© Kevin Corby Bowyer 2024
Close to the Silence
The
text
drifts
like
a
cloud
in
the
creative
void
between
In
the
Silence
of
Time
and
In
the
Wake
of
Life
*.
Characters
rotate
expectantly
around
the
author’s
strange
residence,
petitioning
for
a
way
into
the
next
story
or
settling
old
scores.
Kate
is
absent, but her roseate spirit permeates the heavens.
The
dark
house
–
of
indefinable
height
–
is
perched
on
the
well
of
the
past;
the
cast-off
skin
of
an
old
life
lies
rejected
above
and
below.
An
unseen
woman
travels
the
endless
network
of
impossible
staircases,
watching,
waiting
for
her
time.
Evil
waits
too,
rotting,
stinking,
skulking
in
the
shadows
or
in
the
boarded
up,
fly-infested
mill,
sulphurous
eyes
lantern
lights
of
hate,
swallowing
surrendered
souls.
A
man’s
body
hangs
from
the
pulley
wheel
in
the
summer
heat,
blackening,
shrivelling, neck stretched, hands that once loved, dangling.
The
narrative
unfolds
as
a
dream,
time
and
space
ill-defined.
The
writer
wanders
among
his
own
creations,
observing,
listening,
drawing
out
their
stories
like
corks
from
bottles.
Some
don’t need much encouragement – particularly Maisie Blythe…
*forthcoming