The Sarah Key

There was a squat amongst squats in Little Cornwall, close by the A23 and named for some Lamb of God, all interwoven weeds and fluorescent paints given life by the UV bulbs hanging like Darth Vader was stashed in the cistern. On the west wall of my room hung a large charcoal art by some unknown East European demi-master. The scene was set in a cave in the Nizké Tatry, all dark green and black, and, in the foreground, a living fire illuminated the chthonic splendour of the central altar. A hideous and mesmerising creature, some Varginha gollum, was carving chunks of flesh from the genitals of a female variant, tied all arse over tit to a large wooden pole. The south wall needed its own familiar. The creation came to me as one sole purpose to mould Adam, and bubbled up from some deep, dark and vast eldritch void miles below the city. I was, back then, powerless to resist its form and too keen to explore all worlds, both dark and light and so rarely seated about shades of grey. The form of the creation swelled as it came to me, all throbbing veins engorged with black clotted blood. The Fimo phallus was born. Screwed to the wall and screwed to the world; a perfect replica in every last detail. I had summoned the gargoyle some years earlier to guard against the key ever being used. And now I had summoned the key. A few months later I had set the key free into the city to find its own way, and every so often I feel it close by. And some may find the gargoyle and others may find the answer to the key, but beware the key, for it will possess thee. Like some homesick Cinderella slipper it fits only me. But do not be deceived into believing that I should use the key, for if it ever returns to these hands which moulded the clay, I should return it to the earth from whence it came.



© Chris Bond — 10 August 2004