Chloe Robinson Peering out of the 6th Floor
There is a light on .
It could be an old filament bulb , unshaded , so that it blinks on in a stuttering cough . It could be a newer , energy-efficient bulb that you can leave on for years and never see the spike in your meter . It could be a pit in the ceiling , flinging down god-made light . No matter where it comes from and what it is , it is a light .
It has lodged itself within the wall of darkness with an icepick . For leagues in either direction , there is an unobstructed gulf of pure nothingness . There could be something in that blank but you can ’ t see it . The ruinous remains of civilisation linger in those spaces but to glimpse a fleck of life is an impossible feat . People could be walking through the black , dancing in great halos of movement . Yet , when your limbs are part of the wailing black , who should care ? To move is to simply shift a mound of darkness to another . Nothingness germinates in the sheets of rock below . Within this scooped out section of concrete is the only thing in the entire world that still thinks and looks – me . These written words are useless in such a void of consciousness – black ink on mottled paper .
But there is the light . It ’ s orange . There is a glimpse of yellowish sparks among the bursting colour . It has remained steady and continues to push out light . A border has been put in place , a line that the darkness perishes on – a square cut into the wall . It ’ s all my eyes can grab onto . A sheer , frictionless wall of black and that handhold of orange light . It doesn ’ t flicker . It ’ s a point of rest . Across the gulf , I can feel it on my skin .
There are shapes within the light . I can pick out the outline of sheets of fabric drifting into thin lines , draped over a rail just above where a head would be . Penning them in are a mismatched collection of coat hangers . There may be a pair of shoes , but they are more like lumpy shapes with orange-tinged stripes pressed into their flesh . There could be a dresser too but it ’ s too low to see fully . I can see that there is a surface down there , waist-height and maybe lacquered . But its overall shape is bending in the light . A curved edge could be materialising , swooping away like an arc from a swallow . Could it be square ? Yes , it must be . The light stops bending off the edge as if it were tucked behind an ear . Something is leaning against it . The light twinkles off it , twirling into a mess of dazzling sparks . A broom ? A pipe ? It ’ s chrome no matter what it is .
A moving mass comes into the light . It swings in , takes up the leaning object , and disappears . The light continues . It buzzes away the black . The coat hangers lazily drift back and forth . The
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