The Bridge

You crossed the bridge, into dark.

They say it is light there, but I know it’s not. The bridge dangles in two parts, like a snipped string. Today, I’m buying a hammer and nails and rope to make the repairs and bring you back again.

Will you speak to me from the other side of the bridge? Will I hear your voice or will you hear mine?

At its edge, between the hammering of nails, I shout into the void but you are not there. The darkness gushes below and above. It steals away my words and throws them back at me, filling my unending silence.

I loop the rope around rope, around wood and wood, and piece by piece pull up the bridge.

When night falls, I sleep on the planks I have repaired so far and dream of your face in the light.

I wake in the dark and drink the wind and hammer more nails in, tap-tap-tap. I listen for your call, thundering towards me across the void, but I hear nothing.

When the I am halfway done, it begins to rain. The bridge sways and bucks lightly, swinging and groaning. The planks I have repaired stretch out across the chasm, waiting to join hands with you.

The next day, I’m trying to untangle a portion of rope that has become lost around a plank and I drop the hammer. It tumbles and twists away, sinking into the darkness below. I wait, listening for the sound of landing, but there is only stillness.

I sit down and cry. I pound the planks and try to keep going, but without the hammer, it is useless. I look for a rock, but I can’t pry any from the ground. I go back to where I got the first one from, but there are no more.

All I can do now is go down, into the deep chasm, to find it, but I’m afraid that I will never return.



1960s Summer Holiday


1960s summer holiday. Marriage failing. But a captivating thing next door. Knocking, waiting. ‘Hello, I’m …’ World-moving smile, a face with stories. ‘Hello.’ A hesitation. ‘Would you like to come in?’ Threshold crossed; soft words and lingering gazes. Later, a kiss. Later, even more. In the mirror, they watch each other, and discover their place in the no-gender world.

(Start with a #sixwordstory; then expand into a #sixtywordstory)


*Image courtesy of Stuart Miles at

In the sky. Not a plane.

In the sky. Not a plane.

I saw it with my own eyes, coming down, whirling. I ran, not away from it, but towards. From it grew a mammoth garden; flowers and vines, trees and roots. I built a house there of stone, and lived under leaves, until a great wind came and blew the world away.


(Start with a #sixwordstory; then expand into a #sixtywordstory)

*Image courtesy of photoexplorer at