(A Vertical Slice is a sample of computer gameplay, designed to display the artwork, characters, and concepts designed by the gaming studio within the game to prospective investors.)
The oval table wears a darned cloth, stained in one corner with tea-leaves and blood. It holds butter, two types of bread, two types of jam, plates, fishknives, plates of soup.
Two girls sit, one reading - but we will return to them.
Above, a room with a bed taking up all available space within, covered silk the color of sliced plaice. One woman still sleeps on tumbled pillows, her lovely green flash hidden under soot, or is it mascara, ink, or a bruise, we cannot tell, we are already rising to
the box room, shrouded in darkness. No one ever goes there. No window allows the salt wind to clear the dust made up of minerals, human skin cells, burnt meteorite particles, yes, tiny pieces of comet kiss a steamer trunk, now forgotten, piles of letters with their sentiments already outdated, and we could read them, see the words "I kissed my wife in Ireland" or "something missing in my chest" but it is too late, we are already rising
and now we see a tiled roof encroached by ivy and fuschia, so lovely but they lift the clay squares off the house, allowing drafts and rain inside so the inhabitants will have to sell within a few years if they want to save their own lives, and do they want to do that? We don't know. We are already flying up, beyond
the house, the boxes, the dust, the sleeping woman, the two girls reading as they wait, the bread, the fishknives
and we soar to where they no longer exist
YOU ARE READING
Waitress at the Morpheme Cafe
PoetryScribbles sent in by morse code through the ether.
