Dave Migman Writer

Dave Migman is a writer, artist and stone carver. His filthy dreams and fantasies have seeped into hyper reality. Slowly, but surely, he’s infecting the system. Blood, sweat and dirt; he’s all these things and more. D. Migman now lives in Scotland in a room filled with eggs. Some day they will hatch.

BOOKS

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Moonface - An Extract from Zero

I feel the destruction tunnel open up in my mind, like a hole in the front of my skull, a wormhole through which all time emanates. That is to say that it feels like a thousand worlds got sucked in there… and crushed.

In this vacuum of implosion, where the reduction of forced air and sound is compressed to a whisper, I operate with utmost clarity. I choose when to explode, reaching out in slow motion. I mean thoughts, senses… I feel twenty feet tall. No clone gets in my way. My eyes are fixed securely on the end. That slowly turning final post, reeling toward it by my entrails. It holds no great surprise, no fear is attached. It is an end. Life is a malady that murders us all.

In the streets, my reactions are honed and precise. I’m ready to pounce. Just give me the excuse (and believe me there are plenty of those). Look around sucker. Yes, you. Clone. Meat. Putty with a smile. Automaton-regimen. I dare you!

 

I am searching for a face. Searching for a face in the multitude of Saturday shoppers. The destruction tunnel whispers to me. A babble of cursing tongues, each of them hungry, each of them whispering and spitting my name. Snakes coughing razors blades. Inspector, they say… Inspector Moonface, you are power. Authority is vested in my kind. In my pocket is a list. A series of coded, serial wards:

012244537573sd

9923463627287st

127756343222sf

I stride like a giant. I want to explode like a fucking grenade. There, marked out like a pale maggot: first on the list, calls itself Tommy. Bow-backed, wispy whiskers, wandering eyes. They look so alike. Even installed within the sanctity of their fancy clothes. They give off a distinctive smell, the chemicals they use to hide their natural one. They stink. I find it thoroughly offensive. This one plods along the street unsuspectingly. Putty-faced fool really doesn’t have an iota of what’s to come and, see, that’s another point to get off on because I’m like a prophet too! Not only have I absolute authority over this clone, I can foretell its immediate future. It has none. Hahaha! But don’t worry, it’s just an end.

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