The Sky is Falling

He knew it was only a matter of time before the sky fell. For weeks he’d noticed fractures forming across the otherwise faultless pallet of watery blue. It’s happened before, the sky falling. He watches the cracks spread, helpless from below. The sun’s light is refracted in deceiving ways, and most of the rays can’t reach the ground now. It’s very dark. He is alone. Sharp shards of grey drop to Earth. His energy is sapped by the shattered sea of cloud around his angles. He cannot move. At night he can’t see where the sky is, and where it used to be. He waits for the rest to fall now. And then he’ll rebuild.


I have a habit, when I am alone, of making myself vulnerable.
I exist on the brink of tears
and my heart throbs with tender yearning
as I absorb the beauty of other peoples’ artwork.

Hard armour melts into soft blanket
which slips away,
leaving me exposed to the world.

This experience is religious.
The pages of John Berger exist as my prayer mat;
the voice of Keaton Henson my choir.

I pass each work through my hands like beads of a rosary.
I become somehow heavy with emotion,
yet light with passion.

The plucking of strings can send shivers up my spine,
and beautiful prose lifts the hairs on my arms.
How is it that an artist can create such a physical reaction
using nothing more words,
or paint?

I have a habit, when I am alone, of making myself vulnerable.
But only then does the world make sense to me.

The Window

He looked at the condensation clinging to the single-glazed panes of glass that made up his bedroom window. Nothing and everything going through his head; an existential crisis in a sea of quiet. The water droplets stayed fixed; immovable. Time passed in lurches; inconceivable units of intangible nothingness. He found it hard to believe that he was the same person as 10 years before. His body made from entirely new cells; his mind filled with toxic reality. He thought back to when fiction caused him more fear than the real world. Now, he lamented, the scariest monsters sit in high-backed chairs around the globe, not slow to dig their claws into the world and hear it scream. His head was screaming now. A drop of water rolled down a window pane. A few more followed. A clock chimed twice. He sighed.

Bus Stop

She looked at the backs of her hands that she held out in front of herself, as though resting on a table that wasn’t there. So pale against the tarmac below, she thought. She could make out the bones of each finger, and every imperfection. She wore her grandmother’s wedding ring, a subtle silver thing, on the forth finger of her right hand; an act of defiance against the institution of marriage. But equally a sign of love for her mother’s mother. She smiled with the warmth of remembering. She tucked her hands inside her coat pockets, and watched an old Caribbean man wave down a bus in front of her with a knitted mitten held out over the road. She took one last breath of cold air and then exhaled, watching the mist of her lungs climb into the sky, before she stepped onto the bus. The doors closed. The bus left.