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The stairs

Lewis saw her just standing there atop the staircase.
‘Wtf are you doing Emma?’
He scorned from below.

Happy with its days progress, Emmas soul kindly suggests Emmas ears cool down. Emma loosens a lion heart’s grasp on strong hands to whisper a welcome, silent; “hi” to a deeper self.

White Energy in this exquisite body subtely intense. Emmas neat and balanced toes spread thick cream carpet – feeling this floor melts her mountain top of toil – evening ploys defiant amber yawns.

New energy from somewhere timeless, a sensation. Slowly one alluring step stimulates another. Sentient subconscious satietion. Calm descending cadence hush him left hush him right, a tiniest of bumps. Bump down bump down bump down bump down bump down.

Lewis sighs and gives up eye contact feeling he may drown in those green pools at any moment. He walks away into his spacious kitchen.

‘Babe, where are you going?’ Emma probes lustily after him.

‘Come and have a drink’ Lewis calls out pouring everyone a sweet cherry wine. ‘We are listening to music.’

At the bottom of his stairs she feels her electric walm blood, feels this pleasure bare foot- warming carpet cushioning cloud to shivering smooth slate space, cozy comfort to crisp cold- these were the moments that made Emma feel, perhaps not alive (she mostly felt very alive) but something else.

Something like contrast. Sharper the better she thinks.

Pivoting clockwise past his porch she somehow notes but doesn’t notice tidy luivuton shoes, dry Fendi umbrellas, Burberry jackets and Canada goose coats.


Emma stops, stopped because that invisible mystical elastic fantastic string, stretched Its length, and tugged at her heart.

Energycord makes her switch.

She must have limits but finds it impossible to know where they are, until she gets there. Which is mostly never.

Emma knows the power of silence, the power of the universe in her breath of microcosm. She feels her two deep green pools of love above her beautiful, perfect nose, blink silently.

But Emma is so different she just lives loud, apparently ignorant of the big things because, everybody like her parents and teachers presumably predict they made sense to her – she was gravity after all – they didn’t, she simply has faith and intuition and feels a flow.

She has no questions yet immeasurable trust in the stars – as though they watch her kindly – only viewing them within, is unknown for her.

As the world begins to collapse, she isn’t yet noticing the pain he feels, she feels that something wants her to act.

Sight can be limiting infront of information, pixels and words of confusion, untrustworthy, pacifying words of surrogate activities unmask subtleties.

It is stopping her because it could quite easily do so.

She could feel something, she is feeling, him?.

But how is Emma to know the full story? She is happy with her teenage days until she isn’t, that’s all she is let know.

Do, is a thing, entirely different.

Thier string is tugging.

She flys full speed this time, pivoting anticlockwise faster than M.Jordan. Emma’s swinging back past his porch this time leaning on and swinging from (for speed & leverage) the white painted wooden vertical end banister that marks the finish of the long smooth black painted horizontal banister rail, leading up this wide, thick carpeted staircase adorned with others family photos and small succulent plants.

Her luscious blonde hair centrifuges horizontally.

She doesn’t even recognise the absolute insanity of her sheer exsertion. Why? ‘Why so fast?’ Her friends must be thinking. ‘For what?’ The wooden stairs suffering audible hardship. Cracks and groans. Emma bounds her greatest leap, her tallest plunge to where she once came.

Four stairs at a time.

For what she leaps is his purpose.

Light speed slows down, something invisible becomes unstoppable, motion is immovable, rounding that corner, an itch changes everything, why is she rushing? She doesn’t care to ask, guided by instinct. There is no sign of danger, everything is quietly in its place. Yet she is supersonic right now.

Across the landing, she melts again, back through her bedroom aperture, the solid oak door quietly brushing against that lush carpet.

In her bedroom

Its horrifying, yet she does not allow one single zeptosecond of shock.

What she sees is immobilizing, yet she does not allow herself to pause. What she sees is painful stabbing evidence, a moment of eternal agony, but she allows only compassion.

Emma has never seen or heard anything even remotely similar, and she’s been through hell and back already.

She hasnt the choice of panic. A call for help is completely out of the question, she is definitely speechless, will she ever speak again?. The absence of adrenaline, or at least the ability to perceive its rush.

Sensation – It’s some how – disconnected.

What’s shockingly obvious is, he isn’t breathing.

Emmas new son Jamie is in a violent battle, desperately grappling for air.

He’s being strangled.

Strangled to death by.. the very food he needed to grow. The very substance he had earlier so emphatically cried out for. He is involuntarily arching his back now, horrifically convulsing. Head spinning from wall to wall. Eyes wide with terror as a drowning soul silently yells out.

Tooth pick arms and chop stick legs flailing.

He is forcefully petrified. At just a couple of months he knows he cant breath, he knows the one thing he has learnt to do in life so well so far, is scarely stolen from him.


Jamie feels his short life slipping away. “Where is that giant?! ” he must be thinking..

Jamie lay wretched fearfully choking on his vomit. It was rising, bubbling, frothing up now as Emma entered the room, it washed over his little face, covering his small symmetrical nose, covering those perfect, perky cheeks, those chubby kissable cheeks.

Emma had just kissed and stroked and talked to him for hours, burping as the nurse tought. Still that sticky sick was pouring upwards as his little body arched. The putrid grey slop framing those beautiful green eyes, globbing down the sides of his face like thick lumpy cementing tears.

Baby Jamie’s eyes desperately blinked with no rhythm, a sputtering new engine misfiring.

His eyes, darting all around at tremendous speed. His eyes gaping windows to a lost soul, a soul that knew it must find another. He couldn’t breath on his back through his airways for the vomit, never mind see properly, did he know she had arrived?.

He couldn’t make a sound beyond the soft brushes of microscopic fingers on fabric cot sides.

His delicate body twisting, wretching helplessly. Jamie was drowning in his own sick, alone.

Blinking like crazy. Silently he lay braking. Silently Emma steps forward.

Jamie is feeling abanded yet was left for a short moment, the shortest of moments, but he needs intervention this second.

Emma swiftly yet calmly, gently put her powerfully elegant hand behind her boys thin neck, lifting his premature body up and forward. Immediately, delicately Emma removed those thin hollow plastic tubes – the nnu kindly provided – from her babies cute button nose, gently squeezing his little nostrils to clear the blockage. The smell now undeniable evidence to Emma of what was in fact happening to them both. She was saving his life.

But still he couldn’t breath. He slowly wriggles in silence, less desperately now. Unable to fight for life much longer. Almost a bluish purple.

A baby wriggling silently, no laughs, no cries. It’s the spookiest thing.

Emma leant her precious blob forward to clear his throat, consciously patting his back she heard a noise, he started to cough, he coughs. He’s crying and they both take their first breath in what felt like years, together.

Something operating through this 17 year old biological machine.

Wiping his eyes and face. Emma watches her scarred arms and wrists, she watches her feminine hands and light fingers as though they are really hers for the first time. As though she had never even experienced limbs of love before. Has she been reborn? His eyes still popping with dread. Darting left to right.

Shhhhhhh. Baba it’s OK sssshhhhhhh baba mummys here baba shhhhh. It’s alright.


Published by nogravity

Freedom. Take a look at my art. Homeless outreach. Overstrand the system.

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