The Quest   by Richard Wheal

The Quest

There is a orange light above us, but it is not on. It is broken.

But if it was not broken, it would not be on, because it is not night.

I have got a boyfriend. I do not love him, but he is a boyfriend. I am waiting for him, in a pub. It is a brown pub. Two beers on the bar. But the bar is breaking up; starting to degrade, lose pixels. There are black spaces where there should be pub.

My boyfriend has got a car. It is a white one. It is called one point six. We sit in it, inna car park of West Station and we stare at the yellow ragworts. It is called Ďhanging outí. It is the same as waiting, but it is more rubbish because nothing will happen at the end of it.

I sit inna pub waiting. At the end of the day, I think, all we are is bits and scraps of lost code, skittering. When I look down, I have got blank spaces in my arms.

The bar is brown oak wood. The floor is brown pine wood. But the signal is definitely starting to break up. The pixels are degrading. The beer is starting to fuzz, white frozen. Green flashes in it, spits of black, yellow. My hand what I reaches out, breaks into horizontal lines and jerks across a screen.

Smell signals are breaking up. Stale beer drifts into burning tyres, folds into old manís vest

If my hand can get hold of the beer, everything will be dogs again. If he comes in time to drink the beer, I will marry him.

If he comes too late, we will break up.

Two beers or not two beers?

That is the quest.