He stood positioned; arms laced behind, knotted at the wrists by a thick rope running an itch up the spine, feet distanced by the measure of his shoulders. It was a voluntary submission; senses careening forward, impacting at the smell of dust scuttered up by a footstep. Held tight by nothing, the world was immutable, absent, falling into the quagmire that one may call fate.

The night was cold, colder than the bricks studying him from behind, with the twilight's current pushing in on every side. For now, in a way, he was trapped. Swimming somewhere through the mind, a daring pilot who flies low, unsure between the stars and the glimmer of their reflection. There was a crack, and another, and then the last of three.

Atonal echoes racing from wall to wall faded beyond the darkness to be either chased by the moon or swallowed by the hills. And though he could not see it, the night remained, slumping forward to rest in its own lap. Despite their hunger, the feast fed nothing to the landscape. With only dust and bricks, the night continued to rest while the moon watched, too stubborn to leave the light of its cradle.


Ian Moore is 27 years of age, somewhat employable and currently a Journalist, but only by accident. His first story, Bedroom Conversations, will appear online next month through Underground Voices.