Take it.
That’ll do it.

But …

Take it.

I take it.

Needles. Curved and hooked, curl themselves around my gums and up.
Up, up, up and into my cheekbones, pricking the rings of my eyes.

It doesn’t do it.

Fill it.
Take out the old.
And fill it with new.
Fill it.
That’ll do it.

Cement. Churned and swirled, rams into my enamel, pushing and jostling, creating waves of havoc around my full set of teeth. Skittles, skittled and struggling to stand. Stamina stolen.

I can’t stand it and it
certainly doesn’t – do it.

Cap it.
Cap it off.
That’ll do it.
Take the wind out of the cracks.

But …

Cap it.

I am capped.

Cracks. Crackle in. Burrow. Churn up my gum juice and toddle on round and down to jab at my jawbone.

It doesn’t do it.


Knives. Stabbing and slicing behind my eye and into my brain. Excruciating. Unbearable. Stabbing, slowly, enjoying prolonging my agony. I bury my head under cushions, hide from the world. Shelter my mouth from the wind.

I come up for breath.

Slow stabbing starts again.

I dive back under, clench my jaws, consider my life. Consider my value.

It doesn’t do it.
And I can’t stand it.
Waves of agonising eye-brain stabbing, over and over, on and on. I consider burying my whole self under the earth, away from the world. A shelter of nothingness.





But …


He takes it off. Decapitates me.

I come up for breath. No knives. No needles. No pain. Brain and soul intact.

Above ground again.

It did it.

I’m alive.


Copyright owned by Jay Cool, January 2019

Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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