tipping point

The honey was a fact she couldn’t ignore. It showed how far the slide really was.

It was quiet inside. The wind was creeping into the house though, rudely. Ordinary dinner preparations felt surreal under the cold grey light. Early summer brought foul weather. Shadows took on shapes, plants whispered in the breeze from the window. The house was full of empty voices. Time drew out long and tense.

She was hungover and making weird dehydrated mental leaps. The near empty honey jar reminded her of a half finished bloody mary. The crystalline sugar clinging to the side of the bottle, white instead of red. The colour sucked out by her horror. The denial. Fogginess. Shaking hands struggling to chop the carrots. This could be dangerous.

It had to stop.

Tomorrow. Later. Soon.

First the honey had to go in the bin. It had been sitting there too long.

But it stayed with her. That feeling that her mind was no longer her own. It crept behind her, quietly, stalking. She could feel its eyes on her, watching, ready. She could hear it chuckling in the back of its throat. It gave her nightmares. She withdrew. She faded. She became a caricature of a woman. And slowly she backed away, out of her life and into the creature’s claws.

Things stopped before the break. Snapshot. Remember this.

tipping point


Perth, Australia

  • Artist

Artist's Description

Something old.

Written in a moment of ill-gotten inspiration, no doubt.

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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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