This is part of the flash fic­tion col­lec­tion.

I don’t know how to ex­plain what it’s like to have slipped through the cracks in the world.

Fallen through to limbo. Beyond where emo­tions roam. To lie upon the cold smooth glass and look up to the world. Feel the cold chill of the void be­yond re­al­i­ty’s bub­ble.

This is very pre­ten­tious rub­bish.

But I can al­most feel my wounds open and bleed. Finally dis­solv­ing that un­seen glass, de­liv­er­ing me unto sweet re­lease.

Or so I’d wish it.

More prob­a­bly, my blood would seep through; turn this frosted wall into a cell. My san­ity would drib­ble out be­fore my life. Branded by the bars.

I would rather die.

With dig­nity if I can and tragedy if I can­not. Yet pity and dis­taste are no fit legacy. Even for my new stature.

Lost be­low.

Perhaps they look down while soar­ing up­wards. Perhaps they rush away in fear and not flush with am­bi­tion.


It has prob­a­bly al­ready be­gun. My liv­ing em­balm­ing. My mem­o­ries pick­led safely. My or­gans pro­tected against the rav­ages of times be­low the cracked mo­saic of re­al­ity.