Knowhere

By Benjamin Judge

Location: Cornbrook Metro Station

The station is a sheet of plastic folded into a twist. A Möbius strip of neon. A hole of oxygen floating over a city of ghosts. From the bridge you can see the skin factories floating in the canal. You can see the ray labs.

He had asked her name but she didn’t even know. She seemed pleased he had asked though. Not many did that any more. And she was still around somewhere. In the shadows. She was watching over him maybe. They did that sometimes. If they really liked you.

He could hear the click-clack of her lolly as she moved it round her mouth. Sugar against enamel. He knew that between sweet and tooth, somewhere, was her tongue, dyed crimson from the colourings. In the train she had coughed up a thin stream of ruby on his shirt. Now it marked him like a scar or an emblem. A medal. A tattoo.

They came from Knowhere. Older than him but younger than her. Ray boys. The blade didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would but it travelled slow as a dream. He looked down and saw the copper collecting where the knife met his body. The copper formed a coin, a penny, and then dripped to the floor. The ray boy grinned professionally as he slid the blade across the belly. More coppers flowed, splashing at his feet. Then his life started to flow out of him. Just coins at first but soon followed by notes. Fives. Tens. Twenties. He hoped the girl was OK. He couldn’t hear the lolly any more.

He saw the first fifty leak out of his gut as he blacked out. He knew he wouldn’t wake.

The station is a sheet of plastic folded into a twist. A Möbius strip of neon. A hole of oxygen floating over a city of ghosts. From the bridge you can see the skin factories floating in the canal. You can see the ray labs.

Benjamin Judge has lived in Manchester for about five years, first in Didsbury, then the Northern Quarter, and now Littleborough. 32. Male. Married. His plans for this year are to write more and eat less. http://cynicalben.blogspot.com