I could die, and in softest-sounding Pudsey too, once the biggest
village in UK. It was a close night, summer like gauze over terraced
houses, the moon spotting through. My bedroom window was
open and I soon fell asleep, Keep The Aspidistra Flying flat beside me.
A scream breaks across my face. I hurry to piece together the dark,
my heart beating Looney-Tunes fast. More shouting! There’s a
shadow on my head, getting bigger… a falling anvil. Instinct rolls
them out – will the people outside hurt each other? will they hurt
someone else? are they out for blood?! – but it’s just a couple and
now they’re kissing and saying how stupid it all was. Their voices
felt Right Beside Me, but it’s the quality of the light in my room
that worries me, the streetlight just outside my window— the anvil
hits me. More percussive than concussive. But try as I might, I can’t
keep the floor from cracking beneath my feet and I plummet into
the living-room below. I look right at you as this floor begins to
crack too. Gulp. Crashing into the basement, I keep going and keep
going, following through layers of mantle and core onto the roof
of my childhood house, through neglected slate into shared attic
bedrooms and further, into the familiar light/dark of my childhood
bedroom. There’s a shadow on his face and he looks at me. The
floorboards give way and I finally land on the ground-floor,
groping for breath. Only now do I feel the cool press of cast-steel
on my guts. The lights are on down here, a TV murmuring away,
while up in my bedroom, he’s lookng at me and there’s a shadow
on his face. The moon? A Streetlight? Trapped, I open my book
and read about poor old Gordon Comstock again, as I absently
finger indented words on the anvil. I swear, if this says ACME…
village in UK. It was a close night, summer like gauze over terraced
houses, the moon spotting through. My bedroom window was
open and I soon fell asleep, Keep The Aspidistra Flying flat beside me.
A scream breaks across my face. I hurry to piece together the dark,
my heart beating Looney-Tunes fast. More shouting! There’s a
shadow on my head, getting bigger… a falling anvil. Instinct rolls
them out – will the people outside hurt each other? will they hurt
someone else? are they out for blood?! – but it’s just a couple and
now they’re kissing and saying how stupid it all was. Their voices
felt Right Beside Me, but it’s the quality of the light in my room
that worries me, the streetlight just outside my window— the anvil
hits me. More percussive than concussive. But try as I might, I can’t
keep the floor from cracking beneath my feet and I plummet into
the living-room below. I look right at you as this floor begins to
crack too. Gulp. Crashing into the basement, I keep going and keep
going, following through layers of mantle and core onto the roof
of my childhood house, through neglected slate into shared attic
bedrooms and further, into the familiar light/dark of my childhood
bedroom. There’s a shadow on his face and he looks at me. The
floorboards give way and I finally land on the ground-floor,
groping for breath. Only now do I feel the cool press of cast-steel
on my guts. The lights are on down here, a TV murmuring away,
while up in my bedroom, he’s lookng at me and there’s a shadow
on his face. The moon? A Streetlight? Trapped, I open my book
and read about poor old Gordon Comstock again, as I absently
finger indented words on the anvil. I swear, if this says ACME…
Originally from Northern Ireland, EWEN GLASS is an emerging voice in story and poetry, in both English and Ulster-Scots registers.
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