reflections — FICTION

Acorn

This is it. The sailors gather around you, some jealous, some admiring, some fearful. Only a few have gone down in the bathysphere, but never to the depths you’re going. You can only hope the bathysphere is as infallible against the ocean as it is on blueprints. The captain salutes you and reminds you of your orders. When you hit 500 fathoms, you’re to observe any geological abnormalities as predicted from the unusual currents that emanate here.

Some expect you to give a final speech before you descend. Perhaps a thanks to the crew or a witty remark. Any final wishes if something goes wrong. A last chance to repent your sins. You offer nothing. Instead, you climb into the bathysphere, giving the crew a thumbs-up through the observation window. The hatch locks. You ready yourself as you’re hoisted above the ocean, deep and murky, and are dropped in.

Your breathing increases as choppy waves slosh against, and eventually over, the bathysphere. You feel like an acorn, dangling on a string, waiting to be cracked.

Ben BlackwellMia MantonApril 12, 2024Humanity, reflections

Highland Vignettes

West Sands Beach, St Andrews.

The sky, sublime, is blanketed with heavy, dark clouds rolling out to meet the water, as cruel and cold as it is. The sand is littered with as much debris as the last time, shells and seaweed discarded everywhere, rejected by the sea.

I was with you when I was here last. You pocketed the seashells you thought most beautiful, to give to me before I left – though you forgot to give them to me. When I did leave, their absence in my pocket only twisted the knife that was my absence in your arms. You’re absent today, too. It’s been a long time since I loved you.

Owen CallanJack TicknerApril 7, 2024reflections

Canvas

You’re sitting on an armchair, a mug of tea beside you, your child on your lap. She’s holding a book. She keeps asking where you got it from. You don’t recognise it.

Before you, a blank expanse stretches out, bleak and never ending. There’s nothing in sight that can jog your memory, because there’s nothing in sight. At all. It’s just empty and barren, devoid of anything whatsoever, just you and nothing, just you in nothing, and if you’re the only thing left doesn’t that make you nothing, too?

‘Dad?’ She’s looking at you with big eyes, waiting. As you turn to look at her, you notice something at your side. Something that can make the nothing go away.

Anna YoungLauren WalshApril 2, 2024fiction, reflections, Reality

What Do the Stars Look Up To?

Did you know that all these stars are dead? Isn’t that amazing – that they can shine for so long after they’re gone? And what came before them? What do the stars look up to?

I thought about that for a long while, my gaze searching. In the distance, a bonfire was spitting tongues of smoke into the dusky blue, its warm breath gusting over us. You gripped my hand a little tighter, and that warmth was bone deep. I figured then that it wasn’t so strange at all for stars to shine for so long; you’ll be smiling down at me forever.

Poppy ReadSarah GouldApril 1, 2024reflections

Purgatory

Life is exhausting.

That was all she could think as she paced along the desolate seafront, the wind and rain at her back, the steady hum of nature disturbed only by distant groups of drunk men shouting nonsense to each other. The late autumn night was as peaceful as it was distracting, both allowing her to relax and find comfort, and offering enough background noise to block out all the emotions she was too scared to feel, let alone express. She knew this wasn’t the safest place to be, but at least it wasn’t there. Being there was too much right now.

Erin WardGuest UserMarch 12, 2024Reality, reflections

Apples

Russet apples were the jewels of my grandfather’s garden. They came in the autumn and left him poor in the winter – a feeble caretaker of hollow timber. My grandfather was a jovial man, as men often are when they grow old and bury their wits. He would mumble and grumble with the airs and graces of an inventor or a prophet, despite inexperience in either profession. There was wisdom to him though – wisdom that comes from dead acquaintances that whisper memories in his ear and goad his tongue to flick and click and speak truths. He would look upon us with eyes that were not his own and stone us with old wives’ tales and stoic idioms.

Nathan StewardGuest UserMarch 8, 2024reflections

Back to Oakwood

I used to be a much more troubled man than I am now. Not that I’ve got it all sorted. But it was only three years ago that I let such a good thing fall apart, and everything had to be built back up from scratch.

It was the week after I’d spiralled again, except that time I really didn’t go back. Instead I’d found this place not too far out from work, and they were letting me stay for pennies. Oakwood Apartments was the name. It’s funny how they decided on that. I’m sure the whole thing came out the arse end of a cement mixer.

Gregory GoursaudLauren WalshFebruary 18, 2024fiction, reflections

Glasses

Sarah was just about to pour herself a glass of water when she noticed the pair of glasses left unfolded on the kitchen table. There was nothing unusual about that; both her parents wore glasses, and her mum had an annoying tendency of leaving them absentmindedly about the house and then asking Sarah or her brother to find them for her at the most inconvenient of times. Normally, she would have just ignored them, but today something seemed off.

Talia BuntingGabriella ChiuJanuary 30, 2024Humanity, reflections

The Art of Writing

“Write it.”

“I’m…trying…”

Your voice is hoarse and weak. You don’t remember when you last drank. Or ate. Or slept. But adrenaline propels your fingers against the keyboard. You suspect the sun has set, but you daren’t look up and check.

They will be waiting if you do.

“He isn’t going fast enough,” one of them whines, “I’m hungry!”

“We have waited too long. We must be released.”

“He will finish soon.” You feel her icy glare on the back of your neck, and suppress a shudder, “If he knows what is good for him.”

Catherine HurcombeElizabeth Greenwood-SpicerNovember 21, 2023reflections

A Drop in the Universe

It awoke in the dark heavens between matter and non-existence. A fragile crust of ice on a pulsating metal sphere, hurtling through nothingness. It witnessed the death of light and the birth of galaxies, and felt indifferent to these acts.

I am alone.

Nathan StewardLauren WalshNovember 18, 2023fiction, reflections