The cornfield waves and shimmers before us. I have you on my shoulders and we’re having our Woodstock moment, wooping and crying, high and mighty. The angel dust kicked in over an hour ago and my skin still feels electric, sweat turning to pebbles and rolling off my cheeks and arms.
Faced with a blazing autumn sun, we curse all the gods we can remember; we fuck the Christian god, the Greek gods, the Roman gods, the names and faces of our so called creators we motherfuck out of existence. Only the sun matters now; the heat and the light burning our eyes clear of the filth we see every day in town, before we fill our veins and noses with the truth. Out here in this field we are the only junkies; never kicking down but only kicking up, only fighting the glass ceiling, only trying to win… looking for our hill to die on. When that skinny, trembling greasy cunt met us in the stairwell last week, you looked him in his marble eyes and said firmly we are one of you, and I ended up taking a knife slash across the jaw. Yellow and swollen it hums and seethes, weeping like the rest of this cursed society. Even infected with dirt, it is still more pure than the rest of our neighbourhood.
The town has suffered under a never-ending eclipse, where the moon blocked the sun and has remained there to punish us, to leave us sans soleil, but with cruel glimpses around the black edges of a light we no longer have a right to. That’s why we steal cars and Coke cans. We punch in the holes, fill our lighters, drain the sugary garbage into the soil, and go miles and miles find these places where the glowing radiation above can burn away our cancers.
Climb the tallest trees and you can see the monster under the shadow. We know about the rows of terraced houses, like the walls of an old castle, keeping out intruders; like the walls of a prison, keeping everyone in.
Later in the evening the shimmering globe melts the horizon enough to slip beneath and disappear under us. We feel the warmth as we lay on the soil, protected by thousands of yellow shoots now standing guard over us. I slide my fingers into your jeans. From the shining smirk in your eyes I can’t tell if you are soaking horny, or if you’ve deliberately pissed yourself again.
Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004. Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.
Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces. My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.
I welcome you to my site Jimmi Campkin, and I hope you find something here to please you. If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.