Ellen Harrold

@ellenharrold.bsky.social

252 Followers 160 Following

Artist, writer and editor-in-chief of @metachrosismagazine. Fagging out on occasion. Eating vegetable tempura in my limited spare time🌼.

System collapse Ellen Harrold Spackled pixels hum the chorus, changing notes ‘til they hit the same key. Holes, punched in short formation, guide the swarm. Ripples in a dead river. Churning silt. Lights don’t blink like we do, they STOP. Beginning the next sequence. Unless flesh breaks the circuit, controlling the supernova with practiced ease. In some distant dark, a motor hums - glowing pale against empty states. The error screen holding out as rust severs the tendons.
Fresh Cotton Bedding Ellen Harrold Sallow permutations hold steady against the bloom; discrepancies eroded under cover of cheap lumens. Wrists snap at the tendons, contorted collars - distend at the first hint of a door handle pushed to its limit. The lock holds firm, new trainers cross the carpet - Stumbling up the corridor, looking for the right room. Turning back, i see one of your earrings about to tumble through the pillowcases. Cartilage diamonds set in gold. Sliding the back into place, chromatic flecks dance across your temple. Bleeding into the space between freckles.
Deadbolt Ellen Harrold Grease the filigree with fresh marrow. Stop-gap mechanisms need the movement to push and click thrpugh metal intestines. The process ingrained in the architecture, now rotting under termite tracks. Stainless steel melts in the furnace, rusts in the scrap heap. Churned out by thw thousand, chieftans and kings would gaze in awe at our ikea doorhandles.
Barbed Oh, there in the fence! Fresh-woven oxygen awash with luminous beads. Caught in the refractions between shallow light and mist ascending the nettled banks. Sunlight speckles across the mattes, interlaces and permeated with hues of tallow . Every strand catches incisors, caking to earthen consistency. Rusted shut and rotting amidst the dew. It’s thickest round a bleary patch of barbed wire. Near covered in curls of fern. Corrugated plastic still shines where the sun hits low, bridging a meagre gap in the treeline. You have to know it’s there.
CLINICAL TRIAL Ellen Harrold Rank crescendos haunt the charts, calculated to within an inch of their life. The number could still go down: Petty tributaries dispensed among the investors. Flecks of metal ripped from the soil - a new face imported. Morning silence shattered, cement for the untread soil. The sun hangs low - you stop for a moment weave the air to a supple pause - still. The screen illuminates scant peripherals. You can see the buttons, not the hand - hesitating at the edge. Reading the palm of Chronos, rendered finite by prescription. Punched in, enough accuracy to survive the dawn chorus. They will one day sell it back. Automated efficiency, driving guesswork from the process of existence. It works on paper, rendered pulp. Soaking up the statistics. Nevermind, my guess was wrong. An outlier, rank display of human error. Best avoided if one wishes to continue the programme