The Prodigal Son (3/5) By Joe Hakim

(1/5), (2/5), (3/5), (4/5), (5/5).

theirs is a universe that exists parallel to our own/ a universe comprised of pure energy/ they view our reality with envy/ they are intoxicated by matter, by form/ by linear time/ they used to be a single unified consciousness/ but the big bang that kick-started our existence opened a pathway/ the bleed from which they transmit/ and coming into contact with us/ we who exist as the conscience of this dimension/ allowed them to splinter into separate entities/ and now they want to posses this dimension/ as though it was some kind of toy built solely for their amusement/ and as i am one who has been chosen to see this alternate history, i must do my very best to make sure that they don't succeed in their terrible plan/ the life of every living thing on this planet depends on it/ and I must shoulder the burden

hairs stand up on the back of my neck/ as the outline man passes by/ stray electromagnetic field much stronger than usual/ must have made a breakthrough in bandwith/ quality of signal improved/ it's starting now/ there's nothing to stop them coming through/ let the invasion begin/ no one will realise what's happening to them before it's too late pick up the cheque/ they know i'm onto them/ got to get out now/ and devise a plan to stop them in their tracks/ back on the streets and everything seems tainted hey// a voice from behind me says

I recoil/ jump back because i think it's them/ but it's not/ it's graham how's it goin' carl// he says// are you ok? you look a bit flustered i'm fine// i say// just the heat, that's all i know he's safe/ they haven't got to him yet/ drink and drugs help prevent the mind-jack what you doin' now?// he asks just picked up my giro// i reply

I can smell the sour beer on his breath as he leans in close and says// oh yeah? do you want owt gettin'? it's important that I prepare my psychic defences so I say// yeah, i do. can you sort me out? what do you think?// he says and as he smiles he shows me his rotten teeth/ hanging from his gums/ for dear life the chair I'm sat in has grooves and tears in the arms/ from where people have scratched its surface many times before get that down yer// graham says as he passes the pipe

i place my mouth around the tube/ as he puts the flame to the rocks/ the little bits of bone like knuckles resting on the bed of cigarette ash/ and then the rocks turn from white to red/ like comets getting too close to the sun/ and the smoke enters my lungs/ and is re-routed like a phone call/ until it hits my brain like a shotgun blast/ and everything is shattered like porcelain or glass

Continued...Next Page (4/5)

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