Abigail Clark



Anomalies of the Third Tongue



Part 1


She was a middle class girl who indulged high tea and higher morals.

“I love you all the time”, whispered her soft fleshy lips.

“I feel it all,” I retorted, sharper than the thorns that would surround her rosebud mouth.

Sweeping a stylised fringe from where it had caught in her bovine-length eyelashes, I spoke in guttural persuasions.

“There’s a curse on this town, I’ve been a fool.”


Subliminally I heard her thoughts processing, like the sweet smell of lilies on a summer’s breeze; ‘Your words go deep to the heart of me’.

I saw her eye twitch, aware that I had grasped hold of her estimations and was consuming them like soggy spaghetti. She glanced down at her personally designed Converse trainers, the shine of which had been our first talking point when I found her hanging from the neon Café sign.

“I seem to have a history of missing the point. Is it any wonder I can’t sleep? Knowing now, that it is you that I adore.” This is of course rhetorical. I sit poised, lost in contemplation,

as I mix my raspberry sherbet into my vegan ice cream, believing I’m somehow experimentally diverse.

“Now you know where I’ve been,” I sighed, long and protruding. She had sat patiently, her pointed chin dug into her pale, ink-covered palm, while she listened to my stories and tales of childhood make-believe, slowly twisting her paintbrush through the foam of her latte as if she were teasing my stories out of its froth. I continued further, intent

on conclusion.

“There’s no need to lie to yourself; it gave you pleasure, permitting the curious nature of your multi-faceted mind to play with the imagery my tragedies and triumphs bought you.”

She knew now, just as I always had, that the young generation is the sick generation, recycled repeatedly, as with double figures we find our cumulative cures and our temporary treatments.


With intense Dali-esque eyes, she turned to me and spat her hot caffeine into my palm.

“This feeling is sterile. I grow tired of coffee house debates and the laptop visionaries.  Creation is my right, the snapping branches that grow within my flesh. I want to dance to the murmuring heartbeat of the busker on the street corner. I want to shake up the safety zone in society's nightmares. You and I” she looked through my right cornea straight to where I hid my desires “we are the purveyors of casual enlightenment.”

She turned, tearful yet liberated, like the feeling of awakening on the first morning after new sexual passions, opened to an invigoratingly fresh and unfamiliar world, but still treading tentatively. We sat holding dry, gnarled hands across the shining veneer of the sugar-dotted table. Watching leaflet-laden club reps hustling the free, pushing flyers for nights of debauchery like highly sought hallucinogenic drugs, attempting to unshackle the closed down, button-holed society suits and lure them into a four-walled false dream underworld.


Catching her wandering mind once again within my invisible soap-coated hands, I heard her hoarse inner-head voice, almost as a reflection of my own, ‘your pounding heart releases me’. I pulled back the lower half of my jaw, until my bottom lip flipped under my front teeth and bit down hard until my eyes began to fill with water, blurring my vision and making the hanging light bulbs and wooden walls become a flood-lit plain.




Abigail Clark © 2008