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Reece Jordan

Reece Jordan


Total Article : 200

About Me:18-year-old sixth form student, studying English Literature, History and Government and Politics. My articles will broadly cover topics from the current affairs of politics to reviews of books and albums, as well as adding my own creative pieces, whether it be short fiction or general opinion.

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Displacement of Ash pt. 1

Displacement of Ash pt. 1


He suddenly came to a halt. The cigarette that protruded tightly out of his lips had burnt to its end and become a butt. Sighing, he pulled it from his mouth and threw it on the pavement. He licked his lips, and, perturbed somewhat by a novel feeling of dissatisfaction, looked down at the cigarette remnant, which now emitted only a dim tinge of red-orange. He licked his lips again. A thick ashen air appeared to have occupied them. It had always been there, this ashen taste, but only now was it discernible. His face contorted in disgust, and, with a straight linear motion of his hand, he decided that he did not like cigarettes anymore; the ashen taste was too bad, he thought. And so, stamping out the faint tinge of the butt underneath bright sunshine, he quit.


Still disturbed by this new, yet very much familiar, taste on his lips, he went into a nearby shop and scanned around for a means of replacement. He chose a bar of chocolate with red foil, and he put it on the counter. He then looked around for something else. A variety packet of sweets stood out to him. He usually only went for single-type packets of sweets; he wasn’t a man to be drawn to such conflicting shapes, colours and tastes. Laying the sweets on top of the red chocolate, he looked at the owner of the shop. He was a large man with the poise of an erect spine, had skin that stuck tightly to the bone, which endowed him with a skeletal presence, and, despite the convex mirror reflecting light directly on his face, his deep and dark eyes appeared to obtain a shadow. The proprietor donned a large overcoat and leather gloves, and with these leather-clad hands he asked for the money – outstretching each finger in sinuous liquid movements – saying nothing but fixing his black eyes on those of the man in front of him, whom, scratching his left pocket where a packet had once been, handed over the bronze and silver coins.


Across a wide road adjacent to the shop was a vacant green field with a bench at the top of a hill. The man, wincing at the obstinate ashen flavour of his lips hurriedly made his way up to this bench. Once there his hands, shaking as if subject to cold or disease, took the chocolate out of his back pocket. Shaking still, he took the red foil off of the chocolate and stared at it for a while. He then took a block from the top row and placed it in his mouth. Ensuring that he did not bite, the man let the chocolate melt and fuse with his saliva, his lips periodically pushing inward so as to receive a coating to extinguish the remnant of ash. He proceeded this way for the next three rows and, as he did so, grey clouds congealed to eclipse the rays of light, forcing their fringes to emit a lucid glow - the ashen taste became replaced by chocolate. 

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