/lit/ - Literature

[a fragment:]

The tunnel walls are studded with fossils from our sea-bed diver’s hauls. See the unique species of shapes they make, like this [curls into a ‘C’ upon the floor’] or something more star-based [limbs spread dramatically] or the humble hermit crab [body bunched up like a mounded shell.] Allow me to dust myself off.

Where they fall out, we brush them off and tape them back in. Yes you can get in that car. Yes it still works. Stop that. The ramp will deliver you to the surface, yes. Stop that. You’ve chosen a nice night-time drive for yourself, I hope you realise you wily little bitch. The moon’s pink and lovely and you’ll be curving round the coastline to the old-time tunes of Glen Miller and Les Baxter and his far-flung moonband as you make your escape.

But what change in light is this, what is beckoned by the great grinding echoing down through the fresh night’s lower reaches. The dark side of the moon’s revolved its place with the usual, and there etched alarmingly close to your pale goggled face are mine own eyes peeping your progress. Soon you will crest a hill claimed generations ago by teams of teen settlers, who have had plenty of time to get drunk by now and scatter dizzily before you, flinging themselves into seaside heather and the fog smells like Kahlua.