the blood rich wall
of bowel. Slap of balls against the perineum, slow, constant rhythm counting the strokes
of the latex clad intruder. Gentle brush of pubic hair against the cheeks follows each
thrust, like the rasp of a tongue. Teeth clench the nape of the neck, tender caress of
lips across the upper spine. Lips peel back from smooth white teeth, forced rictus grin as
he shoots, semen flooding into the reservoir tip of the rubber. Withdrawal, rim held
snuggly, reveals swirls of shit mixed with bright blood. Anus closes like an eye's slow
blink, lube and blood trickle across the inner thigh, until they are wiped away like so
many bloody tears....
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