Edition #133
09.06.24
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Hey everyone,
- - - -
a quick update.
Newsflash is dialing down, because it’s gotten to the point where it’s not really challenging anymore.
I’ve also just moved up to Glasgow - shout out to the people up here showing love already, man.
Fergy G (1-2-3), Laurent (& Kelly, sitting in a tree somewhere…), Nick, Martin, Lexxie, Sam-not-Sparky, Robbie, Joel, and everyone from the GCU campus… love, people. Sal & Juliet, too, as extras. Told you I’d see you all here.
Welcome :)
We’re back, probably twice a week. But who really knows, with me?
Wink at a squirrel today or something.
peas & love,
- ”the editor”
👓-
* short one today
LINK: the story behind this story. (BBC News)⚡
“Father of Israeli hostage died day before son's rescue, relative says”, by Jake Lapham @ BBC News, 09.06.24.
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It is pointless now to think how many have protected me; I am going to die thinking about walls.
I have often considered them a privilege - guardians of a sort. Walls… faceless boundaries. The ancient divide between mankind and his elements; between mankind and other men. By now, I have known, probably, too many to count. Between the hours of slavish work, and slavish eating, and slavish rest, I have become familiar with a number myself. Walls I can remember. Like the picture-board in my nephew’s kitchen, which shows, or used to show, the typical pin-up photographs… of family.
Walls I have, once, known well.
But these walls - the… I do not. I cannot. They are walls with no face… walls with no name. Walls threadbare; dark and hot. Two-hundred-and-forty-four-days. Walls that only he can understand.
The room… the room.
The room. The cage that I have been bloodlessly dragged into; the force that surrounds me, that pulls at the stomach, that shortens the breath in the night. They lurk over me, soundlessly, my life still running within their chamber of stone. And I have never seen them. Guardians.
The cage that holds on to my son.
Each day, it tightens, like the lengthening of the day’s last shadow.
I will not let it, I will not let it.
I try to tell myself. But I hear them, sometimes. Dripping with the sickly echo of stale water; stinking of flesh. The walls. The invisible lines that are laid along the edges of our lifetimes; to be left there, forgotten.
It appears to be the evening again.
I am no longer so strong.
…
…
…
the room…
…
… yes…
…
I dream, with a mind blank as dawn, and it is then. It is then that I am sure.
…
I am going to die…
…
… thinking about walls.
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disclaimer:
This is fiction. The views expressed in this publication do not reflect the views of the author. The stories themselves are based on imagined events. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is fictitious and should not be taken as representative.
Read the full disclaimer.
Anything is as challenging as you want it to be. 😅
I want MORE!!