This is part of series of vignettes, short stories, and poems that I'm writing to hone my craft, using pictures from my folders on WeHeartIt. I do not own the picture. Please enjoy!

Temporarily removed

The sky is blue, but he is falling.

Down, down, so far down, he is falling.

The birds, they call to him, they sing to him, but they do not help him. No one can help him. No one must help him.






It is weight and it is support and yet it is empty air whistling through his fingers, alone in an infinity of nothing but achingly empty blue and white wispy clouds as he falls. There is no up, nor down. No as above for so below. Only him, falling, endlessly falling.



Is he mad? Should he think to be mad? All madmen think themselves to be sane. And yet he cannot –remember– the start of his fall. For true, is that not how it is for all others? That they cannot remember that first slip, and then that long, empty tumble…

He awakes. There is a math final tomorrow.

And now the falling is only in his gut