4. Projector - Jon Mayhew

The image bubbled and spread like a bloodstain on the screen. Except it was white, pure light. Not red. Molten celluloid and cigarettes smoke. The insane metronome click, click, click, click proclaimed the vanishing time.Speeding, careening a car on a bend to tight to turn. Waiting for the pathetic, tin crunch, never an explosion and rending of metal. Never a rolling, twisting, screaming ball of destruction. Just a bump, a clank, a click and a sudden jarring, neck twisting. Full stop.

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Click, click, click, click. The ragged tatter of celluloid lashes itself with remorse of a memory melted, burnt, cauterised but not clean. My heavy heart is cold. Its chambers are loaded with bad memories but only one with the bullet that will kill the me and you, sitting and watching. Click, each turn brings realisation. Click; what we saw was the past. Click, when we were young. Click, too young. Click, different people.

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Click. No explosion, no spattering of gore or rending of flesh.

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A hat.

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A coat.

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A final click.

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As the door closes behind him.

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John Mayhew blogs HERE at Writing in a Vacuum

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