13 Pieces of a Broken Mirror

A tight, tired smile. Downturned eyes. A hand brushing a cheek.

A woman who looks like you, who might once have been you, holding a blue rose.

The ghost of a candle flame, guttering in the gloom.

A table, smooth, possibly metallic. On the edge: something pink or yellow, alive. Looking more closely: a maggot.

The eyes of someone who has seen little, imagined too much.

Screens shedding light on spectral faces, machines ministering in corridors, a grey lump ticking and snapping in a sneering skull.

Nothing, just a silvered surface, indifferent as ice. Nothing, still nothing.

Her laughing mouth, lips curling with mirth and mild cruelty. In the background: a door opening onto darkness.

A roomful of collapsed cocoons. Something smudges the light, panics in little flutters.

A tensed hand with nails like claws.

A cheek, a shoulder, impossibly smooth. Barely moving, or perhaps not at all. A curtain moving in the breeze from the open window.

A shoal of fish with serrated mouths and luciferous eyes, gulping thick black water, spiralling, turning, dissolving.

An open book, a blank page. A face, probably your face, stooping to see.

All of the texts on this site are the copyright of James Knight. All rights reserved.

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