GHOST LETTER 52

Chris R-1-174 Image by Mark Renney

The Bus Station is no longer a beacon, a light I can head toward at night or a place where I can just fleetingly expose myself to a little daytime bustle or I can step into from out of the cold and warm my hands on a polystyrene cup of weak but scalding hot tea.
The Station’s usefulness for me is fast fading and yet I am here all of the time now. I stalk its environs and it is hardly ever out of my sight and never clear of my mind. I am haunted by it or more accurately I am the one who haunts the Station. I am an ethereal presence, hovering above the ground, a waft of smoke with no reflection in the glass. But if they looked, if the rush hour regulars really, really looked and not just when they arrive but also when they leave, if they looked back from the windows of their buses they would see me standing here, still waiting.

GHOST LETTER 29

chris-r-1478-2 Image by Mark Renney

This street is steep, steeper than the others. I am climbing it and making my way toward somewhere or something. Suddenly it stops and I am at the top.
Wasteland stretches in front of me. It is rubble strewn and, looking down, I see that the earth at my feet is parched and cracked. I move away from the edge and the last of the houses look as though they have been sliced through with a giant cleaver.
Stepping out into the open I wonder what it was that once stood here. More of the same? Yet another street, terraced houses on either side and cars jammed tightly alongside the pavements?
But I now see that the foundations here are for something bigger and I am walking across a vast factory floor. The concrete is still stained with oil and, crouching, I inspect one of these dark pools. I touch it, my hand coming away, the fingers smeared with grit and grease.
Pushing myself up I am standing in the middle, but from up here I can see the other factories in the distance, those that are still standing in varying states of dis-repair with tracts of land, the spaces in-between the places like this.