Close Shave

Pain, if it could be called that? No no, that's not it. Raw and humming. Undercurrents of seared heat. That was it. A thick drop of blood explodes above the blank curve of the white marble sink. A parabola, a topological space, a set of points clustered in equal dimensions, a god damn deformed line. The drop gathers again after impact, diluted now by shards of old sinewed water. Gravity and momentum push it toward the plug hole, next stop? The sewer and onwards to Dublin bay. Face never ever clean. Shadows, always shadows. Morning - noon - night. Pluck a clean razor, try again, 140 times until it's right.


fiction by
Luke Timmins

image by
kerry rawlinson