The glare. In front. Above. In your ears; on your skin. Radiation. Run! Run outside! Where? The corridor is here, it paces with each of your strides, just ahead of you. Run! It will come into view. That’s all you know. Run, it will meet you. Matter:you create it. Look back: the corridor is long, white, dim. Lockers on either side. Forward: it’s still there, a void. Stop here. Lockers: overburdened, over hanging, over your line…falling. Get up! The weight: white, above. Red trickles down. Cold metal, bare skin, gash. Push up, hard! The hinges pop. Out falls a tee. Clothe yourself. Walk. Don’t look back.
Doors separate blocks of lockers. With each footfall, another room comes into view. And another block of lockers. There’s more with each step, canter, jog, run. Where is an exit sign? Don’t slow. The white begins to fall. Dash! Grab, turn, yank . . . bang! Silence. The speaker stops. Homer is projected, enormous behind him. The auditors turn to face you. They’re bearded, like Homer.
“Sorry. Late. I’ll just take a seat.”
They rise, all of them. No one smiles. They scowl. They glare. They lift their chairs, each with one hand. The free hand drags across a collapsing trench through their foreheads. They approach. They don’t look at your eyes, just your t-shirt. Homer’s face is written over: Odyssey into Authorship Fraud. You back away from them, a foot at a time with your chair in arms until you reach the door. Turn the knob and push back. Move back and back and back until you feel another door knob to turn.
Cheese, crackers, wine and goatees. English-Lit. Tap-tap on your shoulder.
“When did they start letting your ilk in?”
“I don’t know what you mean. Please?”
A poke is drawn out long, over your shoulder blades while the accompanying voice, louder than polite conversation allows, enjoins, “I Swear, Shaxpere, was wearing red herring!” You run your fingertips over your back. You can discern the rise and fall of paint and cotton. A decanter, shatters. You feel the stares as the silence spills and runs towards you once more.
“I must be in the wrong room.”
“Stay. It’s been a while since they served the meat here, raw.”
Run to the corridor. Close your fingers over the hem of your tee. Shut your eyes. Blue rectangles emerge in the blackness. Yellow rectangles make towers in the blue. Pixels of neon lights organize themselves into a recognizable shape. Pull over and off the tee. Flutter up your lids. Close them again. The blue box! A blink and it’s gone. Pull the tee back down, inside-out. Run. The hall is creating itself once more with your every stride.
You hear a commotion. There is a break in the wall on the right. The echo of feet drumming the floor in measured, robotic pounds, broadens the opening. Another corridor emerges in the wall opposite. It’s the Chinese state army. You stop to allow them to parade by. They may have just created an exit. Will they be your saving grace? A command is called. They stop and turn towards you. The commander picks you with his eyes. Guns are raised. You look down at your t-shirt. “Falun Dafa is Good!” is printed around the wan symbol. You dive into an open doorway. More bearded men. Ringlets escaping their black hats and murmurs fibrillating history and religion in a foreign tongue. One, only needs to see your t-shirt. Revulsion, pain, anger and fear transform the air. It is a different kind of radiation, one of darkness. So black that only sound can warp its way through.
“Hahhhhh-uh. Hahhhhh-uh” The blue box emerges. Run. He is here, the alien-man with the screwdriver. He will fix it. He has to. He’s the Doctor. Who?*
Nightmare, parable – is there a difference? Ask Jung. When we speak or write we censor our content depending on our audience. Why? For many reasons. Inevitably, individuals outgrow the institutions and social constructs that previous generations have built to deliver needs like education and social harmony and etiquette. Plain speaking in the open isn’t always possible, from reasons of the personality of the speaker to the fear of the government one may be speaking out against. To bring about change and growth there has to be an acceptance of the need for change. How is it managed?
Pseudonyms, allonyms, disguise and deception are the tools of many writers, not just for revolutionary purposes. Could you pick a fraud? Computational text analysis has been used to delve with the mathematical ability of a computer into the Shakespeare Authorship Question. Apparently by counting instances of words, their forms, spelling and usage a computer can determine the authorship of a work purported to be by Shakespeare. But isn’t there more to writing than the words themselves? In my next post I’ll be looking at Homer, Shakespeare and the Doctor as interpreted by Russell T Davies vs Steven Moffat.
Could a computer tell a script by Moffat from a script by Davies?
• For any Whovians among you, in the Nightmare sequence the disguises of the hordes once doffed would reveal in order of appearance: The Slitheen (you guessed it); the Sycorax (Shakespeare actually did get there first – see The Tempest); the Cybermen; and the Ood.
High School Lockers
Original image URL: https://www.flickr.com/photos/drurydrama/5203232967/
Tardis in the Dark