A man of many faces takes one from his hall, from beside the coat stand, and wears it to his day. When he gets home, he hangs up his skin on a coat hanger, and leaves his thoughts in whatever he is reading.
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Sitting on the wall, she lets her feet hang into the old chapel. The congregation fell silent long ago, their passionate adorations no longer giving the place purpose, for what are walls without people? The priest continues longer so the histories say, staggering through life on a pitiful wage, trapped on that savage land so remote and distant from company. But he was loyal to his duty and his lord and so stayed as he was bidden.
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She pulled her carefully woven shawl, now frayed and yellowed from the dust of the years, about her shoulders. Underneath the gathering clouds, she stared out at the waters before her, waiting to hear the voice of a visitor she knew was coming.
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It was hard to explain to somebody else, but while you were in the middle of it all, it just felt worth it. Worth the way things fell apart and worth the abruptness with which they ended.
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As I stand by the window, the crisp air embraces my face; I inhale, I exhale. The elm trees in the distance sway slightly, a slow dance to the soft notes of the wind, with its intimate movements evoking those of two lovers in the fantasy of a dreaming romantic.
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I miss the touch. That is what I think as I stare past the glass into the nursery. The carefully ordered squares of wildflowers beyond do not, I imagine, stare back. If they did, I’m sure it would be with narrowed eyes and venomous thoughts.
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The synthetic hormones travelled throughout my arms, down my legs, through my organs. They travelled up my back and seeped into my wings, and with each pump of poison, my wings began to crumble.
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I was running late for my own death. All the hire bikes were taken so I had to walk. Along the towpath to Angel, I peered into the canal, empty but for the congealed sludge at the bottom with the odd shopping trolley and hubcap emerging out of it. I imagined the canal suddenly filling up again and a narrow boat appearing that would take me out of this city prison and into the edgelands, all the way to Silva.
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I met a woman the other day. She stood still, hands stiff at her sides. The metalwork meant to serve as the skin was bright against the moonlight. Her feet, on the platform, perfectly aligned across from each other. Eyes settled in the tracks, as though she were taking in each line. The woman was curious. Curious in the way machines can be at times.
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In my house, there is a mirror. It hangs on the wall above a disused fireplace in a room that is, more often than not, empty.
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Everywhere I went, there was a person. Nowhere in sight could I find an empty landscape, a clean sheet of grass, a skyline without a skyscraper. My car couldn’t take me away fast enough, as it grumbled all the way to Dartmoor.
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It was a meek ‘hello’ from the sun that woke him up in the end. Eyes grittily opening, he peered around from his den of blankets and creases. Outside, beyond the curtain, lay a promise of a perfect picnic-blue sky. ‘Today’, he mused, hoped, ‘today will be.’
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